To this cemetery, the blind man and his guide directed their steps one afternoon after another, staying until the fireflies began to flair and the crickets began to sing. Then Jenaro would approach Hipólito, who lay face down on the tombstone, and shaking him gently, as if he were awakening him from a heavy sleep, the boy would repeat:

“Patrón … it's night already.”

The visit was repeated the following afternoon, with an identical duration and an identical script, including what seemed an identically heavy sleep.

Hipólito had ordered for her a wide, smooth slab, and in the middle of it, he had them carve the name Santa, without any other words or epitaph, only those five letters very large and deep, so that the rain and grass would never obliterate them and he would always be able to read them, over and over, the only way he knew how to read, with his fingertips … Time passed, Santa had been buried for months already, and Hipólito still never missed a day, lying for hours face down on the tomb, his monstrous face pressed against the slab as if his useless eyes could see through it, his hands caressing the name-poem that his lips pronounced as his fingers spelled it out:

“San-ta!”

Jenaro, who was just a kid, after all, quickly tired of the cemetery, and after about a week, as soon as Hipólito entered into his ecstatic trance the boy would slip away and romp, play marbles, or go after fruit or honeycombs with the village boys. At dusk, he returned to awaken his master, who had been unaware of his absence and asked no questions.

And the day finally came when Hipólito felt that he no longer had anything to say or give to Santa, not even tears, because he had already given them all. But it so happened that, from reading aloud, over and over, the name graven on the slab—“Santa … Santa”—a prayer came spontaneously to his lips, and prayers were the one thing that he had never given her. But … could he? His being what he was … her being what she had been … would the prayer be valid?

On his knees beside the grave, he still did not pray. What had they been, the two of them? Ah, it was now only too clear: a prostitute and a miserable piano player in a brothel! She had tasted everything forbidden, been stained by the worst perversions and concupiscence, and induced others to sin and go astray. He had not been much better. The two of them had abandoned the duties of righteousness and wallowed in the mire, in darkness and immorality, despised and despicable.

If she were to come back to life and, taking his hand, ask the world forgiveness for everything, it would be no use. Men and women would cover their ears, so not to hear, their eyes, so not to see, their consciences, so not to forgive. Their love and what they had suffered together would earn them no earthly pardon at all. None!