I listen to the messages on the answering machine. Calls from the bank, due to activity on my credit card and some deposit from a literary agency. Another call from Lucía Morán, whom I think I neglected to tell I was going to be traveling. And another from a company that offers funeral services at home.

Afternoon.

I pick Pía up from school at noon. While I wait for the violin lesson to finish, her teacher—who months ago had asked me to come and tell a story or a fable to the class—tells me that she is very worried because she believes that for some time now she has been watched. The teacher, a lady in her fifties, is a redhead with a voluptuous shape, a bit extravagant and no doubt attractive for her age.

“There is something angelic about her,” says the father of another one of the girls in her class, and I have to agree. She is naturally sweet, although somewhat nervous, and she has the curious tic of covering her mouth with one hand when she speaks.

“Two guys sit in their parked car in front of my house almost every morning. When I look at them, they look away and do whatever, like play with their cell phones or look at a newspaper or a magazine. Now I have to change my route every day to come to school, to the extent that’s possible, of course,” she says, with her nervous laugh.

I tell her that I think she is doing the right thing (even if her followers are imaginary).

Thursday.

Very hot night, and dreamless.

I call Benedicto Tun in the morning. He tells me that he has gathered more material about his father. I agree to call him next Wednesday to arrange another interview.

I call the chief at the Archive Recovery Project. A woman answers his cell phone; she tells me that he is traveling and won’t be back until Saturday.

Lunch at Magalí’s house; her daughter Alani celebrates her seventeenth birthday. I tell María Marta and Alejandra, Magalí’s youngest daughter, about the call I got from the funeral company. María Marta says, as if to minimize any implied threat, that she got a call several days back with the same offer.

“Well,” I answer, “then I’m letting myself be carried away by my imagination. Perhaps it was not a threat.”

“Maybe,” says Alejandra. “Or maybe they want to threaten both of you, or the entire family. Me, on the other hand, not having the same last name, not even funeral homes call me, and no one bothers to threaten me. Very sad, my case,” she laughs.

Friday.

Yesterday, after returning to the apartment with Pía from the supermarket where we’d been to shop for the weekend, it occurred to me to call back the number of the supposed funeral home while she was amusing herself with the little dresses, books, and jigsaw puzzles that I brought her from Paris. There was no answer.