Outside, as Elvira said goodbye to them beside the sad little garden, they heard the sound of the piano, and Santa felt a chill run down her spine. She was so happy that until that moment she had forgotten all about the blind man and how much he adored her.

“Elvira, say goodbye to Hipo for me, tonight, will you?”

“Sure, honey. Don't worry. I know he's going to whine, though, when he finds out you're gone.”

El Jarameño arrived at the coach first and opened the door for Santa.

“Let's go, my glory. It's late!” he practically shouted, radiant and hungry for her, his clean-shaven face illuminated by a lamp.

Santa stood close to him and, before climbing into the coach, she turned to look at the brothel, which looked from the darkened street like a house on fire inside.

In both the downstairs windows, those of the parlor, most of the upstairs windows, and those of the bedrooms, the glass shown with light, so much, that one expected to see flames come licking out of them at any minute, like purifying dragons' tongues that would gradually, tenaciously, voraciously envelope the entire building and fuse twenty flames into one fantastic, swirling mantel of fire and sparks, glowing ever brighter, rising to the roof, twisting in demented, infinite fury, devastating and consuming everything.

Envisioning that righteous fire about to burn down the brothel, Santa stood transfixed and immobile on the sidewalk.

“What are you looking at, my Santa?” inquired el Jarameño, already ensconced inside the coach and leaning out the door.

“Fire. Look. It's like the house is burning.”

Truly, it was burning, but only as it did every night, on fire with bestial lust, with nauseating sexual traffic. The flames of lechery and howling perversion, had they been visible, could have enveloped the building in just the way that Santa envisioned. But no … imprecise shadows occasionally moved across the panes of window glass, probably cast, downstairs, by people dancing to the piano music, and upstairs, by celebrants undressing.

“Come on, Santa,” insisted the torero desperately. “It's me who's on fire. I'm burning to love you … now, come on!”

Returning to reality, Santa looked again at the house, this time with the melancholy affection we always feel when leaving a place that once gave us shelter from the storm.

“Come on, Santa!” implored the torero, reaching out his arms to her. “Come to me!”

And Santa went to him.

Part Two

Six

“Well, I can assure you that you are, in fact, drinking an infusion of eyelids.”

“How revolting, Ripoll!” His tablemates vociferated their unanimous disgust as they stirred their tea to cool it.

“You come up with the most awful jokes!” added don Mateo, the pawnbroker, with indignation.

“Jokes?” insisted Ripoll, half seriously, half mischievously. “Well, let's just see who knows what he's talking about.” And he got up from his chair, putting his napkin to one side, and went into his darkened room. The others heard him strike a match, twice, and shuffle through a pile of papers.