And at that instant, Jenaro, returning from his errand, brashly entered the room and stood petrified at the sight of the writhing knot of bodies on the floor. He dropped the tray of coffee and, a child, after all, sobbed in protest:

“Patrón! … Don Hipólito! … Miss Santa! … What's going on?”

That was the last time that the blind man sent Jenaro for breakfast. If the employees of the hotel could not bring it, Santa preferred to skip her coffee and everything else in order to avoid being alone with Hipólito. No matter how depraved she had become, Santa truly did feel an odd kind of modesty in relation to the piano player. Rather strange, no? But that is the way it was. She did not want to give herself to him all stained and dirty, straight from the arms of others. She hoped that there might be an end to her degraded lifestyle, followed by a decent interval that might purify her at bit, make her more or less worthy of the piano player's love, a love that, when all was said and done, shone in the darkness of her life like a beacon, a celestial light, a lodestar that promised rest, oblivion, and forgiveness. So why did she, nevertheless, not initiate the indispensable interval? Why did the resolutions that she had made yesterday always fall apart today? Why did the resolutions of today fall apart tomorrow, as she continued to roll down hill?

The interminable delay finally drove Hipólito to summon all his strength and follow through on his threat to abandon her:

“Santita,” he told her one day with determination, “goodbye! You've never loved me, and you never will. If you did, you'd never leave me in this purgatory … I tell you that I just can't take it anymore. Day after day I come to get you out of these devil's lairs, and I have to drag you, and you say ‘later,’ later you'll go with me, and ‘later’ never comes. That blessed ‘tomorrow’ that I've waited for for so long, you know how long … never comes. It looks to me like you delay on purpose, because you like the darkness of the night and hate the sunshine. Ay, Santita, if you were blind like me, you'd be ready for the light. I can tell you don't really want to come with me, that you'd bring the darkness when you came. So you just stay here, then … and God help you, because I'm tired of waiting. I'm going! … Jenaro, say goodbye to Santita,” he commanded, hoping that this would be her cue to ask him to stay.

But Santa was so drunk that morning that she hardly listened to the blind man's pathetic explanation and simply allowed him to leave, murmuring in response to Jenaro's goodbye:

“Yeah, yeah, go on, because I've got a splitting headache, and I'll see you tomorrow … or tonight at the café on Escondida Street. You know where …”