I leaf through, among Miquel’s books, The People’s Act of Love by James Meek. I find the description of a character that, I think, would fit JL—that is, JL as a type is clearly recognizable: He was an architect and builder, one of those charmed individuals whose practical usefulness transcends any amount of snobbery, corruption, and stupidity in the powers on whose patronage they depend.

Since October of last year, when I was visiting here, Miquel has acquired several dozen books. This growth rate is normal for his vast library. Almost all the new books seem to have been used, possibly read.

Tomorrow I’m going to Poitiers to deliver the lecture I prepared on Good Friday in Amatitlán: “Landscape and Biography.”

Monday at noon in Paris.

Last night I dreamed of Pía. She called me on the phone (in the dream, I was in the chalet in Amatitlán where I spent a few days with B+). Pía makes me talk with her maternal grandfather, Don Carlos, a fighter-plane and crop-duster pilot. Jovial conversation. He tells me that he is going to pick me up and, with the speed of dreams, suddenly he is there, in the garden of the chalet, standing next to his sports car (which he actually does not have). He drives me at high speed back to the capital. He drives recklessly, I ride scared. (In my dream I think: he is a fighter pilot, he masters the car.) We stop near a village that could be Villa Canales, where a fair is taking place. There are rides and water games with Maya themes. Great fun. We engage—or rather, I engage, because at a certain moment Don Carlos disappears from the dream—in hand-to-hand combat and war maneuvers, with a background of inflatable plastic pyramids. Childish euphoria.

Last night I had dinner with Claude Thomas, who translated Paul and Jane Bowles into French, near her home in Montmartre. I tell her about the Archive, about the diary I am keeping. She listens with interest. What I tell her has the elements of a thriller, she tells me. Later she asks me if I miss Paul. I assure her that I do. In a simplified version I tell her about my recurring dream about Paul: I go back to Tangier and I find him alive, although very old and sick, in his old apartment in the Itesa building. The apartment is empty, without a single book. I ask him if he does not need his books (which I sold a few years back to Miquel), and Paul says that yes, he would like to have them back. I promise him that I will give them back to him, and then I awake, anguished.

“You must feel guilty,” Claude tells me.

I ask her why I should feel guilty. She does not answer, and we start talking about something else.

Wednesday in Poitiers. Early morning. Insomnia.