When the military band burst into its noisy music the people from the corridors and from the restaurant came dancing out on to the floor, and in a little while the couples were whirling around the hall. There were no more than half a dozen masks. The dance grew more animated. By the cold, crude light from the arc lamps one could see the couples turning around, all the dancers very solemn, very stiff, as lugubrious as if they were attending a burial.
Some of the men rested their lips against the women’s foreheads. But one felt no atmosphere of passionate desire or fever. It was the dance of a people in whom life had been extinguished, of puppets with eyes that bespoke weariness or repressed anger. At times some wag, as if feeling the necessity of proving that this was a carnival ball, would stretch himself out on the floor or let out a piercing yell. There would be a momentary confusion, but soon order was restored and the dancing was resumed.
Manuel was filled with an impulse to do something wild. He got up and began to dance with his girl. She, however, vexed because he could not keep in time, went back to her seat. Disconsolate, Manuel did the same. Couples tripped by before them; the women with daubed faces and darkened eyes, with a beastly expression upon their rouged lips, and the men with an arrogant mien and an aggressive glance.
Angrily the men ripped through the streamers that were thrown down from the boxes, entangling the dancers.
A drunken negro, seated near Manuel, greeted the passing of some good-looking woman with a shout that mimicked a child’s voice:
“Olé there! My gipsy baby!”
“Hello, Manolo,” came a voice to Manuel’s ears. It was Vidal, who was dancing with an elegant mask, tightly clasping her waist.
“Come see me tomorrow,” said Vidal.
“Where?”
“Seven at night, at the Café de Lisboa.”