“Oh, it's got to be Spain, you know! But without any of those islands or overseas territories … and not even all of Spain, 'cause I never seen most of it. My Patria,” continued el Jarameño, counting on his fingers, “let's see … Andalusia, my house, the grave of my parents, may they rest in peace, and the window with carnations and geraniums where I go to visit my sweetheart … that is my Patria!”

Applause and more Pommery greeted el Jarameño's simple, picturesque definition, and the torero, for his part, feigned exaggerated care with the ash of his cigarette, the better to view the effects of this peroration on Santa's pensive face. And their eyes met, and as always, his emerged victorious from the encounter and her eyes fled—in this case, to the mantel, which they had already thoroughly examined, and no doubt they called her long eyelashes down to defend them, because down they came, and Santa, slipping some in her seat, closed her cowardly eyes and rested her head on the back of the chair.

“Who'll let me bum a smoke? I'm the only one not smoking …”

After looking at watches, the party called for the check, which they more than covered with exaggerated shows of generosity, much pulling out and pocketing of wallets bulging with bills, and each man vying for the honor of paying by himself. El Jarameño offered Santa his arm with a decisive air.

“Be my date tonight, country girl, until after “the cries.” Then you go your way, with whomever, and I go mine … deal?”

The jolting of the coaches ended up putting the two in close and prolonged contact that would have been difficult to avoid, had they tried, because every jolt was followed by another, worse one, and they ended up simply remaining in whatever position resulted, “not noticing” how much their bodies were in contact, his steely muscles and her provocative flesh. The lit tips of several cigarettes glowed in the darkness of the closed coach, resembling fireflies that had not managed to escape before the doors closed, and that, now trapped, whirled in desperation, periodically diving into the smokers' laps.

Meanwhile, the drivers found a way to enter the ocean of people that completely filled the Plaza de Armas. They followed the arrival of two marching groups, a teamsters' guild, and a company of firemen who began to penetrate the crowd four abreast, carrying flags, banners, and blazing torches that gave the impression of mythological beings, so furiously did they shake their heads, so copiously did their hair of flames spray sparks that floated, twisted, and finally died in the air. The coaches inched into the plaza behind the parade to a certain point at which all progress stopped. It was materially impossible to advance any further. Yet, from that forced anchorage, they had an excellent view of the great spectacle.

In the center of the plaza are the shade trees hung with decorative lanterns and the central kiosk emitting brilliant electric light. Next, along the tree-lined walk that leads to the palace of government, more lanterns strung along like illuminated garlands. Then, the old palace—severe, irregular, enormous. Only the sumptuous curtains of its balconies and the countless hydrogen gas jets inside glass bubbles that line the railings relieve the austerity of its façade. And on those same balconies, the heads of women in elaborately decorated hats intermixed with those of gentlemen without hats, moving in inaudible conversation. On the women's hats, the bird feathers flutter as if they longed to take to the air, and the artificial flowers tremble as if dreaming of flying away to take root elsewhere. These are the balconies of the celebrated Ambassadors' Room, which is absolutely bursting with blinding light, spilling torrents of excess illumination out of every opening, and the heads on the balcony belong to the privileged few who attend the great celebration in utmost comfort, by special invitation of some high official.