The open door to the balcony admitted diaphanous waves of light interspersed with the cool auras of a tropical winter. Both waves and auras played splendidly over the matador's green suit of lights, encrusted with gold embroidery. Santa experienced an unexpected and instantaneous jealousy, understanding why toreros awaken such enthusiasm from the crowd as they parade into the bullring, why even high-society ladies fall passionately in love with them, or rather, with their image. The toreros' vices and defects do not become apparent until later, much later. In the bullring, they are pure art and power, simple color and curve, all agility and mastery. Their faces are smooth and pale, their eyes dark. Bloodstained, they fight, kill, wound, fall … and sometimes die. And always, they love, one woman today, another tomorrow.

Bruno gazed at him like a faithful dog, idolizing him, attentive to his least gesture, proud to dress and care for him, yearning to satisfy even his passing whims. The sword bearer and valet calmly bundled together the matador's equipment, the three fighting capes, stained with bull's blood and mended here and there, the three rods that el Jarameño would use to extend the capes and incite the charging animal, and the large leather case emblazoned with the matador's monogram, containing three straight, heavy swords of Toledo steel, their tips as sharp as needles.

“Are we ready?” asked el Jarameño.

At the sword bearer's affirmative response, he then went quickly to Santa, put his arm around her waist, and whispered in her ear. He whispered promises and desires, quickly renewed declarations of boundless love, renewed demands of impossible fidelity, the kinds of things that people demand and promise in the face of separations that may be eternal, to somehow buttress themselves against fate and overcome the dangers through sheer willpower, their blind confidence in their reunion itself becoming a kind of poetry.

“See you later, my Santa, I swear that I'll see you later! Pray for me now, and love me, love me a lot.”

It was a scene from a Goya painting, until el Jarameño and Bruno finally walked out of the room. Santa went to the balcony and watched the open coach pull away from the curve, Bruno, with his bundle and a serious expression, riding up front beside the driver, el Jarameño the lone passenger, his upturned face sending her thousands of kisses, so unabashedly that passersby looked up as well, interested in the target of such a bombardment. As the coach went around the corner, el Jarameño stopped blowing kisses and made hand signals indicating that he would be right back, that she should wait for him … Would he be back? Ha! You had better believe it!

“May we come in, dear?” Santa heard someone say behind her as she closed the door to the balcony. Doña Nicasia and Ripoll, neither of whom was going to the bullring, had agreed to keep her company and try to distract her with a little conversation: a bit whiny and vulgar on the patrona's part, a tad angry but more amusing on the naval engineer's part.