Roberto Arlt - The Seven Madmen

The Astrologer got to his feet, walked over to Erdosain and patted him on the head. He said, uncertainly:

“You’re quite right, my boy. We’re mystics without knowing it. The Melancholy Thug is a mystic, Ergueta is a mystic, so are you, me, her, and all of them … the lack of religion that is this century’s evil has so destroyed our understanding that we look outside ourselves for what in fact exists within the mystery of our own subconsciousness. We need a religion to save us from the catastrophe that has befallen us. You might object that what I’m saying is nothing new. Fine, but just remember that on this earth all that changes is the style, the way things are done; the substance stays the same. If you believed in God you would have been spared your wretched life; if I believed in God I wouldn’t be listening to you now proposing to kill a fellow man. And the worst of all is that for us the time to discover a belief, a faith, has already passed. If we went to see a priest, he wouldn’t understand our problems. All he could do would be to recommend we recite the Lord’s Prayer and go to mass every week.”

“And all the time we ask ourselves what is to be done …”

“That’s right. What is to be done … In days gone by we would at least have had the chance to take refuge in a convent or to go on a journey to distant, magical lands. Nowadays you can eat an ice cream in Patagonia in the morning and bananas in Brazil in the afternoon. What is to be done? I read a lot, and believe me, all the books from Europe are full of the same current of bitterness and despair you speak of in your own life. Just look at the United States. Movie stars have platinum ovary implants; and there are murderers trying to beat the record for the most horrible crime. You’ve been around, you’ve seen it. House after house, different faces but the same hearts. Humanity has lost its ability to celebrate, to feel joy. Mankind is so unhappy it’s even lost God! Even a 300-horsepower engine is only fun when driven by a madman who is likely to smash himself to pieces in a ditch. Man is a sad animal who only rejoices in wonders. Or massacres. Well, in our society we’ll make sure we give them wonders — plagues of Asiatic cholera, myths, the discovery of gold deposits or diamond mines. I’ve seen it when we two talk. You only come alive when some fresh wonder is mentioned. It’s the same with everyone, criminal or saint.”

“Well then, are we going to kidnap Barsut?”

“Yes. Now we have to work out exactly how we’ll get hold of him and his money.”

The wind stirred the leaves in the garden. Erdosain sat for a few moments looking at the shaft of light which shone from the half-open window on to the pomegranate trees. The Astrologer had scraped back his chair, and now lolled with his head against the dark brown cabinet top. He was once again twisting the steel ring on his finger, up in front of his face.

“How will we get hold of him? That’s easy. I’ll tell Barsut I’ve found out where the Captain has taken Elsa …”

“Yes, that’s a good idea. But how have you found out — that’s what he’s bound to ask …”

“I’ll tell him I went to the Personnel Department at the War Ministry.”

“Perfect … that’s very good … fine …”

The Astrologer had leaned forward enthusiastically, and was watching Erdosain with interest.

“And with the excuse that we want him to convince Elsa to come back to me, we’ll bring him here.”

“Excellent. Let me think it through. Everything you’ve suggested … seems to fit. Ah … tell me one thing: does he have any family?”

“Not except for my wife.”

“Where does he live?”

“In a rented room. The owner’s daughter is cross-eyed.”

“What will they say when Barsut vanishes?”

“Here’s what we can do. We send his landlady a telegram from Rosario signed by him, asking her to send his things to a certain hotel, where you’ll be staying under his name.”

“Perfect! You’ve thought it all out very well. The plan’s perfect. It’s true that everything’s in our favour: the Captain, the address from the ministry, the fact he has no relatives, that he lives in lodgings. It’s as clear-cut as a chess move. Perfect!”

After he had finished talking, the Astrologer began to pace up and down the room. Each time he passed in front of the window, he blocked the light to the garden, or cast a huge shadow across the cabinet and up to the roofbeams. Erdosain was right to say that the plan was as sharply defined as if “it had been stamped at thousands of pounds’ pressure”.

The Astrologer’s boots thumped loudly with each step, and Erdosain was already beginning to regret that the “plan” was so simple, so devoid of any literary twists and turns. He would have liked to add some extra perilous adventure, to make it less geometrically perfect.

“Damn it: this is no fun! This way, anyone can be a murderer!”

“And is there nothing between Gregorio and the cross-eyed girl?”

“No.”

“Why did you mention her then?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re not afraid you’ll be remorse-stricken after ‘it’ happens?”

“I think that only happens in novels. In real life I’ve done both good and bad, and in neither case have I felt the slightest joy or the least sense of remorse. I reckon that what’s called remorse is simply fear of punishment. In Argentina they don’t hang people, and only cowards …”

“What about you …?”

“Excuse me, but I’m no coward. I am coldblooded, which is different. Just think about it. If I’ve let my wife be taken from me without reacting, if I’ve let myself be slapped around by someone who betrayed me, isn’t it even more likely I’ll watch him die without moving a muscle, provided it’s not a bloodbath?”

“That’s true. It’s very logical. Everything you say is logical. D’you know, you’re a really interesting guy, Erdosain?”

“That’s what my wife used to say. But that didn’t stop her going off with someone else.”

“And you hate him for it?”

“Sometimes. It depends. Perhaps with me it’s more of a physical revulsion than hatred. And really, no, I don’t hate him, you can’t hate people you know are capable of exactly the same kind of baseness as you are.”

“So why do you want to have him killed?”

“And why do you want to set up your society?”

“Do you think this crime is going to have any effect on your life?”

“That’s what I’m curious to find out. To find out if my life, my way of seeing things or my sensibility change after watching him die. Anyway, I feel the need to kill someone. Even if only to take me out of myself.”

“And you want me to do the dirty work for you?”

“Of course! … Because for you, ‘doing my dirty work’ means getting the 20,000 pesos you need to set up your organisation and the brothels …”

“What made you think I was someone who would do ‘that’?”

“What? I’ve been observing you for a long time. But I became convinced you were the sort of person who would take this kind of risk a year ago, when I met you at the Theosophy Society.”

“How’s that?”

“I remember it as if it were now. A woman who sold coal was on your left, talking about the perispirit with a shoemaker. Have you ever noticed how fascinated shoemakers are by the occult sciences, by the way?”

“And …?”

“And then you started talking to a Polish gentleman who was in contact with Sobiezki’s spirit.”

“I don’t remember …”

“I do. The Polish gentleman, as you yourself later told me, was a building labourer … You and the Polish gentleman moved on from talking about Sobiezki to a discussion on ‘the homing instinct of pigeons’, and you told him: ‘the only importance the homing instinct of pigeons has for me is so they could act as go-betweens in a blackmail plot’. Then you began to explain what you meant … and by the time you had finished, to the astonishment of the Polack, the coal-seller and the shoemaker, I was saying to myself: ‘There’s a man ready for anything …’”