The only way to ratify a peace treaty made in a brothel, however, is to drink more alcohol—that great enemy of the mankind that constantly spurs us toward our own undoing. The men ordered more drink and drank it. They managed to get Rodolfo and the man he had insulted to shake hands and clink their glasses together. In view of the cessation of hostilities, one member of the first group to arrive put his arm around a girl and disappeared with her up the stairs. Rodolfo, who was still very pale, collapsed again on the sofa, sullen and taciturn. The dancing started once more, and at the piano, Santa decided in consultation with Hipólito to retire to her bedroom alone. What was she doing there, anyway, exposing herself unnecessarily to insults and unpleasantness on the eve of her departure to set up house with Rubio?

Meanwhile, the flow of alcohol continued its silent, implacable, destructive work, cascading into stomachs and surging through veins like a river of fire, saturating the drinkers' bodies cunningly and inescapably, wrapping around and around their brains like the web of a poisonous spider, more densely and inextricably with each drink. At first, the river brings excitement, hilarious jubilation, joy of life, the need to love. The entire world acquires a rosy tint. The heart becomes a cheery gravedigger, busily burying sorrows, and the mind becomes a provident midwife, bringing to light a series of deformed impossibilities: plump, vigorous desires and ideals that logically ought never to be born at all. Life smiles at us, all men are our friends, and all women eagerly await us. Alcohol is not the great enemy, but rather, a blessed elixir, and we ask for more …

The invasion continues, and the enemy advances. It sweeps away the reticence and self-respect which even the most uncouth individuals have somewhere in their makeup. We lose our shame, our ideas of good and evil become confused, and we blithely absolve ourselves in advance of the most reprehensible acts with a fatally dismissive “what do I care.” Dignity fights a losing battle, ceding ground drink by drink.

The enemy advances, the invasion continues, and the ultimate defeat is almost consummated. Dignity wobbles, and, out of ammunition, finally succumbs. The invader throws open internal prisons of conscience, and the prisoners emerge armed to the teeth. Trampling the will to resist, shattering the brittle chains of duty and morality that have kept them in check, the escaped prisoners rampage freely: perverse instincts, criminal intents, the primitive, bestial inheritance of our prehistoric ancestors that composes half of our being.

The enemy has triumphed. The will to resist lies paralyzed, the brain is shutting down, no sort of judgment remains, and the result, as in all invasions run amok, is savagery: rape, murder, degradation, the extermination of the weak. The invaders profane the household deities, give no quarter, raze everything that is beautiful, sow evil in everything good, abuse the young and the elderly, and raise their blood-red flag over the ruins. Time has been turned back, and the Stone Age has returned. All good intentions and efforts are now useless.