As she chattered away, Manuel recalled that Jesús had made some mention of a dance, although he could no longer remember just where it was to be held.
“Let’s go to that ball,” he said.
“Which? Over at the Frontón?”
“Yes.”
“Come on.”
They left the bun shop. It was still snowing. Proceeding through several deserted by-ways they reached the handball court. The two arc lights at the entrance threw a powerful illumination upon the white street. Manuel bought two tickets; he checked his cape and she her cloak, and they went in.
The Frontón was a large rectangular area, with one of the longer walls painted a dark blue and marked at regular intervals with white lines and numbers. The other long wall supported the tiers and the boxes.
Two large green screens bounded the shorter walls of the court. Above, at the top of the high roof, amidst the iron framework, ten or twelve glowing arc lamps, free of crystal globes, flashed a dazzling light.
This vast space, painted a dark hue, looked like an unoccupied machine shop.
A number of night birds of very low flight, bedecked with Manila mantles and flowers in their hair, displayed their busts in the boxes. It was cold.