Hipólito was about to declare that he would, indeed, get mad, very mad, if Jenaro continued describing Santa with that mixture of childish frankness and rascally wit, moved by the sickly desire that all true lovers feel to suffer somehow for the object of their affections, even though the loved one will never know of our actions or appreciate them. He finally gave a silent, negative wag of his finger, but then seemed to authorize and invite the information, by raising his head and gazing with his sightless eyes, his horrid whitish eyes without an iris, into the bright face of his young guide.

“It's her breasts, patrón,” said the boy, drawing out the words for emphasis and lowering his voice further, as if that were the only appropriate tone in which to mention the hidden parts of our bodies. “It's her breasts that bulge like a couple of doves that are trying to peck their way through her dress and come flying out … but they never can get away, all frightened, that's how they look, anyway, when the men caress them so much you'd think it would hurt …”

“Enough!” roared Hipólito, sitting straight up: “Don't tell me any more or you'll get a thrashing! Now I can visualize Santa, now I can see her, and I thank God that I don't have to watch her the way you do.”

After that night, the musician never again asked Jenaro to clarify or add further details to Santa's portrait. Nor did he again laugh like a lecherous fawn when he could hear, during the dances that he played at Elvira's house, how the excited customers examined the wares that the girls were offering for sale that evening. Now he sat stiffly as he played, lamenting his fate. One time he almost shouted “watch out” when he guessed that Santa was about to fall into the arms of el Jarameño, whose cause seemed to gain ground daily. And, in an effort to promote the lesser of two evils, he even tried to foment the mild affection that Santa felt toward Rubio, who clearly did not affect her the way that el Jarameño did.

“Santita,” the musician said to her on one of those occasions, extremely rare now, when he could chat with her in the relative privacy that had once made him so happy and given rise to his crazy dreams. “Whatever happened to the idea of setting up house with that fellow Rubio, remember? I get the impression that he is still as interested as ever, right? Think about it, Santita. He's a gentleman, and if he said he loves you, he must have good reason …” Aside from el Jarameño, none of the others, including Rubio—for now at least—made Hipólito especially jealous, in spite of the continual possession of Santa that they enjoyed. Oh, they gave him an itch, all right, a bitter taste in the mouth, a foul humor—but merely that, and merely during the time in which he knew they were possessing his lady. El Jarameño, on the other hand, caused more intense symptoms, much deeper within him, making his heart and breathing seize up and bringing imprecise or incomprehensible acts of violence to his mind.