The man has come walking from very far away; he turns from the simmering valley and looks into the forest. The air is cool under the canopy but his body is hot and heavy; his pulse is quick, he has lost all peripheral vision. For the Consul there is no better moment than the present one for a sip of mezcal. The table is waiting, sir, you are welcome to “El Bosque”, the unassimilable tavern with doors open to Eden and the wind blowing, but certainly nothing here comes for free: is this slip of paper that catches his eye the train schedule, or the mother of all bills? My, who got laid? The trees close in on him, pitying, the balcony to the volcan-y, the emerald snow of the Popocatépetl over the timberline under the thunder, the emerald table all set. In a courteous reflex he pulls the chair and offers her the seat. She answers the gesture with a question.
“Do you like this garden?” We ev(hic)t those who destroy… In the crossroads the sphynx, Cihuateotl, flaming sword in the doorway to oblivion, awaits his answer not to expel but to sink in the bottom of the sexual oval of the earth, in the winding canal into the very center of the self… Being in hell in to not be inside, in the world, nastily under the canopy, where everything loses soul and form, in a land where men are buried sticks and the women sleeping mountains. Geoffrey Firmin is about to sit down. With their eyes in their hands, the horrible workers climb their way to build the answer, that will be drowned in the deafening roar of the falls: -“One cannot live without love”.