Free Operation Massacre by Rodolfo Walsh, translation by Daniella Gitlin, foreword by Michael Greenberg, afterwood by Ricardo Piglia Page B

when it was obvious.
    The two friends chat for a moment. Livraga had lent him a suitcase a few days back to carry equipment for the soccer club where they both play.
    â€”When are you coming by to get it? —Rodríguez asks him.
    â€”Let’s go now, if you want.
    â€”While we’re at it, we can listen to the fight.
    A lot of people are talking about this fight. At eleven o’clock the champion, Lausse, who just finished a triumphant run in the United States, will fight the Chilean Loayza for the middleweight South American title.
    Livraga is a boxing enthusiast and has no trouble accepting the offer. They head to Rodríguez’s house. We don’t know what excuse Rodríguez is thinking of giving his wife, and it doesn’t matter anyway, because he won’t have the chance. Fifty meters away from his house, he stops in front of the building with the light blue gates, sees there is a light on in the back apartment, and says:
    â€”Wait for me a minute.
    He goes in, but comes back right away.
    â€”We can listen to the fight here. They have the radio on. —And he clarifies:— They’re friends of mine.
    Livraga shrugs his shoulders. It makes no difference to him.
    They enter the long corridor.

 
    13. The Unknowns
    Is there anyone else in the back apartment? Carranza, Garibotti, Díaz, Lizaso, Gavino, Torres, Brión, Rodríguez, and Livraga are all there for sure. “Marcelo” has been by three times and won’t be back. Some friends of Gavino came by but have also left early. We know at the very least of one neighbor, an acquaintance of Brión’s who has come to hear the fight like he has; at the last minute, though, he feels sick, leaves, and saves himself.
    The parade does not end there. Around a quarter to eleven, two strangers show up who—if what was about to happen were not so tragic—make the scene ripe for a comedy. Torres thinks they are Gavino’s friends. Gavino thinks they are Torres’s friends. Only later will they learn that these men are cops. They stay a few minutes, moving between groups, investigating the situation. When they leave, they will report that there are no weapons on site and that the coast is clear.
    It’s a necessary precaution because the site is configured in such a way that, from the metallic door that grants access to the apartment, a man armed with a simple revolver could control the entire corridor. He could make it difficult for several whole minutes for any potential enemy to enter. With a machine gun, the position could be held for hours.
    Yet when the police—who at that same moment are inspecting a bus at the Saavedra Bridge stop—arrive, no one will show even the slightest resistance. Not a single shot will be fired.
    But is there anybody else, aside from those already mentioned? It will be hard to find a witness who remembers everyone; those who would be able to are either missing or dead. We can only guide ourselves with clues. Torres, for instance, will say that there were two more men. He knew that one of the men was an Army NCO. As for the second man, he didn’t even know that much.
    Other indirect testimonies also mention the NCO. And they specify: sergeant. The descriptions are confusing and divergent. It seems he got there at the last minute . . . No one knows who brought him . . . Hardly anyone there knew him . . . Someone, though, will see him again, or will believe he sees him, hours later, at the moment when he gets hit with a bullet and collapses.
    And the second man? We don’t even know if he existed. Or what his name was, or who he was. Or if he is alive or dead.
    With respect to these two men, our search came to a dead end.
    It’s a few minutes to eleven. The radio is broadcasting the undercards of the boxing match. The group playing cards falls silent when the commentator announces the presence of Lausse the champion and