“This afternoon is going to be great,” predicted el Jarameño, turning to admire so much sun in the room. And lingering on the image of Santa, who motionlessly awaited the double bath of heat and light, he growled between half-clenched teeth, as if talking to himself:

“You're sooo pretty …”

And then, remembering that this was not a time for tender feelings, he put himself in the hands of Bruno, whose straight razor shaved the maestro with the skill of a professional barber's, leaving it smooth and bluish. As he dressed the matador in street clothes for the time being, carefully brushing his broad-brimmed hat, and handing him his walking cane adorned with tortoiseshell and gold, Santa began to insist that she be allowed to attend the bullfight:

“Take me with you, Jarameño. Just imagine what I'll go through if I sit here alone all afternoon. Should I get ready?”

Not in a million years. El Jarameño did not smile as he repeated the negative reply he had given earlier when Santa had asked to see him fight, referring again to his presentiments, his “gypsy superstitions” as he called them:

“No, no, my Santa, not on your mother's soul, don't ask for that! I feel in my heart that the day you see me fight, something terrible is going to happen to me … You stay here and pray and keep me on your mind and in your heart, and before night falls I'll come back to you.”

Bruno had meanwhile set up a sort of imitation altar on a dresser top: in front of a colored engraving of the Virgin of the Remedios, two votive candles that would burn during the period of imminent danger. El Jarameño himself would light them upon leaving and put them out upon returning, whether returning safe and sound or carried by his men, as had occurred that time in Bilbao, when a bull gored him in the groin, a wound that still bothered him.

All the boarders at the Guipuzcoana restrained themselves, not giving free vent to their excitement with the maestro in mind, making the early midday meal, which would be served during his absence at the bullring, quieter than usual. El Jarameño himself had only the light breakfast prescribed for toreros before a fight—two soft-boiled eggs and a shot of dry Jerez—because his stomach needed to be relatively empty to fit the tight suit he would be wearing and to maximize his agility and speed when facing the bulls. Santa had no appetite and ate no more than a mouthful despite the urgings of doña Niacasia, who was showing her singular affection. Santa experienced nervous palpitations. She felt like crying and resented the others' tendency to check their watches and give each other knowing looks. The phlegmatic Ripoll, who did not share the general mood, ate with gusto, while Gallegos, a true fan, delirious with enthusiasm, particularly because of the excellent seats that el Jarameño had arranged for him, tirelessly augured favorable circumstances and outcomes of all kinds. There was going to be an enormous crowd at the bullring, with lots and lots of pretty girls: