They told her so many things. Like about how he’d been in the mental hospital for assaulting the woman at the bird sanctuary. Like about his mental retardation and his birth defect. Also that he went through periods of alcoholism and that he’d been arrested several times for various violent episodes. He’d damaged public property and intimidated passersby, some of them minors. Violent episode is just as confusing a phrase as obscene act or public property, though in this case no one explained it to her, and Soon remained in the dark. Self-harm: several instances. Suicide attempts: two. The first one she already knew about, at the mental hospital: he managed to steal rat poison and swallowed all he could. Now she thinks of that friend of his who’d hung himself and left his clothes to Old Man, and wonders: was it common to kill yourself in the mental hospital? Maybe Old Man had tried that method—hanging—in his second attempt, the details of which are not recorded. Soon has secretly read the report the lawyer gave her parents. It detailed these precedents in order to provide a basis for the case, but it was written in such a rigid and euphemistic way that Soon could barely interpret it. At first her parents were all in, which is why they hired such a meticulous lawyer. They wanted to bring Old Man to trial and put him behind bars for as long as possible. A man like that is a danger to the public, they said. They must have thought better of it later. Because of the diary and what it implied, because if it couldn’t be used as proof … what could it be used for, then?

The diary complicates things, dirties them. It’s better to ignore it, forget about it. No one talks about the diary now. It doesn’t even occur to her to write another one—what for? Recording the life she leads would be very boring, and imag-ination—at least for now—is forbidden her.

Still, as she looks at Old Man—as she observes his protruding cheekbones and his yellow skin, his elegant but dirty two-piece suit—the diary is present again, there between them. Why did she write all of that? The prickle of guilt is insistent. She has no choice but to face it, and confess.

They read my diary, she finally explains. Old Man looks at her, without comprehending at first. Then he says: oh, that. In the diary, Soon talked about Old Man, she talked about the hideout in the park, about the park workers, the rainy days and the cold days, and how those days were becoming a problem. She talked about the snacks they ate, with very slight variations, of course—champagne, cocaine, and sausages—and about some other minor matters—presents, towels, fabrications: this part she’s not going to tell him, it’s too brutal.

It’s possible that they read the diary because they already suspected something was off, at least since the appearance of that policeman who’d presented them with the summons from the education inspectorate—or was it from social services? They suspected, yes, her mother must have called her teacher in the end and found out about Soon missing school. But what they couldn’t even imagine was what that diary held, which was truth and lies, but basically a form of truth. Their surprise must have been great, even greater than their fear, because they’d taken their time before acting and they’d gotten advice, Soon has no doubt about that. If they asked her about it too soon, her parents were told, they ran the risk of scaring her, and the crime—because they were already thinking in terms of a crime—would go unpunished. The diary didn’t contain enough information to identify the criminal, and what it did say was confusing and even contradictory. It was better to catch them red-handed. Or almost red-handed: about to get blood on their hands.