Target in the Night. Ricardo Piglia
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“Tony Durán came with money,” Croce said. “That’s why they killed him. They got him excited about the country races and the horse from Luján.”
“They didn’t need to get him excited, he was already excited before he got here,” Madariaga said, laughing.
Some people say that a country race was set up especially for him and that he became obsessed about it. But it would be more accurate to say that the horse race, which they had been preparing for months, was moved up so Tony could be there. And that some saw in this the hand of fate.
Tony quickly realized that there were several kinds of very good horses in the province, basically falling into three categories: the polo ponies, very extraordinary, bred mostly in the area of Venado Tuerto; the purebred locals, from the stud farms near the coast; and the short-distance racers, which are very fast, with great pickup, flashing bursts, nervous, used to running in pairs. There are no other horses—or races—like these anywhere else in the world.
Durán began to learn the history of the races in the area.7 Right away he realized there was more money at play here than at the Kentucky Derby. The farmers and the ranchers bet big, the laborers gamble their entire salary. The country races are set up with much anticipation, and people round up their money for the occasion. Some horses accumulate a kind of prestige, everyone knows that they have won so many races in such and such places. Then a challenge is made.
The town’s horse was a dapple gray that belonged to Payo Ledesma, a very good horse, retired, like a boxer who hangs up his gloves without ever having lost. A rancher from Luján with an undefeated sorrel had been trying to challenge him for some time. It seems at first Ledesma didn’t want to accept, but that he finally rose to the challenge, as they say, and accepted the call. Which is when someone looked over and got Tony involved. The other horse, the one from Luján, was named Tácito, and he had quite a history. Tácito was a purebred that had been injured and now couldn’t run more than three hundred meters at a time. He had started out in the racetrack in La Plata and had won in the Polla de Potrillos, but then one rainy Saturday afternoon, in the fifth race at San Isidro, he’d had an accident. On one of the turns he broke his left leg and was left damaged. He was the son of one of Embrujo’s sons. They wanted to put him out to pasture and just breed him, but the horse’s jockey—and trainer—stepped in and took care of him. Until, slowly, the horse was able to run again, damaged and all. Apparently they convinced the rancher in Luján to buy him and he had won every country race in which he had raced since. That was the story everyone told about him. The horse was truly impressive, a sorrel with white feet, surly and mean. He had ears only for his jockey, who spoke to him as if he were a person.
The horse was brought to town in an open pickup. When they let him out in the field the folks who had gathered watched from a respectful distance. A horse of great height, with a blanket on its back and one leg bandaged, spirited, surly, darting its wide eyes from fright or anger, like a true purebred.
“Yah,” Madariaga said. “Ledesma’s dapple gray against the undefeated sorrel from Luján. Something happened there.”
3 Tony’s older brother had died in Vietnam. The sun reflected off of his glasses as he was crossing a stream in the forest near the Mecong Delta, making him visible to a Vietcong sniper who killed him with a single shot—fired from such a distance that it went unheard. He died in battle, but his death was so unexpected and so peaceful that we thought he had died of a heart attack, said the condolence letter signed by Colonel Roger White, the 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.
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 someone not 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.
“Long live the Inspector’s horse!” a drunk yelled.
“Don’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:
“Long live the police!”
Everyone laughed and the atmosphere eased up again. Croce and the Scribe very formally measured the distance of the track by counting the requisite number of steps. They also placed a linesman on either side, each holding a red towel to wave when everything was set.
During a break in the music, a car was heard driving up at full speed from behind the hill. Everyone saw Durán driving Old Man Belladona’s convertible coupe with both sisters beside him in the narrow front seat. Redheaded and beautiful, they looked as if they hadn’t gotten enough sleep. While Durán parked the car and helped the young ladies out, the Inspector stopped, turned around to look at them, and said something softly to Saldías. The Scribe shook his head. It was strange to see the sisters together except in extraordinary situations. And it was extraordinary to see them there at all because they were the only women at the race (except for the country