Santa noticed the absence of la Gaditana. What had happened to her? Oh, she had gone off with a customs official who took her more or less to the ends of the earth, Nogales or Tapachula, some place like that near the border, a remote corner of Mexico, a countless days' journey away.

“And you've lost the room you had,” said two or three of the women, “right, Pepa? Now you'll live on this floor, in the room beyond the small parlor.”

Pepa nodded, giving no importance to the change of rooms, urging Santa to eat:

“Doesn't matter what it is, a few sips of broth, whatever, to get rid of those dark circles under your eyes. Are you going to the masked ball tonight?”

The girls all talked at once, wanting Santa to go with them. Some were going with clients, some in a group, some disguised, some not. Santa didn't have clothes? No problem, she could cover herself completely in a hooded cloak, the perfect costume for the situation. Nor was there any reason to fear el Jarameño, because supposing that he went and looked for her there, she'd be fine as long as she kept a mask on and left before it got too late.

“If you want, don't come to the parlor tonight,” offered Pepa, “I'll let you off and won't charge you nothing. Go lie down for a while and try to sleep, if you can, to get your strength back, and later on, when the gang is ready to leave for the ball, you can decide if you want to go … Oh, and do you want poor Hipo to come say hello? He's going to go crazy when he finds out you've come back.”

Santa said yes to everything. She told the girls she'd go to the dance wearing a hooded cloak and mask and told Pepa she'd take some broth and rest and say hello to Hipólito … really, poor guy!

From her closed room, minutes later, she listened to the sounds of the parlor, so familiar to her, and even recognized the voices of a few old clients, the regulars, who have transcended the category of mere customers (who come to pay, do their business, and leave) to enter the category of friends. The regulars ask about the health of each one of the girls, call them by their real names instead of their professional monikers, take an interest in all the house gossip, and sometimes enjoy a card game and a free glass of anisette in Elvira's room. In the relative quiet of her new bedroom, Santa felt a total calm that reconciled her with herself and with others. Nobody had really been so perverse, not even she. At bottom, she didn't love the torero, but she didn't hate him either. To the contrary, she still liked him a lot, and even hoped that it might cheer him if she told him so. They could still be friends, sleeping together whenever their respective bodies asked it of them. Santa would not admit that she was the guilty one. She hardly ever analyzed actions, whether those of others or her own, and she was driven by cosmic, elemental forces of nature that are sometimes blind forces of invincible destruction. Woman, it has been said, is a microcosm of nature, the matrix of life, and for that very reason, the matrix of death, too, because life is constantly reborn out of death. Blind forces of destruction, unopposed by Santa's facile logic and debased values, drove her to absolve herself, not only for what she had recently done, but also for what she would do in the future, some things more benign, some less, so many things she would do, given her hunger of flesh and sickness of heart.