Golden confetti rains from the cathedral towers, their bells tumbling with jubilation. Fireworks fill the air, all the bands strike up our national anthem, and far away, in the armory, the cannons salute our national honor. The stars in the heavens blink as if holding back cosmic tears, moved by the spectacle of an entire people deliriously in love with their native land, a people who, at least on one night of each year, truly believes in itself and remembers that it is sovereign and powerful.

Some mothers hold their babies up above the multitude as if dedicating their blood to the Patria. From every mouth and every heart springs forth a loud, solemn cry, simultaneously a promise, a threat, a roar, a lullaby, and a paean of victory.

“Viva Mexico!”

And at that, the ocean of people spills out of the plaza into streets and avenues, following the various military bands that now play up-beat melodies. Tight knots of conversation form, many mouths drink from a single bottle. On the street corners, people dance to the rhythmless music of organ-grinders, and almost anyone might give the man next to him an abrazo, while reserving the right to quarrel with him and kill him shortly thereafter, when the overabundance of alcohol dims the conscience of both and drowns this rapturous feeling of brotherhood. Families picnic in the doorways of their houses, watching the crowd flow past, and, standing with his foot on the molding of a closed store front, a street singer plays the guitar surrounded by his buddies …

The coaches finally begin to move along with the people. In the one carrying Santa, el Jarameño, and the other couple, nobody says a word or smokes or chuckles … all of them are lost in reflection. Santa cries very softly, seemingly overcome in her sensitive femininity by the emotions of the moment.

“What're you crying for, gypsy girl?” El Jarameño asks her, leaning over to look in her face.

Santa cannot talk and instead points all around, indicating the plaza, what has just occurred within it, and the feeling that still remains in the atmosphere and in people's spirits. Then she puts her arms around the torero's muscular neck, pulls his head toward her, and between sobs, she murmurs:

“You told us that your Patria was a window with carnations and geraniums, no? Well, you're doing better than I am, because even though I'm in my own country, I can't call it mine. Right now all I've got for a Patria is Elvira's house, and later it will be another one, who knows where, and I'll always be a …

And she spelled the horrid, stigmatizing word on the window of the coach, as if spitting out something that had made her sick.

Four

Leaving aside the waiters, who are highly accustomed to the tumult, only a professional fighter would attempt to make his way through the tables surrounded by evening customers, or through the groups of men who down their drinks standing at the bar or elsewhere in bunches, not having found a seat, filling all available floor space in the three rooms that compose the Tivoli Central, a restaurant and bar, the city's well-known venue of risqué nightlife. After all, the fashionable establishment offers not just food and drink, no sir, but also a chance to dance, start a fight, and possibly get killed.