“What cry, man? You haven't heard cries enough?”

Laughter, ignorance, explanations, hiccups—it was not just any cry, but the Cry of Dolores, which for the people of Mexico, commemorates the country's independence from Spain.

“It's the Cry with which we threw out Spaniards like you,” suggested the piano player, a bit aggressively.

“And since when were we thrown out of anywhere?” replied el Jarameño proudly.

“Since when? Since we threw you out of Mexico … years ago!” pronounced the house wise man.

“Yeah? Well, I never heard those cries, and you can tell me about 'em later …”

“Jarameño, take it easy, don't quarrel over matters of no importance … all that stuff 's over and done with. And here are guys like you, in Mexico, and it's gone well for you, right? I mean, plenty of applause, plenty of money, no? Aren't there thousands of your compatriots whom you couldn't drag away, because they like it here that much?”

“Now that's the truth … so okay, we're square … and I'll drink to that! My good woman,” said el Jarameño to Elvira, “bring out some manzanilla, because this Spaniard invites everybody to join him in a toast to Spain!”

Tensions dissipated in rowdy good spirits. Hipo tried to provide music for reconciliation by playing bullfight marches, the best known of which had Elvira and her girls all singing in chorus: “Viva España, and long live her valiant sons …”

El Jarameño covered his beer glass, bumped it against his chest, changing its liquid into a thousand gold bubbles, and shot them in the direction of Santa, saying:

“Drink to my country, gorgeous, because I'm drinking to yours, and to you!”

Plans for the next day's outing were finalized, and Elvira was paid in advance for the girls who would go. They calculated the number of rental coaches they would need, with two couples in each coach. It was already light and the drunkest of them decided to stay at the house and sleep that day, but el Jarameño and another fellow who was also leaving said their goodbyes. What instinct inspired Santa to accompany him to the front door? The torero, without removing his arm from the shoulders of his friend, asked for a friendly goodbye kiss, and it was granted.

“When are you going to sleep with me, Santa?” he asked in her ear, very seriously.

“With you?” she said and, after reflecting for a moment, concluded: “Never!”

“You hate me that much?”

“I don't hate you at all. I'm scared of you.”

Blind Hipólito, who was going out the door after them and overheard Santa's declaration, could not restrain himself.

“Congratulations on your new suitor, Santita,” he said as, with the tip of his cane, he woke his little guide, who was curled up sleeping in the usual place on the floor. “These guys with pigtails are the biggest men around …”