Even la Gaditana, who was also in love with Santa, bothered Hipólito much less than did the matador. Santa found the love of women abominable and, anyway, that love would not really make him jealous at all. Rather, he would chuckle indulgently, comforted by the idea that Santa detested men and could be easily cured of her life of prostitution, the way that one cures children of some undesirable habit with a stern wag of the finger. Everybody in the house knew that la Gaditana was in love with Santa, and they had told Hipólito because they viewed him as “one of the family.” Santa herself had nixed it from the beginning:

“Hipo, I can't stand la Gaditana any more! She says she wants me to love her more than I love any man! Has she gone crazy? She was in my room all morning just kneeling by my bed and kissing my whole body with the most furious kisses I ever felt—and imagine how many I've felt! She wouldn't let me get up and was crying and saying that she can't feel anything for men anymore, that they make her sick, and she was moaning and sighing and saying ‘you're so pretty, hija, so pretty’ and that if I reject her she's going to do something really terrible … until finally I got tired and told her ‘listen, Gaditana, I'm glad to hear it, now out of my room because I'm getting up.’ I wouldn't have told her, Hipo, if I'd known how she was going to react. She rolled around on the rug, pulling her hair out and kicking her legs like she was having a fit, and then she begged to be allowed to stay … ‘I promise not to bother you,’ she said to me, sobbing, ‘and I won't even talk if that bothers you, just let me stay while you wash and dress. If you want I'll help … or if not, I'll just sit right here.’ She dragged herself into a corner between two pieces of furniture. And then …”

And then a number of clients interrupted her narration, demanding attention from Santa and music from the piano player, but as soon as Hipólito and the girl found themselves alone once more, he asked her to resume her story. But he perfectly understood the meaning of la Gaditana's behavior, the ancient sin against nature, the ancestral vice that so often germinates in brothels, then sprouts and flourishes there with the sickly exuberance of the Nile lotus. The voluptuous power of the ancient vice drove her toward Santa, who was still unfamiliar with it, who would possibly never practice it regularly, but only barely taste it before spitting and washing out her mouth, the way we do when an inexplicable curiosity leads us to sample an unappetizing dish.

“And then? … nothing, really. La Gaditana got in my bed where I had been lying before I got up, and she covered herself up with my sheets even though she was dressed. And whenever I threw a piece of clothing on the floor to put on something clean, she'd pull it off the floor and kiss it like a holy relic. What's all that about, Hipo? Do you know … or would Pepa? I don't know whether to slap her for being so filthy or call Elvira to give her some kind of cure. Tell me what to do!”