“Well, I've decided I'm leaving,” she declared gravely, standing up.

“Leaving … where to?”

“Anywhere, out of here,” she answered more energetically, pointing, with firm resolution, toward a patch of blue sky visible through the windows.

Pepa walked over, Elvira stood up, and, as if in a trance, both women peered where Santa was pointing, a patch of sky that grew slowly paler in the dusk as a flock of swallows zigzagged across it chimerically in flight.

Elvira immediately recovered her demeanor of a dress-wearing slave driver who refuses to tolerate the slightest hint of rebellion. Her hands on her hips, her face twisted, her look irate, she turned to Santa in fury. Nobody kidded or tried to fool her!

“Keep your dignity for another occasion, got it? You're already registered and have a number, like the coaches out there for hire on the street, let's say. You belong to me and the police and the public health department. So you're leaving, huh? So full of herself, this little tart! So where are you going to, jail? Don't try me, because it will cost you, hear? I give the orders, and everybody else takes them! And tonight you'd better be nice and sweet with the paying customers, and there'd better be no silliness, no tears, and no fainting, because the police will be here to take you when you wake up.

The more exasperated Elvira became, the more Santa's spirits sank, as if her earlier energy had been diverted or broken. Mesmerized by the wrath of her new patrón, she retreated until her back was against the wall, Elvira following her step by step, waving her hands and breathing her insults in Santa's face, huffing and puffing with the stink of tobacco and her recent meal.

Pepa smoked a cigarette.

Her eyes wide and her throat dry, Santa submitted to the avalanche of ugly words, to the tongue-lashing that curled around her body, to the hydra that harassed her, ready to rip her with its claws. She felt herself crushed, defeated, unconditionally at the mercy of the unbelievably cruel, bejeweled Spaniard who belched obscenities and threatened her with fist, visage, and attitude.

“Alright, señora,” she murmured in surrender, “easy. I'm not going anywhere. Where would I go, anyway?”

Pepa saw an opportune moment in which to intervene, and she approached the other two women, taking Santa's arm reassuringly.

“Let's do something about that mop of hair, hija mía. We need to get it trimmed. Now take a deep breath and dry those pretty eyes.”

No doubt Elvira was waiting for the intervention, because instantly she softened, relit the half-cigar between her fingers, put her arm affectionately around Santa's waist, led her to the sofa, and, with surprising delicateness, dried her tears.

“She's right,” declared Elvira, indicating Pepa. “We've got to fix you up. Just look what crying will do to you. And what for? I don't dislike you, silly! To the contrary, I'll make sure you get everything that I promised when we talked at your village, remember? Isn't it enough for you? And this evening when you come down to dinner, if there's anything not to your taste, just tell Pepa, and we'll cook you whatever you like. Pepa, be sure nobody pulls her leg at the table, and give her some wine from my personal stock. That'll calm the nerves of this pampered girl. Now, lazy thing, lift your face and give me a kiss to show we've made friends. I want to see you dressed for battle! Have them bring her chemise, dressing gown, and slippers, Pepa.