The interior of the building begins to stretch and awaken and—with the arrival of the waiters, who deposit their hats and look for their aprons in some dark cubbyhole, and of the chef and his assistants, who disappear into the kitchen and associated passageways without saying hello to anyone—the place comes alive once more. The bartender (a blond, blasphemous Italian, expert in potent punches) has put on his red fez and his starched jacket and, turning around to face the large mirror and the multicolored battery of bottles, he opens the cash register and begins to count the tokens that the waiters exchange for money. The waiters gather to do their own calculations, counting on their fingers or with a pile of coins in the palm of the hand, as the Italian piles the chips in rows, vomiting an oath every second. Clouds of dust and the rasp of a broom issue from the shabby dance floor, along with the loud yawns of the sweeper and the watchman who sleeps on the top floor of the establishment, which is also the location of the private dining rooms for the most important customers. The kitchen exudes provocative odors and, from time to time, crackles so loudly with flames that one might think the building had caught fire. The street doors stand fully open, replaced by grills that revolve to permit entrance or egress from the building. The street thrusts its noises in through the openings: the passing of coaches and streetcars, the clatter of horses' hooves, plenty of chatter and laughter and the cries of newspaper boys:

“Read all about it in El Tiempo! … The latest edition of El Mundo!”

And the great, lascivious city rouses and illuminates itself with excitement for another night.

The Tivoli Central commences its activities. The employees prepare for the battle that will engross them for hours as the various ground-floor rooms slowly fill with a public that is quiet and peaceful when the night is young, becoming gradually rowdier and more truculent as the night grows older and standards of comportment relax. Until midnight, everything remains orderly, customers eat calmly and drink slowly. At most, a woman may escape for a while from one of the private dining rooms to look for her lover, the one whom she does not charge for services rendered but who waits alone at a table in a corner, nursing an economical small beer. Urgent dialogue, interrupted by sickly caresses; she half sitting on his leg, he holding her fiercely around her uncorseted waist. She and he look into each other's eyes, their saddened faces quite close together, in mourning for the voluptuous pleasures that they have enjoyed together, but cannot enjoy tonight, because the girl has to rent herself to another, to anyone who pays. They beg for faithfulness and swear to be true. The woman rests her head on the man's shoulder, closing her eyes, and the man kisses her in the mysterious and variable place where he first kissed her on the night when he captivated her—the nape of her neck, her eyelids, her ear.