He would open the window to let out the moth dancing upon the pane, but he is trying to reconcile seemingly simplistic statements: the garden is opening and she cannot have children. This first statement is false for the garden is always open and this action, this state of existence, has neither a beginning nor ending. The second statement possesses more indescribable subtleties as to the specific workings and malfunctions of her body, and she will never answer his question; whether or not she simply will not have children. In either case, the soot- and ash-colored moth is still trying to work through the window. He cannot name the way this makes him feel, he simply lights the red oil in the lamp.