And in that dramatic quietude, the night came upon them. Jenaro, forlorn, did not dare disturb them, and Jaws hardly flew at all, but instead, landed near them and stayed, seeming to look at them sidewise with his palpitating, red little eyes. They did not eat any supper. When Jenaro offered to go bring it, they took the opportunity to begin the many little confessions, reminders, and requests that precede definitive goodbyes.

“Tell Elvira that I'm not going to play tonight, and here … take this and have supper wherever you want and come back late. Take the keys …”

When they were alone, Hipólito lit a cigarette, Santa refused a glass of liquor, and both of them, employing infinite tact, dedicated themselves to the unpleasant but urgent task of retrospection.

Good Lord, how many hidden tribulations they unearthed, how many scars and open wounds, and how much common suffering! In their rush to tell each other everything, it all came out in an incongruent jumble of serious things and childish things, experiences that mark one's soul and experiences that make one smile to remember. But no matter how distant the topic, Hipólito returned obsessively to a single idea, which animated questions and answers, rectifications and ratifications, determined to convince both Santa and himself of its truth, by dint of constant repetition:

“That's why you don't have to die of that cancer stuff, because that's what the operation is for, so you'll get better, and when you're completely well, then we're going to …”

A million projects, leaving death out of the question, even though death buzzed around their ears again and again, like an insistent fly, hushing them with its invisible presence. Between those occasions, they regained their confidence. Yes, they would have a life together! Why on earth shouldn't they? They weren't in anyone's way! Just a couple of wrecks that no one wanted … And during those fleeting moments of confidence and victory, they felt the powerful instinct of self-preservation that makes us hang on to dear life even as we feel it slipping irremediably from our grasp, and they spoke of pleasant things, of their childhoods and their mothers, and of how Santa got her unusual name. She had been born on the first of November, All Saint's day, but her godmother, an Italian woman who was married to the administrator of the Hacienda de Necochea at San Angel, did not want her to be called Santos, the name that corresponded to that birthday, explaining that in Italy women were commonly named Santa, to which was added a diminutive—Santuzza or Santucha, something like that—she didn't remember exactly.

For his part, Hipólito confessed a big secret to Santa. He really wasn't so penniless, after all. He was a man of substance, with four hundred pesos saved up.

“What did you think?” he said, getting up to pull a little bundle from under the mattress, “You figured me for a beggar? Wrong, my Santa, wrong! I have a bit of capital! Here, count it!” he exclaimed, putting his nest egg on the table.