“At this point, she's taking her clothes off,” he thought. The thought made him tremble on the piano stool, as if ice water were running through the marrow of his bones, and his horrid whitish eyes—his eyes without irises and without the hopes of ever seeing that magnificent nudity over which the concupiscence of legions galloped with such demented fury—closed tightly shut, as if Santa's nudity possessed the prodigious power to dazzle and wound even the eyes of the blind.

He did not play the piano on such occasions, or rather, what he did hardly deserved the name. With titanic movements he made the notes howl and groan, improvising arpeggios and linking one to another in a weird dance that possibly ascended to the damnable room above to soothe the exhausted pair in their mute languor of satisfied flesh. And when Santa came down, and he heard her chat and giggle with the others girls and their clients—and with him, too—without giving any importance to what she had just done, as if it were insignificant, which, by dint of repetition, it had indeed become, Hipólito felt a serious urge to strangle her, no matter what the consequences.

Fortunately, these fits did not last long, and returning to his senses, he silently scolded himself and promised, at any cost, not to let it happen again, never to give a hint of a love that, with a cool head, he really thought to be madness. But his reformist intentions did not last long, unlike his resentment, which accumulated day by day. A time or two, he tried to turn the problem on its head, because, what the hell, Santa was not exactly the holy grail, either, so why shouldn't he try his luck, compete with her other suitors, use his own money, just as they did, to buy what was for sale, first come, first served? He was ready to pay, not just Santa's price, but a thousand times that—because Hipólito might be a poor devil, but he did not lack savings—in order to get rid of the obsession which was wrecking his peace of mind and gave no sign of abating. Wasn't it completely ridiculous, at his age, given his poverty and physical unattractiveness, given his experience, above all, to get stuck on one of these women and risk losing his job? Could he bear, in addition, the hooting derision of Elivra, Pepa, and the rest? Besides, he couldn't really think of how to proposition Santa, couldn't find the right words. The speeches that he composed in his head were always too chaste or too libertine, even though he considered himself well versed at such arts, even though women such as Santa are castles begging to be besieged. One afternoon, he went so far as to put twenty pesos in his pocket to purchase the girl's services, surely much less than she normally charged others who were not so frightfully ugly as he. Hopefully, his generosity would attenuate the repugnance awakened by his ugliness, or at least compensate for it. Jenaro, who would, of course, have to guide him, was surprised by the destination at that unexpected hour: