“He's an innocent little kid!” he added in protest.

The man at the ticket window, who knew the musician, stuck his head out to inspect Jenaro, saying:

“Are you kidding? This little angel shouldn't even go in free, because it's against the law, could amount to prostitution of a minor or something … but … okay, guy, go on in. But you got to buy me a drink sometime, and seriously, keep that kid out of sight, would you? He's too young and too beat up. Hide him in the hallway or the cantina or something … Let the blind guy in without a ticket!” he called to the men who were guarding the entrance.

Hipólito and Jenaro entered the theater, where the seats had been removed for dancing, by a side entrance, with the boy hidden between the blind man and the wall.

“What do you see?” asked the musician. “Do you see Santita?”

“From here, no. There are tons of people and tons of noise. Hear that ruckus? Let's sit down. I saw some empty seats.”

With lots of elbowing and “excuse me's,” left and right, they managed to make their way down a few steps and ensconce themselves in two seats at the edge of the improvised dance floor.

The ruckus that Jenaro had mentioned was a formidable clamor, a cacophony of fictive glee. The orchestra, which had been installed in three spectator boxes well above the dance floor, showered its deluge of notes on the crowd below. From farther up, in the gallery, descended shouts of laughter and the raucous commentary of inebriated artisans observing what was, for them, an unusual scene. In several boxes lower down, one saw police and municipal officials surrounded by various uniformed police, the one chilly note in the festivities. The seats around the floor seemed occupied, in their totality, by vulgar loudmouths, both the older kind who no longer dance but cannot do without their favorite bacchanalias, and the younger kind, who may have money but do not hesitate to rub elbows with the plebeians wearing disguises on the floor. They lean over the rails to engage in conversation, taking care to greet acquaintances who might otherwise take offense, inviting some of them to join private parties. They toast continually with champagne that bubbles in the glass and spills on the floor, amid the jostling, covering it with patches of foam that are absorbed, soon enough, by the parched boards, if not immediately erased by the shoes of dancers or the edges of the women's long dresses. From the floor rise transparent clouds of dust; a pronounced odor of perfume, alcohol, and sweat; the sound of giggles, oaths, and kisses; and a potent feeling of multiplicitous desires unleashed. The heady amalgam ascends to the lofty ceiling where it whirls around the opal-colored electric lights like a swarm of dazed butterflies floating in the gray atmosphere. On the floor, the packed mass of humanity sways to the pulse of the music, mouths meet, hands grope and find what they are groping for, dancers press their bodies together as if planning never to let go. An unhealthy jubilation seizes both men and women, and one can observe the onset of alcohol-fueled madness, such as the lightning looks and tragic expressions that signal the death throes of love …