Now Tivoli Central prepares itself. The waiters rub the marble tops of rows of empty tables that, like tombstones in a cemetery for ailing souls and sinning bodies, appear to await the fleeting epitaphs of fleeting loves soon to be inscribed on their shining surfaces in alcohol, tears, and cigarette ash by lovers who will come there to bury their money and dreams, their disappointments and invisible wounds. The chef loosens his apron, puts his hat more firmly on his head, turns on the backup burners, and grabs his frying pans. The blonde Italian bartender checks his stock and serving equipment. Entrance from now on is with cover charge. The sale of tickets starts—gentlemen for one peso, unaccompanied women free—as the musicians settle in behind their music stands and tune their instruments. A sign is hung over the dance floor to indicate the character of the first number, a danzón, and at exactly half past one o'clock, the place now packed, the danzón bursts forth like a tropical thunderstorm with the kettle drums and the trombone so loud that they rattle the window glass, trying to get out and reach passersby, who pause to turn their heads and smile, their nostrils dilating slightly in response to the titillating musical insinuations.

The police stationed inside the establishment glance at each other disapprovingly and, unable to arrest the irreverent harmonies, twirl the tips of their mustaches instead.

Santa, at the pinnacle of her personal ascendancy, the apogee of her firm, young flesh accessible to any man who wanted to try it, normally arrived last at these dances, escorted by a brilliant following of fashionable young fellows, the most select members of the city's Sport Club. She did not dance, but rather installed herself, surrounded by her court, at a table from which she enjoyed a perfect view of the spectacle. Her favorite table—which the waiters reserved for her against all comers and all fairness, their loyalty guaranteed by enormous gratuities—was just at the edge of the dance floor, with easy access to the bar, the garden, and the street door. Santa sat with her back against the wall, acting, looking, and sounding now like a woman of the world. One would say that not a trace of the village girl remained. Her style was impeccable, both makeup and clothing, her jewelry was of eighteen-karat gold and gems, and she smoked cigarettes imported from Egypt. She knew how to order a meal at a fancy restaurant, how to ask for Mumm champagne, extra dry, and how to reprimand the waiters.

She had gotten used—or rather, her customers had accustomed her—to getting up very late and taking a sponge bath, then having her hair done by a professional hairdresser, an old French woman who was also a manicurist and much esteemed by everyone from Elvira on down. Whenever she was sent for, a coach picked her up at the door: a closed coach at midday when she was invited for a cocktail at some bar with an excellent reputation that, nevertheless, discretely admits such women to closed dining rooms; an open coach when she went out for a ride in the afternoon, indolently reclining on the morocco leather seats, to breathe the pure air in the woods of Chapultepec, without any responsibilities beyond smiling from the seat of the coach as it passed at a trot by the door of the Sport Club, where all her admirers could see her with that day's beau. Wisely stoic, this fraternal group competed earnestly for Santa's favor, hanging on her every wink and glance, and alternating in her bed, rigorously keeping to one night for each fellow, utterly without conflict. Instead, the entire group of friends would go out together with Santa and whomever she belonged to that night. They enjoyed dinner in harmony and good company, and then went together to Tivoli Central or brothel hopping, with Santa as the trophy who belonged to all of them at once. At three o'clock in the morning, the hour at which such inveterate night owls typically begin to think of resting, they said their goodbyes, each giving Santa a kiss and patting her possessor on the back.