It had a perfect view of Casa Guatemala and another small structure on the same piece of property. There were two large windows on the side of the Casa. Not only had the gunman been able to watch the front of the building and the street, but he could see what was going on inside. He must have had a high-powered rifle. Had I actually been crazy enough to run after a man with a gun? I stood catching my breath and contemplating the view when something glinted in the last fiery outburst before the sun sank into the Pacific. I bent down. It was the lens cap of a Leica camera.

By the time I had dusted myself off, reapplied my lipstick and wiped a scuff mark off my spectator pumps, the party was in full swing at Casa Guatemala. About fifteen people, including the woman who had invited me, were mingling and smoking. Voices rose and fell. The woman was standing near the door greeting people as they came in. The room was a storefront with a lot of mismatched folding chairs, posters on the walls and a table with literature spread out on it and a punchbowl. A television monitor had been placed in front of the rows of chairs.

“Glad you could come.” The woman who had been passing out leaflets at the demonstration took my hand, shaking it a few times. Her skin was warm and soft. I felt her strength and confidence. She could be a courageous friend or a dangerous enemy.

Lupe was on the opposite side of the room talking to a guy with red hair. I had seen him carrying a sign at the demonstration that morning. They had their heads bent together and she was saying something that made him laugh. I felt a stab in my belly like indigestion. She looked up at that moment and glanced at me briefly as though she didn’t know me before resuming her conversation. He laughed again as she spoke.

“I’m Emma Garcia,” the woman said, letting go of my hand. “We have a very good video tonight on the living conditions and organizing efforts in and around Zacapa. We’re very lucky to have this video. It was just shot in the last month and has been brought into this country to familiarize people with what the true situation is in our country.”

“I’m interested in knowing the truth,” I said, trying to read more in her Indian face, but I couldn’t.

“We are lucky to have so much support from our friends because we take a great risk in bringing these videos. I welcome you as our friend.”

“I first heard about your organization through a friend of mine.”

She brushed her heavy hair away from her face with a hand bare of jewelry.

“Good.” She smiled evasively, I thought, and she looked around the room.

“A Guatemalan woman named Carmen Luzano.”