A moment ago, I was looking for the manila envelope with the photocopies of the “elimination list” created by members of the army, which I obtained a few weeks ago from Luis Galíndez. As sometimes happens with a book or a document that I want to revisit or reread, that envelope is hidden, for now, in the usual mess of my papers. Instead, I find a binder, like the ones I used in school. It contains letters written by my maternal grandfather to his wife and children a few hours before his suicide. An airmail envelope has the following written on it: For Doña Emigdia Monroy, Widow of García Salas. In it there is a goodbye letter written by Don Jorge shortly before shooting himself in the chest. The letter ends: Forgive me thus, and taking everything philosophically, looking for the best side of everything, I wish you all happiness. This is the last and most burning desire from someone who loved you with all his heart.

There is also a forensic letter, explaining that the death of Mr. García Salas “was produced by a gun shot from a revolver, whose projectile entered the thorax on the left, perforating the skin, cellular tissue, muscles, the lung, and the heart.”

I give up my search for the lost envelope and continue to read documents from my grandfather, who wrote scientific articles on agriculture and agronomy—among them, several defenses of small farms (in opposition to the large plantations that dominated Guatemala)—during the 1910s, 1920s, and 1930s for several local newspapers, and the story of an expedition to the Petén jungle—which he led himself—to combat a plague of locusts, and which resulted in a confrontation with the authorities in Chiapas, Mexico, where the plague was successfully diverted from Petén by my grandfather.

My thoughts go back to the ghostly dream I had last night. Few dreams have left such a strong impression on me in the last few years; this is perhaps due to what I could call the careful cinematic realism of the production.

Friday.