I am tremendously interested in going into the mountains. The place where I will sit down to dinner with Arabs, my combed hair glistening. The charred fox on the platter, mistaken for dog, shot through the heart. The chorus of cousins solemnly uninvited, but still in attendance. The rugged rapscallions, the host with his lions, the pair eating onions, the service of truncheons. The bat is a velvet mask.