Hipólito approved all the plans with the unconditional acquiescence of those who know themselves to be truly blessed, occasionally catching hold of Santa's arm or waist or dress and kissing it with the gluttony of a stray hound that has managed to snatch a delicate morsel in the street.

For now, Santa and Jenaro started to give the apartment a good cleaning, raising a dense cloud of dust that made them cough, cry, and laugh. Santa cooked in the long-unused kitchen, producing results that were more enthusiastically applauded than eagerly devoured, because the truth was that despite her much-publicized culinary abilities—which she really had possessed during her village upbringing—even her simplest dishes did not come out too well. So they simply added the enjoyment of sumptuous meals to the uncertain future that they never doubted lay around the corner. They postponed anything presently impossible, which was almost everything, for some day soon, tomorrow or next week, the brief postponements of people who carry a heavy load of miseries and yearn to rest.

But why, every time they announced a plan or proposed a project, did the pain return to sink its claws into Santa, collapsing their house of cards, saddening Hipólito, doubling her over so that she had to lean on the wall or the furniture, disfiguring her face? With both hands, Santa pressed hard on the places that hurt, Jenaro tried to comfort her, and Hipólito frowned, muttering who knows how many protests and oaths under his breath. When the pain became so great that Santa had to lie down, the piano player declared darkly:

“The first thing is to get you cured! Tomorrow we'll bring a doctor to see you, and if he doesn't work, another and another, until one of them finally makes you feel better!”

One was enough, an associate of the doctor whom the girls at Elvira's house normally consulted and to whom Hipólito appealed in his tribulation. Santa's illness was at such an advanced stage and had become so pronounced that the physician needed only one examination to diagnose it, with its terrifying name and its grim prognosis, which he believed would play out very quickly, indeed. After the examination he called Hipólito out to the little bit of terrace, still strewn with petals, leaves, and stems from the day before, and without prologue or euphemisms he delivered the news point blank:

“She's got a cancer, a tremendous and incurable one. Absolutely incurable. We could perhaps prolong her life with an operation, although there are no guarantees. The operation has its own risks, and it's extremely expensive.”

“How much?” asked Hipólito, pale and shaking, determined to do anything rather than lose Santa.

“Well, at Béistegui Hospital, for example, where they've got all the modern equipment—because forget trying to do it here,” replied the doctor, alluding to the ratty apartment, “it could cost a hundred pesos, not including what they charge for a room while she recovers from the operation. I'd have to take a colleague with me, and an anesthetist to administer the chloroform.”