The Final Circle of Paradise

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The customs inspector had a round smooth face which registered the most benevolent of attitudes. He was respectfully cordial and solicitous.

“Welcome,” he murmured. “How do you like our sunshine?” He glanced at the passport in my hand. “Beautiful morning, isn’t it?”

I proffered him my passport and stood the suitcase on the white counter. The inspector rapidly leafed through it with his long careful fingers. He was dressed in a white uniform with silver buttons and silver braid on the shoulders. He laid the passport aside and touched the suitcase with the tips of his fingers.

“Curious,” he said. “The case has not yet dried. It is difficult to imagine that somewhere the weather can be bad.”

“Yes,” I said with a sigh, “we are already well into the autumn,” and opened the suitcase.

The inspector smiled sympathetically and glanced at it absent-mindedly. “It’s impossible amid our sunshine to visualize an autumn. Thank you, that will be quite all right… Rain, wet roofs, wind…

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