Target in the Night by Ricardo Piglia Page B

producing small, perfect machines (Yashica cameras, Hitachi recorders, and Yamaha MiniMotos filled the cover of the magazine that the Embassy had sent him and which he showed to his guests). He always listened to X8 Radio Sarandí, the Uruguayan station that played Carlos Gardel tangos around the clock. Like all Japanese, Yoshio loved the tango; guests would sometimes hear him singing “Amores de estudiante, A student’s love,” as he walked down the empty hallways of the hotel, imitating Gardel—but pronouncing the r’s as if they were l’s in the verse flores de un día son .
    They found two small balls of opium toward the back of the closet.
    â€œI’m not innocent,” he said. “Because no one is innocent. I havemy transgressions, but they are not the ones that others attribute to me.”
    â€œNo one is accusing you … yet,” Croce said, addressing him informally. Yoshio realized that the Inspector distrusted him, like everyone else. “There’s no need to get defensive ahead of time. Tell me, what did you do today?”
    He had woken up at two in the afternoon, like always, he had had breakfast in his room, like always, he had done his exercises, like always, he had prayed.
    â€œLike always,” Croce said. “Did anyone see you? Can anyone vouch for you?”
    No one had seen him, everyone knew he was off from his nighttime duties in the afternoon, but no one could vouch for him. Croce asked him when he had last seen Durán.
    â€œNot seen him today,” Yoshio answered, imitating gaucho-speak. “I haven’t seen him the whole blessed day,” he corrected himself. “I’m the night porter, I’m a porter and I live by night and I know the secrets of everyone’s life in the hotel, and everyone who knows that I know fears me. Everyone in the hotel knows that at the time Tony was killed I am always asleep.”
    â€œAnd what do they fear, the ones who fear you?” Croce asked.
    â€œChildren pay for the sins of their parents. Mine is having slanted eyes and yellow skin,” Yoshio replied. “And that’s why you’re going to find me guilty, for being the most foreign of all the foreigners in this town of foreigners.”
    Croce slapped him in the face with the back of his right hand, unexpectedly, hard. Yoshio’s nose started bleeding, and he closed his eyes without making a sound, affronted.
    â€œDon’t get contrary with me, and don’t you lie to me,” Croce said. “Write down that the suspect hit himself against the corner of the open window.”
    Saldías, shocked and nervous, jotted down a few lines in his notebook. Yoshio dried his blood on his small, embroidered handkerchief. He was on the verge of crying.
    â€œIt wasn’t me, Inspector. It wasn’t me, it wouldn’t ever be me,” Yoshio was standing stiff, livid. “I…I loved him.”
    â€œIt wouldn’t be the first time that someone is killed for that reason,” Croce said.
    â€œNo, Inspector. He was very good to me, he was a friend, he honored me with his trust. He was a gentleman—”
    â€œSo why was he killed?”
    Croce moved about the room restlessly. His hand hurt. He had done what he had to do, he wasn’t there to feel sorry for anyone, he was there to interrogate a criminal. Sometimes he got carried away with an excess of anger that he couldn’t control, the servant-like humility of the Japanese man exasperated him. But the slap across the face had forced him to react, and now Yoshio was starting to give his real version of events.
    He said that Durán was unhappy, that just yesterday he had insinuated that he intended to leave soon, but he had certain affairs to resolve first. He was waiting for something, Yoshio didn’t know what. That is all the Japanese man declared, in his own way he explained everything he knew, without actually saying