“More champagne!” ordered the drunk governor, as if to make up for his drunkenness, “more champagne and more dance music, maestro!”

The piano again filled the air and the girls again danced with the friends of the inert state executive who sat collapsed on the sofa with his eyes riveted on Santa who, in turn, was having an extremely animated chat with Pepa. The most diplomatic member of the governor's entourage produced a pile of bills, and having cleared the idea with Pepa, ordered that, in light of the continuing deluge, the door be locked and announced that his friends were paying for the whole house that night.

The rain outside continued intoning its monorhythmic melody, its high-pitched drumming on the window panes and dull drip, dripping from the exterior railings and cornices, the sharp splatter of downspouts vomiting torrents on the sodden pavement. At the drain in the middle of the courtyard—a tile perforated by five holes in the shape of a cross—the water hurriedly and noisily hurled itself as if escaping, hiding itself in the darkness, not wanting to witness what went on in the building.

At that point, Elvira had come to say hello to the governor in the manner of greeting an old friend, unconstrained by social formalities:

“When did you get here, hijo? Seems like it's been centuries since you've come our way!” And, lowering her voice: “Have you seen my new girl?”

The governor, in an alcohol-driven fit of touchiness, and without understanding Elvira's question, commenced a litany of complaints about one of the girls, yes, that one over there by the piano …

“She got all mad just because I touched her, and she and another one, too, talked to me worse than a dog. You know me, Elvira, you know that I'm not stingy … but now I'm not staying, you better believe I'm leaving! No, let me go, let go of me …” he growled, wobbling and failing to stand up because Elvira kept him from doing so—although the greater impediment, it must be said, was his own drunkenness.

“So that's the one you like, you old dog? That's my new one! She hasn't been with a soul in this house, I guarantee that, and she's one in a million. You want her?”

“Of course I want her … that one or none at all.”

“Santa!” shouted Elvira without interrupting her focus on the rich client, certain that she would be obeyed. “Santa, come have a drink with this old ruffian. He's a general, after all, and, do me a favor, treat him right …”

As the governor and his friends laughed at Santa's name, supposing it feigned, Santa, impotent in the face of Elvira's irresistible influence, moved away from the piano and toward the distinguished personage.

“No, not there,” intruded Elvira, “in his lap, honey. You've won the lottery because he likes you. Pepa, more champagne! The general is offering me a glass.”

A bit shakily, Santa did as she was told, and the piano player swung into a waltz which mixed with various other sounds: laughter, sweet talk, the smack of a kiss, and the pop of champagne bottles uncorked by a servant. The governor, in his cups, was waxing sentimental. Displaying an elaborate courtesy toward Santa, he asked permission to whisper in her ear: Did she forgive him?