I read Voltaire’s Memoirs, which I had barely thumbed through in Paris. In the first few pages, he writes about how King Frederick William of Prussia wanted (but was not able) to have his son and heir, Frederick, beheaded for wanting to leave the kingdom to travel the world. It seems—says Voltaire by way of conclusion—that neither divine laws nor human laws clearly express that a young man should be beheaded for having had the desire to travel.

Quarter past ten.

I call Benedicto Tun. We make an appointment for tomorrow at ten in his office. He has, he says, two important rulings that his father made, and he wants to show them to me. I tell him that, during my previous visit, I saw that next to his office was the office of Arturo Rodríguez, a leftist military official who led an attempted coup against another military man, General Miguel Ydígoras Fuentes, under whose government the first great repressive wave of the sixties began. I ask him if his father and Rodríguez were friends. He says no, but that he is friendly with Rodríguez and that, if I want, he can introduce me later. He carefully takes a picture out of a drawer to show me: it’s from the christening of Miguel Ángel Asturias, eldest son of Rodrigo, future head of the Organization of the People in Arms (ORPA) and the Guatemalan Revolutionary Union (URNG). He was baptized by Monsignor Rossell y Arellano, who, a few years later, would be archbishop of Guatemala. The godfather is none other than Ydígoras Fuentes. I ask him where he got it. He says he found it among the papers from his father.

I call the chief; he is in a meeting, he tells me, and he will call me later.

Thursday.

Last night, heavy drinking.

In the afternoon, another argument over the phone with B+. I called JL. We went to an Italian restaurant for dinner, and then to El Establo bar. Afterwards, I went alone to a brothel. I touched the breasts, very large but firm, natural, of a “sex worker,” fat and funny, who had, in several places—face, shoulder, left breast—large moles like beans. I came home very late.

Midmorning, I call Tun to postpone our appointment until Monday. Embarrassment.

Friday.

No news from the chief. Reconciliation with B+, after three long phone conversations.

Reading Voltaire’s Memoir.

Saturday.

Dinner with B+. I tell her about my idea of becoming a policeman.

She laughs at me. I insist that I’m serious.

“But you live outside the law,” she tells me.

“That’s why. I know the environment well,” I answer.

“And you’re going to walk around with a badge and uniform?”

“I would be a secret agent, what’s wrong with you?”