From there, from the depths of memory

The figure of a semi-gaucho arose, reminiscent of vidalitas, offering his beaten mazamorra, and behind him a black pastry chef, who whistled and leaned back, very potbellied, carrying in his head a large drawer of invoice, blew like a bellows: "ta tapao; mete la mano".

My head was a volcano: I heard everything, interpreted everything, and my body weakened in those hours of agitation and fever.

The whole of this city, with its streets and squares and its anthill movement, bustled in my feverish imagination!