In Mexico, there are dark places in the midst of the squalor and the pollution where there is no noise, little motion, where one can sit undisturbed. I live in the little village several miles from here. Here is El Toro, a bar or café. What could you call it?

The men sitting at the table nearby take no notice of me. They are a world unto themselves. They talk and smoke and drink. Three faces. There is a little light shining down from a bulb on the ceiling. The heat is sweltering. The mosquitoes are sweating. “What do you say, what do you say? What’s happening. It’s all sure to collapse. We’re not safe here, you know. Three years and they’ll pull their switch or whatever it is, we’ll all be shadows, incinerated, I’m telling you—”

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