A “staff bearer” supervises the dance floor, and he carries himself with the dignity of an ambassador, both in his courteous manners and his irreproachably correct formal attire. He leans on his staff, which is tall and decorated with flowers, ribbons, and bells, like an island of peace, an eddy in the churning flow of humanity. Even the staff bearer vibrates, however, in unison with the entire theater, the structure of which can scarcely withstand the swirling stampede of males and females who squeeze and bruise each other, declaring their love, and, at least for now, believing in what they declare. Suddenly, the staff bearer raises his tall staff even higher over the heads of crowd, and for an instant its ribbons flutter there like the colors of a sinking ship or streamers above a pagan feast. Then he brings the butt of the staff down, hard, on the wooden floor, and all its bells jingle shrilly. The music stops, the entwined couples release each other, their intimate dialogues interrupted, and the mass of humanity breaks, like a fleeing herd of cattle, in the direction of the cantina with its limited number of tables, craving the alcohol that promises consolation, conformity, oblivion, and every variety of bliss, at a bargain price!

It is the intermission.

Standing on tiptoe in his chair, Jenaro surveyed the room and bent down to report to the attentive ear of his master, who clamored for information. There was no sign of el Jarameño, although there were various toreros—the Lizard, the Bishop, and so on, all by their nicknames—but not el Jarameño.

“Look carefully, Jenaro, my boy. Look carefully. And you don't see Santa, either?”

No, he didn't see her, either … until, yes, he thought so, but had to wait until she turned his way to make sure.

“Yeah, now I see her, patrón. There she is. She's in a box with those fancy rich guys from the Sport Club … She's got her mask off, and now she's lowered her hood to drink a toast. They're climbing all over her, patrón, like she was a honeycomb and they were flies.”

“That's enough, Jenaro. We've seen enough. Let's get out of here. At least she's safe with those guys, because they won't try to rob her from me.”

The orchestra had begun to play a mazurka to attract people back to the dance floor, and taking advantage of the tumult, Hipólito and Jenaro sneaked out through interior corridors where the coat checkers slept, inveterate smokers puffed secretly on cigarettes, and a man whose entire face was covered in white greasepaint softly begged a woman in a particolored costume to be faithful and love him at least for this one night.

The blind man and his guide walked in silence across the vestibule, clogged with tables. All except for a few stood deserted. At the few sat stragglers from the dance, quite drunk at this point, like the lone, exhausted-looking harlequin doubled over in a corner, singing softly to himself and soaking his mask in the little lakes of spilled drinks on the well-worn table top. They squeezed past a policeman and heard, back in the cantina, the sounds of a fight beginning: vociferations, someone running, a scuffle, the sickening thud of a well-landed punch. They kept walking and were soon outside.