I think of Lemus: pathetic, somber. This was, then, the Minotaur that awaited me at the center of the labyrinth in the Archive. From such a labyrinth, such a Minotaur. He is probably as scared of me as I am of him. If I attacked him, I wonder, would he defend himself?

Almost midnight. Two calls, one immediately after the other. At the other end of the line, silence, maybe the sound of rain, but it is not raining tonight in Guatemala City.

Tuesday.

Until today I had not seriously thought about stopping the writing of this journal, but it is as if the germ of the end has already contaminated the organism.

I got an email from Guillermo Escalón, who has just returned from Paris. I call him on the phone and we agree to have dinner tomorrow.

Long-distance call from Homero Jaramillo. He needs to check some information—the phone number and the exact address of my apartment (where he lived for most of 2003). He is filling out forms to request an extension of his asylum in Canada, he explains. Jovial tone, as almost always. When I hang up, I have a sinking feeling.

The most precious thing in life is uncertainty—Kenko.

Thursday.

Last night I had dinner with Guillermo, after accompanying my father and Magalí to hospitalize my mother. They have inserted a catheter to drain the urine and prevent her defective kidney from collapsing. Long talk with Guillermo about the project at the Archive. Uli has invited Guillermo to work with him on the documentary that he is making. Guillermo has not given a final answer. I told him that the idea of a documentary in the making makes me want to stop writing about the Archive, that the cameras will do a better job than me.

Friday.

Call from Uli. He leaves for Germany on Sunday. He wants to let me watch a documentary filmed by the Human Rights Ombudsman on the discovery of the Archive. We will not be able to see each other before his departure, but he will leave a copy for me at the house of a friend of his.

Monday, nighttime. Hotel Caimán.

On the Pacific coast with Pía, who is on vacation.

I was trying to sort these notes, this collection of notebooks, when she, who had been insisting for several minutes that I tell her a story, asked me what I was doing. I told her that I was trying to put together a story.

“For children?” she asks me.

I say no.

“For grown-ups?”

I tell her that I do not know, that maybe it’s just for me.

“You know how it could end?” she tells me.

I shake my head.

“With me crying, because I can’t find my dad anywhere.” I laugh, surprised. Where did that come from? I ask myself. I listen for a while to the endless rumble of the great ocean waves.

Author’s Note