I go for the tape player in the car, which I left in a public parking lot, and return to Tun’s office to give it to him.

Afternoon.

I read Prensa Libre until it’s time to pick up Pía to sleep over at my apartment: yesterday the president of the republic accepted the resignations of the minister of the Interior and the director of the National Police, following the scandal related to the Salvadoran congressmen. Adela de Torrebiarte, the newly appointed minister, belonged to the Anguished Mothers and, later, the President’s Security Advisory Council, and was also friends with my parents.

I call JL to talk about the trip I want to make to Río Dulce with Pía and my mother, in a small plane belonging to their construction company. In passing, I make some comments about what Benedicto told me regarding the death of Méndez Montenegro, who was JL’s relative. Then—and this surprises me a bit—JL tells me that he has a long-distance phone call and needs to hang up, but that he will call me later. He does not call back.

Nighttime.

Pía is asleep. I speak again with JL. I allude to our conversation from this afternoon. He tells me he does not want to talk about “that” over the phone—causing me to see that I have not been very discreet. I believe he is overreacting, but I say nothing about it, and we change the topic of our conversation.

Wednesday morning.

Chaotic violin concerto by Pía and her school friends. I had agreed to go to the Archive after the show. I call the chief to confirm my visit, the first since the “suspension.” He tells me a new difficulty has arisen and that he will have to be present to ensure that I will be allowed into the Archive. He will call me—he says—a bit later on my cell.

Afternoon.

No news from the chief. I call him. He answers. He apologizes for the cancellation and explains that more problems have come up. He does not want me to return to the Archive without us speaking first—in person, he insists, not over the phone. He gives me an appointment for tomorrow at five in the afternoon at the usual café, next to the Taco Bell on Avenida de las Américas.

Early in the evening, I visit my parents—I bring some therapeutic icepacks for my mother, who has a sore knee. I keep them company while they have supper (they eat very early, around seven). I describe my interview with Tun in broad strokes.

“You’re playing with fire,” my father says.

I respond that I do not think it is that big of a deal, that a lot of time has elapsed (since the Castillo Armas case, for example).

My mother remains silent. It’s an indulgent silence.

Thursday, early evening.