Eulalie knows where the sky is vulnerable. She paces about the rectory. Three bald-headed men confront me in the garden, and I am reminded of the Iliad. They recite their prayers with the tips of their tongues forever in contact with the roofs of their mouths. As if they have been coached. Eulalie dabs at my elbow with a piece of cotton that looks, in the dim light of the universe, like the outline concepts take before we are given their examples. Everywhere the mountain groans. It’s as if we were expecting souvenirs, says Eulalie, her patience worn to a point that glints. And what we got was ordinary apples.