An evening of indigo dripped down upon the pomegranates, figs, olives and apples, upon the grapevines and upon the ivy, into the tobacco and into the poppies, into the jasmine, hemp and morning glory. The girl was naked and new, a nova of being, heavy with the unnamed, forbidden fruit. Her cold hands, still wet with pulp and seeds, reached into an abyss beyond a veil of dark horsechestnut leaves. Then her blue veins gorged with sudden sleep; her leaden eyelids lay down their long, curved fans. Stray vines and strange voices still curled around the cracked contour of her porcelain cheek. Lying down at the threshold of night and day, now she dreams she has dreamt of paradise.