A rush of memories from the conversation, more or less alcohol-soaked, with Homero Jaramillo, who came from Montreal for the colloquium on Central American literature. I tell him what I’ve been doing at the Archive, and I tell him about my fear that among those who work there, there might be some who were involved in the kidnapping of my mother. (He was the “political liaison” in Mexico for a Salvadoran guerrilla movement, and there he established links with Guatemalan guerrillas. It was he who, about ten years ago, introduced me to the person who claimed that my mother had been kidnapped by an urban guerrilla commando.) Homero mentions the possibility of earning a scholarship at the University of Toronto. I tell him that perhaps I would be interested. He nods, saying nothing more about it.

Thursday, chez Miquel.

Homero, who was invited to dinner last night at Miquel’s, does not show up. I call him on the phone. He apologizes. He is a bit drunk and very tired, he tells me. He is staying for dinner at the house of Colombian friends who are hosting him, who have lived in Paris for some time. With Miquel, I talk again about the Archive. He tells me that he also assumed, when he heard that I was doing “research” there, that one of my motives would be to find out something about the kidnapping of my mother. I tell him that is not the case, but that of course I would like to learn as much as possible about that.

“Sure,” he says, “but you should clarify for the ‘chief’ that you will not use what you find for legal or judicial purposes—right?”

I tell him that I don’t know if they would believe me.

“Yes,” he answers. “You’re right, they’re not going to believe you.”

Phone call from Lucca, the small town in Tuscany where my sister Mónica settled a few months ago with her four children. She invites me to go visit them. A little later, a call from my mother in Guatemala: she insists that I go to Italy, and she offers to pay for my plane ticket to prevent me from using my wallet as a pretext not to go.

I am pleased to think that Mónica and her children are far away from Guatemala. Safe, I think. I cannot stop imagining that perhaps in the not-too-distant future I will go into exile again. And of course I worry how something like that could affect Pía’s future.

Friday. Five in the morning. Sleepless.