“All rooting for you, man! So do your best to show the flag! Artists like you and me owe it to …”

A hail of insults and crumbs of food shut him up. How could a worthless comic actor compare himself to the likes of el Jarameño …? The only risk that an actor runs is a few boos, a stray kick in the head from the cancan dancers, or possibly the loss of a contract, whereas toreros risked their lives! They could die or be crippled. Bruno entered to tell the maestro it was time to go, breaking the funereal silence that followed these observations. To die … and yet, no matter how easily lives are lost, nobody present really expected that it might happen, including el Jarameño, who walked confidently out of the dining room that afternoon with Santa by the hand. Bruno preceded the lovers into their room, and once all were inside, he locked the door.

On the large double bed was the sparkling matador's “suit of lights,” the jacket with its open sleeves, the knee-length pants, the other pieces, all carefully laid out, awaiting the wearer. Still holding Santa's hand, el Jarameño went to light the candles, kneeling and contemplating the image of the virgin for a time, lost in thought. If he prayed, he prayed mentally, because Santa failed to note the slightest movement of his lips. He looked pale.

“Sit down, country girl, and learn how to dress me. It's complicated,” he said, sitting back so that Bruno could pull off the tight pants of his street clothes to begin the dressing operation.

The sun now shone so brightly in the street outside the window that its reflection from the sidewalk below was enough to fill the room with friendly, vivifying light.

El Jarameño stood up, almost naked, and Santa silently admired the classical beauty of his virile physique. The muscles, the tendons, the steely hardness that one sensed in the biceps, the pectorals, the shoulder blades, the broad back, the massive neck, and the wiry, solid calves of his legs—all harmonized with one another. The matador possessed the athletic perfection of an ancient gladiator or discus thrower, a potent, total male, born and bred for manly contests that require boldness, bravery, and strength, like the ancient Olympic games in which the contestants died facing the sun, in a noble pose, smiling at the female spectators and the heavens, their feats celebrated by warlike music, their funeral bed splendid, indeed. Lying on the sun-drenched sand of the arena, the hero expired surrounded by the blood of beasts howling in their death throes, covered in the purple shroud of his own blood, caressed by gentle breezes, and hearing from the colorfully attired audience a mad clamor and applause, the panting, tremulous breath of the multitude fascinated by the near presence of a danger that cannot reach them but that subjugates them and sends shudders through them, awakening their deepest and wildest passions. Oh, how Santa admired her man!