When at last they allowed him in he saw that they had begun work on the Moneda. They had rebuilt the bombed portions of the walls. They put new mortar over the scorched parts and they refilled the bullet holes. But the rubble remained piled up inside. He suspected they took it out at night. It was another country, more placid. Compared to the way it had been it was now a cemetery. But that metaphor had been overused. After dark, a liquid silence filled the streets. The military curfew was enforced; night prowlers were shot, it was said. The iron gates of the Hotel Crillon clanged shut at eight o'clock. He had made it back just in time.