Giunta, or Mr. Lito as they call him in the neighborhood, comes back from Villa Martelli, where he has spent the afternoon with his parents.
Giunta is not even thirty years old. He’s a tall man, elegant, blond, and clear-eyed. Effusive and expressive in his gestures and his language, he has a healthy dose of wit to him, skeptical irony, even. But what you come away with is a sense of solid honor, of sincerity. Of all the witnesses who survive this tragedy, no one else will be as convincing or have as easy and natural a time proving his innocence, showing it to be concrete and almost tangible. Talking to him for an hour, hearing him remember, seeing the indignation and the memories of horror gradually emerging from inside him, making themselves visible in his eyes and even making his hair stand on end, is enough to set aside any skepticism.
For fifteen years Giunta has been working as a shoe salesman in Buenos Aires. He picked up two minor skills at his job that are worth mentioning. First, he practices a certain “psychology” method that sometimes lets him guess his clients’—and by extension others’—wishes and intentions, which are not always obvious. Second, he has an enviable memory for faces, sharpened over the years.
He does not suspect—as he is dining in the peaceful house that he bought with his own sweat, as he is surrounded by the affection of his loved ones—that hours later these skills will help him escape the grimmest experience of his life.