And on two or three occasions, so much accumulated alcohol exploded like a bomb amid howls of rage, knocking over tables, sending glasses flying through the air to shatter against the walls, splashing floors, staining clothing. Chairs were brandished over heads, and the vilest insults were hurled to and fro. On those occasions, as the waiters rushed to separate the gladiators, as the musicians watched from a prudent distance, and as the police struggled to restore order, Santa abandoned her recently acquired polish and sophistication, the tough country girl reappeared, and practically no force on earth could restrain her. Totally beside herself, she attacked the watchmen and even those of her own party, ignoring pleas, warnings, and threats, afraid of nothing. Using elbows and knees, she broke free from whoever surrounded her, twisting her provocative brown body, which acquired a steely hardness and the athletic curves of a Greek statue. Only occasionally did she fight with women. What had women ever done to her? Instead, her targets were men, whom she wanted to wound, to break, to mark and shame with her long, polished courtesan's finger-nails, taking vengeance on whatever man stood within reach of her prostituted body, in repayment for the terrible blow she had received from the one who had abandoned her and escaped into her blurry memories of a violated virgin. Her fury was like the secret sediment of ancient, half-forgotten grievances that, when suddenly awakened from slumber, blindly topple, cruelly dismember, and implacably destroy whatever stands in their path, until finally, their energy spent, they lapse again into dormancy. In Santa's case, once a truce had taken hold and reconciliation had begun, she was the first to argue that nobody should be arrested and was the first to nurse the wounded warriors on every side. She usually ended up crying—half from exhaustion and half from sorrow—on the shoulder of the man to whom she belonged that night.

Only rarely did she dance, because she did not have a clue about the “Boston waltz” so much in vogue, nor had she gotten very far with danzones or related Caribbean rhythms that are danced with lascivious undulations of the torso, which the other girls tried to show her during off hours:

“You press your body really close to your man, like so, see? In the first part, there are lots of turns that you do almost in place, like so, see? Then, in the second part, you have to really relax your waist and let your hips go, like you're about to faint with pleasure and so you avoid your partner's advances by slipping from side to side and forward and back, like so … Come on, Hipo, play it right! We're teaching your sweetheart danzón …”

On certain afternoons when the band played at Tivoli, she had a wonderful time in the arms of one of her companions, massacring a waltz that the musicians dedicated to her, enjoying the enchantments of a danzón in the arms of some stranger. She laughed at her own ignorance, at her beginner's clumsiness, and at how the men gathered around to watch her, laugh with her, desire her, and applaud her.