We don’t know if he even gets a chance to read the books, but what will remain of Rodríguez’s passing through this cannibalistic time that we are living in—aside from the misery in which he leaves his wife and children—is an opaque photograph with a blurred stamp on it that simply says “Library.”
Rodríguez has left his house—4545 Yrigoyen Street—around nine o’clock. And he has set out on the wrong foot. To his wife, he says:
—I’m going to work.
Is it an innocent lie to cover up one more outing? Is he hiding something more serious, namely his plan to take part in the movement? Or is he really going to work? It’s true that more than an hour has passed since he left the house, but the street that he’s walking along leads to the station. From there he can get on the train that takes him to the port in twenty-five minutes where he might ask for an extra shift at work.
It’s hard to tell. In this case, just as in others. On the one hand, Rodríguez is in the opposition, a Peronist. On the other, he is an open, talkative man who finds it very difficult to keep quiet about something important. And he hasn’t said anything to his wife, whom he has been married to for thirteen years. Not even insinuated it. He has simply told her: “I’m going to work,” and has said goodbye in the usual way, without any trace of impatience or anxiety.
Then again, it’s worth considering his behavior later on. He is completely passive when they take him to be killed in the assault car. A survivor who knew him well will later observe:
—If the Big Guy had wanted to, he could’ve messed those thugs up in a heartbeat . . .
It could be that he never thought they were going to kill him, not even at the last minute, 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.
—When are you coming by to get it? —Rodríguez asks him.
—Let’s go now, if you want.
—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:
—Wait for me a minute.
He goes in, but comes back right away.
—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.