They felt happy together, sharing the warmth of their bodies, covered by the same blanket, a blanket as humble and ragged as both of them. They were sure of each other at last, bound together by the indissoluble bond of common misfortune and misery. So their thoughts naturally rose up—along the same path, unbeknownst to them—to the destination of all such mystical confluences. Their spirits arose to give thanks, remembering guiltily en route all they had to be thankful for, that Santa could easily have died in the squalid last stop of the descent from which she had just been liberated, that Hipólito could have died almost anywhere along the way, with only darkness in his sightless eyes and his yearning soul. Certainly, they had been forgiven, they thought, precisely because they had been allowed this moment of love, which they swore to honor and knew would salve their wounds and soothe all their accumulated resentments. Love was leading them back to God! And their thoughts continued to rise, white as ermine, thoughts that knelt as if in communion. They forgave everything that they had suffered at others' hands, in the conviction that they themselves would be forgiven. And Santa's pain was dulled, transmuted into something that she could bear, and Hipólito's desire diminished, transmuted into sweet, chimerical delight … Little by little, they moved until their bodies touched, without evil appetites or twisted temptations, in the immensely pure promise to belong to one another as soon as they could. And they heard a slight flapping of wings, that they believed to signify not the restlessness of Jenaro's pet dove, but rather, the affectionate Guardian Angel that each had known in infancy, sent back to them now from far, far away. The angel took pity on the motherless two of them, without wealth or health or happiness in their lives, and it folded its immaculate wings to stand guard over them through the night, watching over the only sort of sleep worthy of watching over, the sleep of chastity, that finally descended on the poor prostitute and the poor blind man.

Thanks to that sleep, the next morning Jenaro was able to fulfill exactly the instructions that he had received the night before. Before seven o'clock, he tiptoed out the door, locking it behind him to make sure no one disturbed the sleep of his patrones. The boy felt so jubilant that he could not help provoking the cacophonous cries of the parrot belonging to the woman who managed the building, cries to which the manager added her own. Her cartload of abuse did not dampen his mood, though, and it even pleased him to have annoyed someone whom he regarded as a personal enemy. He was back in less than an hour, accompanied by a carrier with a large covered basket that greatly intrigued the neighbor women at their doors and the ragged kids who played in the courtyard. Jenaro carried another basket with two restaurant breakfasts steaming like a pair of coffee-fueled locomotives. Arriving at the apartment's little bit of terrace, he paid the carrier after directing the man to pour the contents of the large basket into the sink for washing clothes, a contents that turned out to be a load of fresh flowers of all scents and colors. Hipólito, who never saw anything, could not imagine anything nicer for Santa than to cover her humble little house, and principally her bedroom, with flowers: