Transfixing from the start, Hernán Ronsino’s English-language debut, Glaxo, is a murder-mystery, though it’s the sort that lets the reader assemble the clues. Set deep in the Argentine Pampa in a town where “the trains stop coming,” we are privy to the testimony of four men across time, old friends and enemies who have betrayed and abandoned one another, sold out, done time, and fallen in love with the same woman.

Not only the atmosphere of the town, but the architecture of the sentences feel complicit in the secrets at the center of this story, each phrase like a clean, white bone in a skeleton. “The cane field no longer exists, they’ve cleared it completely, and where the tracks once were, now there’s a new road, a link road, which looks more like a closed wound. It’s a road that looks like the memory of a wound in the earth that won’t heal.”

One of the great pleasures of this book, beyond watching the gears of plot and perspective click intricately into place, is jumping from head to head, the voices of Vardemann, Bicho Souza, Miguelito Barrios and Folcada rendered in all their idiosyncratic and distinctive charm by Samuel Rutter’s elegant translation.

Says Miguelito Barrios: “I don’t agree with those who, when they choose a way to die, prefer not knowing, or hope that death takes them in their sleep, or doesn’t make them suffer, as if death weren’t a consequence of the life that one chose to live.” This is also the bleak, satisfying logic of Glaxo, a book that is as much about the relativity of guilt as what drives men to murder in the first place.

Melville House.