A bit later, the phone rang and I answered. At first, I heard nothing. Then, there was a giggle like that of an old lady, which I can only describe as evil. The number, “unknown.” Suddenly, I felt an attack of nausea, and I ran to the bathroom. Pía, who came behind me, was scared to see me, arched as I was over the toilet bowl, vomiting.

“What’s wrong with you?” she asked, on the verge of tears.

I told her that maybe something I ate at lunch did not sit well with me.

I felt very weak. I lay down for a moment on the makeshift sofa in the living room. Then I got up to give Pía some cereal, and I had some yogurt. We got into bed and fell asleep immediately.

Today I woke up with a fever, with pain all over my body. I called Pía’s maternal grandmother (her mother is traveling). I explained that I am sick, that I will not be able to take Pía to school. The grandmother came to pick her up a bit later. At noon, B+ brings me fever reducers, pain killers, and several bottles of water.

I must find out whose number I called yesterday afternoon, although I suppose it could be a public telephone.

Saturday.

Reading Fouché. In the afternoon, already without discomfort and without a fever, I go to pick up Pía at her grandmother’s, then we go to visit my parents. At night, mild abdominal and back pain.

Incredible period, ominous and homicidal, when the Universe is transformed into a dangerous place.—Zweig.

I think about how to use “Barceló blocks” to build a refuge-labyrinth that could also serve as an allegory.

Sunday.

I wake up at six. Uneasy. Dissatisfied. I’m cured.

It’s a gray morning. The cries and calls of birds can be heard, as always, drifting up from the ravine below the window in my room.

Last night I brought a stack of newspapers from my parents’ home to go through the news for the days when I was away. Sad pastime. But, what other country could I live in now? I ask myself. I think of the bourgeois condemned at the time of Fouché to “the dry guillotine,” as they called exile in places like Guyana—or Guatemala? But the idea of emigrating yet again—to the United States? Europe? Mexico? Argentina? or even Africa?—does not seem reasonable to me, at least not yet. That is to say, I do not feel sufficiently threatened to flee. Meanwhile, I keep looking at the news.

I have the idea that, instead of throwing away the newspapers, I can use them to make “Barceló blocks” with Pía for construction projects. Who knows, maybe that way we’ll find a path, an exit, or at least a lasting distraction: building houses for the poor, or dollhouses, pyramids or walls, labyrinths of bulky, fluffy newspaper blocks.

Afternoon.