Target in the Night by Ricardo Piglia Read Free Book Online

ranting author in charge of writing these letters on behalf of the Military Assistance Command in Vietnam. The troops referred to Colonel White as the fucking poet . After the shot, the squad fell back into the rice fields, fearing an ambush. Tony’s brother was carried away by the current. They found him a week later, devoured by dogs and scavenger birds. Colonel White didn’t say anything about these circumstances in his condolence letter. As grace for his brother’s death, Tony wasn’t called up into the army. They didn’t want two dead brothers in the same family, even in a Puerto Rican family. His brother’s remains came back in a sealed, lead coffin. His mother was never certain that the body—buried in the military cemetery in Jersey City—was really her son’s.
    4     The son of an officer of the Imperial Army who died hours before the signing of the Armistice, Dazai was born in Buenos Aires in 1946. Raised by his mother and his aunts, as a child he understood only feminine Japanese ( onnarashii ).
    5     Sambos, mestizos of mixed Indian and black blood, were considered the lowest rung on the social ladder of the River Plate region.
    6     “Tax evasion is due, primarily, to the activities of so-called carriers , known as such because they carry cash in briefcases. They offer better prices to suppliers, to the owners of the winter pastures, and to agricultural producers in general. They trade under the table and make out receipts to inexistent firms” ( La Prensa , February 10, 1972).
    7     The best-known short-distance racer in the history of Argentina was Pangaré azul , property of Colonel Benito Machado. This horse won every race in which it ever participated. It died hanged in its stall due to some trainer’s carelessness.

3
    It was a cool Sunday afternoon. Men from the farms and estancias from throughout the district lined up against the fence that separated the track from the surrounding houses. A couple of boards were placed over a pair of sawhorses to set up a stand to sell empanadas, gin, and a coastal wine so strong it went to your head just by looking at it. The fire for the grill was already lit, there were racks of ribs nailed on a cross, and entrails stretched out on a tarp laid out on the grass. Everyone was gearing up as if for a big fiesta; there was a nervous, electrified murmuring through the crowd, typical of a long-awaited race. There were no women in sight, only males of all ages, boys and old men, young men and grown men, wearing their Sunday best. Laborers with embroidered shirts and vests; ranchers with suede jackets and scarves around their necks; young men from town with jeans and sweaters tied at their waists. Large numbers of people milling about. The betting started right away, the men holding bills in their hands, folded between their fingers, or behind the headbands of their hats.
    A lot of men from out of town came to watch the race, too, and they were all gathered toward the end of the track, at the finish line, near the bluff. You could tell they weren’t from the area by how they moved, cautiously, with the uncertain step of someonenot on home turf. The loudspeakers from the town’s advertisement company— Ads, auctions, and sales. The voice of the people —played music first, then asked for a round of applause for the judge of that afternoon’s race: Inspector Croce.
    The Inspector arrived wearing a suit and a tie and a thin-brimmed hat. He was with Saldías the Scribe, who followed him around like a shadow. Some scattered applause sounded.
    â€œLong live the Inspector’s horse!” a drunk yelled.
    â€œDon’t get smart with me, Cholo, or I’ll throw you in jail for contempt,” the Inspector said. The drunk threw his hat in the air and shouted:
    â€œLong live the police!”
    Everyone laughed and the atmosphere eased up again. Croce and the Scribe