Long and anguished dream about a police pursuit. I’m the one being pursued. The hunt is directed by a character whom I guess my subconscious created, inspired by the elder Tun. I do not know why they look for me. They have given me a reprieve, a window of time to leave the country, and that window is about to close. I consult with several people—my father, Gonzalo Marroquín, and a lawyer of dubious reputation. They all advise me to leave. I think of Pía. I do not want to be away from her, I say. “But,” Gonzalo replies, “you don’t want her to have to visit you in jail.” He mentions several people we both know who have gone to jail in recent days. They have been captured under Tun’s orders, he explains, and despite being influential people it seems that it will not be easy for them to regain their freedom. I think about hiding, but I have little time to find the ideal hiding place. Suddenly, I am running upstairs in a circular house with a conical roof that looks a lot like the Petexbatún house—magnificent woodwork, very high thatched roof—except that this one has several floors and rooms and is very tangled. Some policemen look for me on the lower floor. I am already hidden near the thatched apex. The policemen give up and go back out. I don’t dare to move, although I’m in an impossible position, and my back and neck hurt. After a silence that seems very long, I hear people outside. I recognize my mother’s voice. She is speaking with other women. I come down from my hiding place with difficulty. I get out of the house. The women, I realize, are a group of Anguished Mothers. They tell me that I have to leave the place, that they will still look for me. I cannot remain in the country. The dream, which I remember fuzzily after that moment, continues, winding through roads that cross mountains, gorges, and ravines. I realize that I’m going to Belize, and I think about how much time will pass before I see Pía again.

Tuesday, May 1.

I finish reading Fouché by Zweig.

The idea of offering my “services” to the new minister of the Interior crosses my mind unexpectedly.

Wednesday.

Dreamless night.

Yesterday, excursion to El Tular with Pía. We made more “Barceló blocks.” I told Pía that we are going to make a doll-house with these blocks. “A house I’ll fit into?” she asked me. I assured her that she will. In the afternoon we went horseback riding through the old forest and we swam in the pool.

I did not see B+ yesterday; another small argument. She sent me a text message around six o’clock in the morning to complain about what she calls “my horrible pride.”

Intense lower back pain.