Santa did not let him lose hope, of course not! Instead, she asked for time, a few more months to try each other—as if she could be picky, with the life she led!

And as far as el Jarameño was concerned (this did bother her) the standoff continued, she denying herself to him, he becoming ever more ardent. He did not beg anymore, nor ask her “when.” His new tactic was to try to spend as much time near her as possible. Spurred by an instinctive longing, an insatiable appetite, he appeared at all hours, seemed never to leave the brothel, courting Santa's prettiest colleagues, even sleeping with them without touching them, in an effort to awaken her jealousy.

How bitterly, from a distance, did Hipólito observe this amorous struggle! How quickly did he see, in spite of his physical blindness, that Santa was destined not only to surrender herself to the torero, but to adore him so much that the musician would have counted himself the happiest man on earth to receive half—no, a hundreth part—of her adoration. Because he could no longer doubt that he, Hipólito, loved Santa with all his four senses, with all his heart, and with all his unfortunate body. And what he suffered was a horror, because, even though he had never seen himself, he could guess just how unattractive he was. The human rags, almost undeserving to be called women, in whom he had vented his fiery desires, had confessed as much to him during the spasms of the carnal act, as if overcome by fright:

“Oh, Hipo, how ugly you are!”

And Hipo had gotten used to that verdict and wrapped himself in it, like a suit of armor, so as not to wince at the laughter and swear words that normally greeted the protestations of love that he made, now and again, to women whom he believed to be within his reach. Most of the time, if he insisted enough and they were capricious enough, he got what he wanted. With Santa, though, it was different. She was made of different stuff, he thought, despite her profession, and he regarded her as unattainable for him, a fairytale princess from a dreamy world of bliss. What an irony, then, that she seemed so delighted to belong to everyone but him, to whomever offered her a handful of silver coins. He knew that her arms—in which he would die a slow, incomparably delightful death if they would only hold him, without demanding anything more of them—her arms opened, embraced, and caressed anybody else, the first to arrive, almost in his presence! When he first began to feel what now consumed him, Hipólito failed to gauge the tremendous malaise that overcame him each time that Santa left the parlor accompanied by a random customer who, in all probability, did not even appreciate his luck. Now, he hated to be left sad and pensive at the piano while the whole disgusting program played out upstairs in Santa's room, the loveless coupling that he knew by heart for having done it and for having heard it described in detail a thousand times … In spite of himself, Hipólito spelled out that program in his mind, letter by letter, and envisioned it step by step, suffering unspeakably when, according to his highly informed calculations, the final step was about to commence …