Who knows where Hipólito got the nerve to do what he did the next day. What he did was show up for work a bit earlier than normal and make a formal request—through Eufrasia, who carried the message—to see Santa:

“Ask Santita if she'll talk to me a moment in her room, alone, about a certain matter.”

Santa granted the request and, after Hipólito settled onto the couch, she continued curling her hair, seated with a curling iron (which she heated with an oil lamp) at a vanity table imported from the United States. She was scantily dressed, her robe and other clothing still spread out on the bed, and had just washed herself, as was evident from the soap-filled basin on the floor and the perfumed fragrance that floated in the room.

“What did you want to tell me, Hipo?”

“Well, Santita …” said the blind man, and told her, unburdening himself of his troubles once and for all, waxing eloquent and even imperious at moments, asking not only that his affection be recognized and tolerated, but that it be returned, not in identical measure, of course (because what cannot be, cannot be), but in a lesser measure that he, Hipólito, would cultivate like a delicate plant that requires unstinting care for years to bloom and reward the dedicated gardener with its perfume. He couldn't captivate her with metaphors and fancy talk, he said, and if he compared her to a flower it was only because, even though blind, he loved flowers. They were really all he loved, and he loved them almost as he had loved his mother, who had taught him to smell them and tell them apart by their aromas:

“But I learned to love my mother all by myself. No one taught me … and imagine, Santita, that the love I feel for you, too, is in my bones, and I can't get rid of it, because I love you against my will, I really do! So incredibly much … you have no idea!”

“But Hipo,” said Santa, interrupting him, and one hand holding the hot curling iron and the other twirling a curl from her temple around her finger like a pet snake, she turned to look at him, her posture putting the dark patches of her armpits on display.

“No buts about it, Santita,” insisted Hipólito, “the only things that matter are my sentiments and yours. And I do understand yours, Santita, as if you'd told me yourself. You feel surprise, repugnance, and, hopefully, a little bit of pity, no? … Don't deny it! I'll be the first one to confess that it makes sense. I must be as ugly as a monster, but here inside, Santita, I'm not so ugly, and there may even be some nice things in there that not everyone can offer you … Love me a little bit, Santita! It's not so hard. Look,” he added, standing up, “and just imagine how much I love you, that right now I know you're almost naked and I could grab you and not let you go, holding you in my arms”—he tightly embraced the air in front of him—“until you couldn't breathe and had to say yes, yes to anything! Oh, I know you'd cry out and they'd come and carry me off, all tied up, to the insane asylum to be with the other crazy people. But look how I control that wild beast that roars inside of me. I keep it on a short chain, and it chews and chews my entrails, but I'm satisfied as long as it doesn't hurt you and you're not afraid of me. And look how I just sit down and how still I am, so that you don't kick me out of here.”