“What do you mean, a ‘crude’ one?” asked the torero, already standing up with the smoky aftertaste of tequila on his tongue.

“It's what we call the sickness you have the next morning after you get drunk, you know, a hangover! Oh, and before you go, is it true that the bulls you're fighting come from Spain, and also, how much are tickets for seats on the shady side of the bullring costing?”

“For you, pal, they're on the house! The bulls are from Mexico, but they're so smart, they could have studied at the University of Salamanca … Now, point me the way out of this joint, friend, 'cause you've got stuff to do, and me too.”

The deputy inspector opened the door to the courtyard, bumping into the stretcher with the dying man on it, so that el Jarameño had to squeeze past on his way out. And, much as this victim of gypsy superstitions tried to look the other way, he had plenty of time to absorb the lugubrious scene: the shape of the wounded man, swathed in shadows, jerking in his death throes; the medic to one side, his services grotesquely useless, slowly unfurling his rolled-up sleeves dotted, here and there, with human blood; and kneeling close to the stretcher, a woman, her infant asleep in her left arm, its dirty little face moving palely in the half-dark as she bent over the wounded man, devastated to see that he was dying. The woman kept repeating “Longinos! … María Santísima! … Longinos!” as if she knew no other words. A priest in black held a crucifix in front of the dying man's face and prayed very quietly, as if in secret, prayers that floated away over the bowed heads of the clustered employees and police.

“Who did this to you?” asked the deputy inspector, placing his hands on the sides of the stretcher, his face very close to the dying man's. “Tell me. Come on, make an effort! Who was it? Was there an argument, or was it in cold blood?”

From the stretcher issued a horrifyingly stricken voice, struggling to pronounce a last request:

“Water …”

And then he must have died, because el Jarameño, who had been tiptoeing by, his hat still in his hand, heard the woman cry out, and someone said “that's it.” Meanwhile, the deputy inspector went to remind him of his offer:

“Jarameño! About those seats … right up front, okay? Near the judges!”

The matador was so affected by the scene that he hardly understood what the corporal on guard duty said to him as he left building:

“That blind guy, the one who came with you, went away when he heard that the woman had been taken to the hospital already. He left you the rental coach.”

The next morning, el Jarameño went to the hospital and carried out the deputy inspector's instructions to the letter. All went as predicted, except that it took most of the day. El Jarameño declared in Santa's presence—and signed a written statement to the effect—that she was his mistress and that he intended to withdraw her from a life of prostitution. The delay was caused by the list of bureaucratic procedures that the torero was required to fulfill at the hospital, the police station, and who knows where else, racing back and forth in coaches all afternoon. And when they gave Santa to him, when the last coach finally started home with the two of them inside, they were so eager for each other that, without talking, unable to wait a moment longer, driven by a long-denied reciprocal need that finally exploded inside both of them, their lips and bodies came together in a prolonged kiss. The vertigo made them close their eyes, their nostrils flared with the need for air, and then they pushed each other away, arms rigid, in order not to go mad with delight.