“Goodbye, Hipo! … I'm going!”

“Go to sleep, my Santa … go to sleep and don't be afraid. This is going to cure you. See you later … when you wake up. I'll stay right here with you.”

It was not true. The doctors hustled him away, and Jenaro, frightened by the unfamiliar proceedings, moved close to his side. Administering the anesthesia took abnormally long on account of the advanced alcoholism of the patient, who soon began to blather incoherently, mixing fragmentary truths with partial fictions, a concubine's sordidness with a maiden's innocence, the experiences of her short life with the ambitions she had never achieved. Only Hipólito understood, paid attention, or felt moved. Then she shook twice—a laugh, a sob, a cry—and hushed utterly, her inhalation almost imperceptible, her exhalation like a small bellows: puff … puff …

“Ready to go,” announced the anesthetist, without removing the mask or suspending the drop, drop, drop of the chloroform, that permeated the immediate surroundings with its sickly sweet odor.

At a signal from the surgeon, the male nurses lifted Santa's sleeping form and carried her feet first, her legs bent at the knee, swaying limply as rags, doctors and their assistants walking at her sides, the anesthetist with his drops of chloroform at her head. Hipólito, guided by Jenaro, brought up the rear of this solemn, early morning procession as it proceeded down the central aisle of the ward, attracting the attention of the recently awakened patients in the row of beds on either side, who sat up with foreboding to watch it pass.

The somber procession went down a corridor and through a door. Hipólito felt his heart lurch, and Jenaro's whole body trembled. This must be the operating room, because as soon as they had put Santa down—on some sort of table, it seemed—the surgeon gave orders for the door to be closed, and he pushed Hipólito in the direction of a distant chair. In a routine voice, he told Hipólito that the surgery was about to begin, that he must not budge because everything was sterile except for him and Jenaro, and that, above all, he must not speak or interrupt them for any reason.

“The operation itself is extremely delicate and requires our utmost concentration. Stay right here, the two of you, because here you're not in the way.”

How on earth could they get in the way? They felt so fearful they could hardly move! Hipólito dropped into the chair, and Jenaro crouched between his legs, both of them softly clearing their throats. The sulfurous stench of caustic disinfectants made them feel nauseous. And it was so hot, too! The cause was the newfangled autoclave that sterilized instruments and bandages using steam, with its pressure gauge like one in the cab of a locomotive.

They heard the conversation of the doctors without understanding it, a series of questions that the surgeon directed to his helpers, and their respective replies. Were the patient's extremities covered and secured? Yes, doctor. Was the drip—with its life-giving serum, a mere saline solution—inserted and ready? Yes, doctor. Had the sponges, cotton, clamps, valves and whatever else been inspected? And when all the affirmative answers had been given, the team suddenly fell silent, and the battle began.