“When, Santa?”

“Never!” she responded, with redoubled fervor and resolution.

Something happened during one of those stormy nights in Tivoli, when Santa had just installed herself with her escort of admiring gentlemen at the table reserved for them by prodigious gratuities. On this night, Santa felt really good, almost deliriously happy, and her court idolized her more devotedly than usual, fighting over the kisses that her red lips refused to no man, those tempting lips that allowed themselves to be crushed by dry, hard kisses flaming with lust. Her entire following was hungry for her—her beau for the evening, and last night's beau, and tomorrow night's beau all in attendance—and she considered herself queen and flower of the city's brilliant, corrupt nightlife. She felt herself to be the empress of the ancient, imperial metropolis bathed by lakes and guarded by volcanoes but steeped in sin, stained by the concupiscence of bygone races and dead civilizations that have left us precise but mystifying reminders of their primitive refinements, stained by the lust of brutal conquerors and later waves of blonde-haired invaders, all of whom have loved and slaughtered with equal energy, stained, finally by the complex and perverted sensualism of the modern age. All the male inhabitants of the city, it seemed—fathers, husbands, and sons—pursued and adored her, proclaiming themselves fortunate, indeed, if she consented to allow them access to her body, the universally sought location of true, if ephemeral, earthly delight.

On that night, a totally unexpected incident occurred.

“What's today's date?” Santa inquired. “I think I've never felt so happy!”

And at that very moment she saw Esteban and Fabián enter the bar dressed in black—her two brothers, whom she had not seen since the day they drove her away.

They saw Santa immediately, surrounded by her elegant court of young gentlemen in white ties and stylish dinner jackets. Despite the social superiority indicated by the sartorial splendors of the clubmen, the two workers were not intimidated. They strode toward the glittering assemblage without taking their eyes off Santa, who simply waited, pale and paralyzed, ceasing to pay any attention to the young men around her, her eyes those of a frightened doe, growing wider than ever, her chest palpitating, her mouth half open, her back against the wall …

“Santa,” said Esteban dryly, “we've come to have a word with you.”

Not a single protest was heard from Santa's elegant sycophants. The only person to rise was their queen, clumsily, with a humble attitude, bumping into the elbows and tripping over the feet of her half-dozen lovers as she made her way out from behind the table. In the middle of the barroom floor, she hesitated between the two doors leading to the street and the courtyard with its garden and fountain.

“Not here,” she said to her brothers, “better in the garden where nobody will hear us.”

And out went the three of them, Santa in the lead, covered with jewels and silk, Fabián and Esteban behind, dressed in mourning clothes.