Operation Massacre(9)

                                                  11    In mid-1958, Gavino wrote to me from Bolivia to express his dissatisfaction with the brief portrait of him here, which I sketched based on the testimony of other witnesses. He also denies responsibility for the death of Lizaso, but I never suggested that the responsibility was his to bear. It seems clear that Lizaso knew something about Valle’s uprising, and went there that night of his own accord.





9. Explanations in an Embassy


            This brings us to the character that plays a large part in the tragedy—Torres, the tenant who lives in the apartment in back.

            Juan Carlos Torres lives two or three different lives.

            To the owner of the building, for example, he is an ordinary tenant who pays his rent on time and doesn’t cause any problems, though sometimes he does disappear for a few days and, when he comes back, doesn’t say where he’s been. To his neighbors, Torres is an easygoing, fairly popular guy who likes to have people over for barbecues and gatherings where nobody talks about politics. To the police, in the period after the uprising, he is a dangerous, elusive, vainly and tirelessly sought-after individual . . .

            I found him, finally, many months later, taking asylum in a Latin American embassy, pacing from one side to the other of his forced enclosure, smoking and gazing through a large window at the city, so near and so inaccessible. I went back to see him several times. Tall and thin, with a large head of black hair, a hooked nose, and dark, penetrating eyes, he gave me the impression, despite being holed up in there, of a resolute, laconic, and extremely cautious man.

            —I don’t have any reason to lie to you —he said.— Whatever damning thing you manage to get out of me I’ll say is false, that I don’t even know who you are. That’s why I don’t care if you publish my real name or not.

            He smiled without animosity. I told him I understood the rules of the game.

            —There was no reason to shoot those men, —he then went on.— Me, okay, I’ll give you that, since I was “there” and they found some papers in my house. Nothing more than papers, though, no weapons like they later said. But I escaped. And Gavino also escaped . . .

            He paused. Maybe he was thinking about those who hadn’t escaped. About those who had nothing to do with it. I asked him if there had been talk of revolution.

            —Not even remotely —he said.— For those who were really involved, namely Gavino and me, all we had to do was give each other one look to communicate. But neither he nor I knew if we were even going to act, or where. We were waiting for a sign that never came. I found out what was going on when Gavino asked me for the key to the apartment because the police were after him. We were friends, so I gave it to him. It’s possible that someone else who was in on it had come by wanting to know more.

            His tone turned somber.

            —The tragedy was that other guys from the neighborhood also showed up, guys who saw people gathering at the house and came in to hear the fight or play cards like they always did. People were always coming into my house, even if they didn’t know me. Two undercover cops were there that night and no one even noticed. That guy Livraga, the one the papers are talking about—the truth is that I didn’t know him, don’t even remember having seen him. The first time I saw him was in a photograph.

            A heavy question hovered between us. Juan Carlos Torres went ahead and answered it.

            —We didn’t tell them anything —he said sorrowfully— because the reality was that, up until that point, nothing had happened. As long as we didn’t get any concrete news, it was still a night like any other. I couldn’t warn them or tell them to leave because that would’ve raised suspicions, and I tend not to talk more than necessary.