The weaknesses brought to light please only malice, unless they instruct by the misfortunes that have followed them or because of the virtues that have repaired them.

What can we think of these errors and many others? Will we just content ourselves with moaning about human nature? There were cases when it was necessary to avenge it.

Not everyone is allowed to commit the same misdeeds.

First Sketchbook: Green Cover with Indian Motifs

First Sketchbook: Green Cover with Indian Motifs

Monday, December 18. Midday break at the Archives.

Smell of pork rinds. In a room with windows that overlook a hallway, where I look at identification cards, I overhear an archivist, sensing the smell, telling a colleague:

“It smells of roasted pig, did they kill your husband?” Although some of the girls seem very attractive to me, for the moment I would not be willing to leave my circles, so to speak, for one of them. I think that the opposite is true for L.A. and her ex-partner (or was he a gold digger?).

A little bored, a little frightened. Upset (although also much amused) by some passages in Borges by Bioy that I read during the breaks. On the other hand, resentment toward B+, who has proposed another break. I still miss her. However, when I think about her, I say to myself: “Better that way.”

Tuesday at noon.

They just took me out of the old hospital room, a cool room, although a little damp, where I was working. They have hired a handful of additional archivists to accelerate the cataloging process, and they are now moving work tables around to settle them in. They move me to one of the new wards, with a low roof of sheet metal, where it is very hot. If I did not come here on my own initiative, I would consider complaining. I have the impression that it’s some kind of punishment. There’s no one else in this ward, I suppose because of the heat. Wearing the required latex gloves, my hands sweat profusely. The “canine unit,” which houses about fifty dogs of different breeds, is directly next to me, and the constant and sometimes furious barking is not conducive to concentration. Beyond the kennels, in a vacant lot, there are piles of car wrecks. During one of the breaks (while archivists and police officers play a friendly game of football), I examine the remains of cars that have accumulated over half a century. A Renault split in half catches my eye, as does the fuselage of a Cessna plane, which I suppose crashed somewhere within the city limits. The wind kicks up a small swirl of cream-colored dust.

A burglar alarm goes off somewhere.

Wednesday.