Santa resented the way that Hipólito vented at her, as if he had a claim on her and had just surprised her in a flagrant infidelity. Why should he taunt her about el Jarameño, whose proposals she had rejected and whom she really did fear, with an odd and merely physical fear, an organic desire for self preservation? And, after all, what claim did Hipólito have on her? She had not granted him any, and felt less inclined to do so now! If she did not belong to herself, if she was everybody's slave, then she would at least hold onto her heart—if any of it remained, which seemed dubious—and force the men to be content with her magnificent body, strong and stripped of both clothing and affection. Let her body satiate their immense, fierce, limitless lust; let some bless and kiss it while others cursed and bruised it … But let them leave alone her heart, her tears, her memories, the things that she carried hidden inside, things that came bubbling up on occasions, and that night was one, when she had too much to drink … And as for Hipólito and el Jarameño, she would not rent them her body, not even if they offered her double or triple, not for any price. Not Hipólito, because she might love him a little just because she pitied him so much. Not el Jarameño, because fear made her love him already. And, trying not to spill any hidden tears (or hidden memories, or her hidden heart) as she walked, clumsy with drunkenness, back up the stairs, Santa clumsily drank even more, allowing herself to be escorted to her perfumed cubicle of a worshipper of Bacchus by one of those rich young gentlemen, who smelled of wine, groped her breast, and blathered obscene gallantries.

That morning, 15 September, was overcast and lugubrious, so when Santa and her customer awoke—around midday—they assumed that the evening's planned expedition would be canceled on account of rain. Faced with the prospect of being together alone for so many hours without an iota of love or even friendship to help the time pass, they did not attempt to conceal their displeasure and, to the contrary, showed it plainly: the customer by stretching, tossing, and turning under the warm, rumpled, evil-smelling sheets; Santa, by rummaging in her dresser drawer, where she was certain to find nothing since she was not looking for anything. They said little, and when either of them spoke, it was only to make little jabs or insulting allusions toward the other, as if they had both remembered after a night of commercial caresses that, except for the fellow's now pacified lust, there was nothing between them, only the eternal rancor that separates the sexes. A mutual repugnance was visible in their looks, audible in their words. On their tongues, both had the queasy aftertaste of too much alcohol and venal pleasure, which make us feel depressed and embarrassed once their titillating effects have evaporated. Santa did not care that her nightgown, slipping and revealing portions of her brown skin, allowed her brief lover to see her body. She had no interest in exciting him, and the truth is that he did not even look at her, satiated as he was with that flesh that everyone had tasted, and he turned to face the window and lay looking up at the clouds through the curtains.