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Through the French doors of the drawing room one finds a low and very solid balcony with a magnificent view of the grounds. From the tiled steps at the foot of the balustrade a gravel walk leads away, toward the distant statuary, between the verdure and seriousness of the vast, manicured lawns. And looking back at the trained hedges and the flower beds, the fountain and the reflecting pools, at the presence of the estate—even on so slight a rise—makes one wish to move inside.

Immediately you feel the coolant of thick shrubbery, exotic trees, the pure, bright marble of Leda and her swan. So you move closer only to find a white paper bag, open and sitting upright before the figure; a young boy seen moving under an old, trellised bougainvillaea; one long enchilada slapped firmly against her paunch. And at that, the beginnings of sorrow can be seen in the navel, leveled by cheese. A hatred occurs with the sauce running to meet these legs; the burst shell begins to slide.

Nearby, a gardener whets his shears, whistling an old standard.