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friend Chino’s cousin, who was “left behind,” as they used to say, having experienced so much fear at seeing himself as he was that soon thereafter he became an acolyte in a Christian sect.
    To my surprise, Don Chente didn’t use any newfangled wizardry on me, on the contrary, I had learned the same relaxation technique we now began to practice a dozen years earlier, the technique of focusing all your attention on your toes, then on the soles of your feet, then on your ankles, and likewise along every part of your body, going from your feet to your head and making each part relax through the strength of the mental energy focused on it, which is then experienced as a diaphanous feeling of levity in those relaxed parts. I had done this exercise once or twice alone before falling asleep without attributing much meaning to it, but now Don Chente’s voice was guiding me with precision and in a tone I hadn’t heard him use before—imperative, profound—a voice that not only indicated which part of my body I should focus on but also wove in sentences that encouraged me to apply more mental energy, so that by the time we reached my head I felt very light, almost as if I were levitating, to tell the truth, and I barely understood Don Chente’s whispers because I began to doze off and soon lost consciousness, though deep down, very deep down, there was a constant, indecipherable whispering, like a tiny blinking light in a dark, empty room.
    “Wake up!” I heard Don Chente say in a commanding voice. I opened my eyes and saw the same ceiling and then the serene face of the old man behind his tortoiseshell glasses. “Is it over?” I asked as I gained consciousness of where I was and the treatment I had undergone, surprised that the session had been so short, without a single memory of Don Chente asking me anything or of having spoken a word. “That was short, wasn’t it? How long was I asleep?” I asked as I got up to put on my loafers. Don Chente looked at his wristwatch and said impassively in his gentle, almost shy, voice: “Just about two hours.” Perhaps my bewilderment was greater because I had just emerged from a deep sleep, but when I looked at the time and saw that, indeed, I had been lying there for as long as Don Chente said, though I had no consciousness of anything that had taken place, if, that is, anything had taken place other than a deep sleep, which is what I immediately asked, now truly in the grips of anxiety; Don Chente answered that we had talked a lot, but that I shouldn’t worry if I didn’t remember anything now, that was normal, later I would remember what we had talked about—that was the process.
    As I was still unable to grasp the notion that we had talked for a long time without a trace of the conversation remaining in my memory, the moment I entered his office again I told Don Chente that I had learned that same physical relaxation technique many years before in San Salvador when I attended several meetings of a so-called Gnostic organization, at its headquarters at 27 Calle Poniente, in Colonia Layco, to be precise. I told Don Chente this to find out if he had known those people who considered themselves esoteric, or if at least he had heard or read something about them. “It’s a very old and universal technique,” he said and then got quiet before starting to write in his notebook, undoubtedly noting down everything I had revealed to him and didn’t remember, which to be honest made me very uncomfortable and tense; I had the urge to grab his notebook and dash out of there, something I’d obviously never have dared to do. I asked if I had told him anything important, but Don Chente merely lifted his hand, as if requesting that I wait a moment, and he continued writing with his elegant fountain pen at a steady rhythm as my anxiety continued to increase, because nobody likes somebody else knowing more about one than one knows about oneself, which was exactly what was happening,