Many years have passed - "there is no other enigma than time," says Borges - and La Casa Colorada is in a state of abandonment. He decides to go in but not without first listening to some advice: those of the architect Muir himself and the troubled story of a cutler; but they are nothing more than stories
unfortunate. On the other hand, from the old carpenter he receives the plans of the furniture and a warning: do not go near the House of Preetorius.
Mosquito pudding shamelessly absent its main ingredient: the insect. The conjecture offers an imaginary perspective and a real one. In one, the mosquito has been dwarfed to the point of disappearing: Can a tiny insect intermixed with the rest of the ingredients become visible? Could it be a confusing memory, the drag on a forgotten Renaissance flavor?