Since I wasn’t tired, I put the notebook away and left the room to get a glass of water. The house was silent. My grandfather and my father had withdrawn early and were already asleep. My uncle was asleep, too. I had to go past the door of Juan’s room on the ground floor to get to the bathroom, and I remember how I tiptoed so I wouldn’t wake him. At night, Reyes is a beautiful house. Mercedes never went there, and for that reason, too, it was a sanctuary for me. At Reyes I was far away from her rage. She still hit me often, though I no longer lived with her. She would ask me to come up for dinner, and afterward she would let fly if I said something inappropriate—and I always said something she didn’t like. The beatings from Mercedes never made me cry, and if at some point my eyes watered, more from fury than from pain, I didn’t let anyone see. Only Juan.

Descending the steps without making any noise was easy because they were carpeted, but the hallways had wooden floors and they creaked. My father would say they should have been made from marble or tile, that it was crazy to use wood in that heat, but they were definitely prettier. I tugged at the hem of my nightgown, which wasn’t short, but I didn’t want to meet anyone at night, any man, who might look at my legs. They weren’t very long but they were nice, at least back then they were—my body changed a lot with the pregnancy. When they dried in the sun, on the shore of the river, they took on a very soft color, like varnish.

When I tiptoed up to Juan’s door, I found it open. That wasn’t strange: my uncle wouldn’t let him close it. I had a premonition, though, and I peeked in. He wasn’t in his bed. I figured he had gone to the bathroom and I waited. Ten minutes, fifteen minutes, until I got worried. What if he was feeling bad? I went to the bathroom to look for him. It was empty. Then I went out to the garden and called his name. The only response was from some nocturnal birds, which fell silent, and from the house dogs, who came running up to me. It was a lot of silence, which alarmed me, because the jungle roils with sound. When it is quiet, that means it’s on the alert. I petted Osman, the youngest dog, a black puppy who was very sweet and who had to be constantly told to heel or he went on the defensive.

I remember I didn’t want Juan’s disappearance to be my responsibility. I went back into the house, still barefoot, and knocked on the door of my uncle’s room. He got up very quickly, his shirt unbuttoned but already on over some loose pants.