You can never trust the workmen. Surely they know what to do, but still they hang white wallpaper in the entrance. Then they paper the rest of the apartment, floors, ceilings and furniture, too. They paper the tennis courts down behind the building, the benches, the paths and the gravestones up at the cemetery. Even the clouds—and every tree on the cemetery’s hill—they cover with white wallpaper. Finally they paper each other, and that’s that. “At last!” I hear one of them murmur from inside the paper, when I come home and find them standing like that in the living room.