The whole scene gives off an unreal light. Four black men with bare chests and in precarious trousers hold candelabras and a clearly feminine figure rises imposingly at the top of some red stairs. In the gloom, the curve of a breast and the angle of a hip can already be distinguished, which the dress – champagne-colored, scaled, increasingly resplendent as the light grows – and the cape – green, perfectly straight – enhance with precision. The close-up finishes drawing a time and a country: the anti-gravity pompadour, the painted beauty mark, the watermelon-pink lips, the jaw-dropping neckline, the jewelry that wouldn't last half a stroll down the Rambla, and, above all, the face, so mythical, of Sarita Montiel.