The three of them stand together, now, in the garden, well illuminated by its arc lamp and by rays of light that escape from windows and doors onto the wilted grass. From time to time, fast-moving waiters cut across a corner of the garden carrying trays of steaming delicacies that leave their spicy aromas in the air. Far away, two figures are conversing, and the echo of their conversation floats by unintelligibly. Nearer is the form of a man holding onto a tree trunk, probably quite drunk, bent far over and staring fiercely at the ground. From the bar, the dance floor, and the private dining rooms, various sounds can be heard: drunken laughter, corks popping, stray chords. And the central fountain blubbers softly its weak but steady flow of uncontainable tears.

Esteban, the eldest, is the one who speaks, as Fabián nods and Santa gazes at them both.

“Don't worry. We're not going to keep you long and reduce your profits too much. We've come here from the village because we think it's our duty. We arrived on the 8:40 train and have spent hours looking for you in all those disgusting dives like the one where you live, hussy … oh, excuse me, I forgot that we don't care anymore what you are and don't need to insult you. Soon we'll leave you alone, all alone … So anyway, we're worn out from looking and from talking to your … to those poor women who keep asking for money for drink and I don't know what all else. In most places they've never heard of you, but finally someone recognized the description and sent us to the house where you live. They couldn't stop laughing at us there. If it weren't for a blind piano player who asked us if we are truly your brothers who work at the Contreras textile mill … how the hell does he know that? Did you tell him? … Why don't you answer?”

Esteban's tone softens somewhat as Santa continues to look at the ground.

“Well, anyway, he took us aside but wouldn't tell us anything until we swore, both of us, that we did not mean to hurt you … no Fabián? Then he explained to us about this place, Tivuli or whatever it's called. Who is that guy, huh? What's he got to do with you?”

Santa remained mute. Her heart would not calm down, nor was her throat prepared to utter a sound. She suspected that her brothers were about to tell her something extraordinarily serious, and she hardly dared to change her posture, hoping that if she stayed perfectly still and submissive, the news might not be so terrible, that it might hurt her, sure, but not so much as the news that she could not even bear to consider, even though she anticipated its horrible, inexorable, wrenching truth.

“Well, Santa,” continued Esteban after a moment, suddenly feeling a bit sorry for her but delivering the news point blank, “mother died night before last, and we buried her today, there, in our cemetery, beside don Bibiano and Angela's little boy, to the left as you enter, under the flowering vine, right by the corner where don Próspero planted the willow, remember?”