By chance, I find the photocopies of the article by Marta Elena Casaús, in which she talks about Fernando Juárez Muñoz, a contemporary of Miguel Ángel Asturias who, influenced by theosophy and by authors such as Madame Blavatski, Annie Besant, and Jiddu Krishnamurti, maintained that the Maya did not belong to an inferior race and forecast, back in 1922, that in order to form a true positive nation, it would be essential for the indigenous people to fully incorporate into the citizenry with the same rights and duties as any other Guatemalans, and that their cultural richness should be recognized. . . . Of course, Miguel Ángel & Co. did not agree. At that time, the future Nobel laureate wrote: Truth be told, the Indian shows signs of psychological degeneration; he is a fanatic, a drug addict, and cruel. Or: Let us do with the Indian as with other animal species, such as cattle, when they present symptoms of degeneration.

Holy Saturday, before dawn.

New quarrel with B+ after dinner last night. In reality—I believe—she is upset over my upcoming trip to France. She complains about my lack of empathy, my problem with “feelings I cannot handle.” It is clear, I think: what cannot be handled is usually problematic.

JL’s pilot calls to tell me that we will leave with a delay of three hours.

Ten in the morning.

We are leaving for Río Dulce in one hour. Magalí, who I spoke with a moment ago, warns me that Luisa is accompanying my mother. “It is the first time the poor thing will fly. If I were you, I’d have plastic bags handy in case she needs to throw up.” Clear skies.

La Buga, Río Dulce, afternoon.

I read in W. H. Auden (The Dyers Hand): “The unacknowledged legislators of the world: the secret police.”

I think again about the young female archivist who told me about the action radiograms a few hours before my “suspension.” When they asked me her name I said I did not know, which was true. I regret not memorizing it when we introduced ourselves. As much as I try, I am unable to remember.

From the east bank of the river, snippets of music drift over the deep, dark canyon of oleaginous water: evangelical songs, hymns bastardized with Mexican corridos and American spirituals.

I start reading Paseo eterno. It is, I think, the best book by Javier Mejía, but at the same time it is the worst. The best because he has removed the mask and he talks and writes just like he thinks; the worst because, as always, or perhaps here more than ever, he takes too much pleasure in his own version of himself. A crude criticism, perhaps, but I say it with an unexpected enthusiasm and with the certainty that if he stopped looking at himself with that odd and inexplicable self-complacency, he might become an interesting writer.

Time makes people change their minds—Voltaire.