Roberto Arlt - The Seven Madmen

“Ha, hal You’re quite a guy, d’you know that?”

“Sure. Remember: the mechanism of our plot is made up of three smaller parts that all have to mesh together perfectly, though they’re independent of each other. The first part is the kidnapping. The second is your trip to Rosario, where you’ll send for and receive the luggage in Barsut’s name. The third is the murder itself and the disposal of the body.”

“Will we get rid of it?”

“Of course. Either with nitric acid or in a big furnace … in which case, we’ll need a heat of at least 500 degrees to make sure the bones are reduced to ash.”

“How do you know all this?”

“I’m an inventor, remember. Ah, and we can use part of the 20,000 pesos to mass-produce my copper roses. At the moment, a family I know is making them for me. One of the boys might be a candidate for your society. And just recently I’ve been thinking of a way to modify Stephenson’s steam engine with electromagnetics. It would make it a hundred times simpler. D’you know what I really need? To get away for a while, to go to the mountains, to get some rest and study.”

“You could go to the camp we’re organising.”

“So you agree to the plan?”

“Just one thing … where did Barsut get his money?”

“Three years ago he sold a house he had inherited.”

“So he has it in a savings account?”

“No, in his current account.”

“He doesn’t live off the interest?”

“No, he’s spending it bit by bit. Two hundred pesos a month. He says he’ll be dead before he’s got through it all.”

“That’s strange. What sort of man is he?”

“Strong. Cruel. You’ll have to plan the abduction very carefully, because he’ll resist like a wild animal.”

“OK.”

“Ah … before I go. Are you planning to tell the Thug about any of this?”

“No. It’s a secret between the two of us. The Thug’s job is simply to organise the brothels, that’s all. You’ll pay back the Sugar Company tomorrow, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Now I come to think of it, I know a counterfeiter. He can draw up the document from the War Ministry.” Erdosain paced up and down the room for a while. “The kidnapping should be easy. You go to Rosario and send a telegram for the trunks. The thing is, when you’re faced with actually committing a crime …”

“This won’t be the only one we’ll commit …”

“What?”

“Of course not. Something else I’m concerned about is how we’ll keep things secret in the society. Here’s what I thought: we’ll have revolutionary cells in every corner of Argentina. The central committee will be based here in the capital. It will be made up as follows: each provincial leader will be a member, and each leader of a provincial district will be a member of the provincial capital committee, and each leader of a provincial town will be a member of the provincial capital committee, and so on.”

“Doesn’t that seem a bit complicated?”

“I don’t know, we’ll work it out. I’ve thought of other organisational details as well: each cell will have a radio receiver and transmitter, and every ten members will commit themselves to buying a vehicle, ten rifles and two machine guns. Every hundred members will be responsible for buying a warplane, bombs, and so on. All promotions will be decided by the central committee, all lesser appointments will be decided by restricted voting. But now it’s time to go to bed. There’s a train in a few minutes … or would you prefer to sleep here?”

Erdosain had no real reason to leave. The clock had already struck three, and all the last part of what the Astrologer had said had passed him by in a daze. He could not take any more in. He needed to get away, that was all. To get as far away as possible.

They shook hands; the Astrologer said goodbye at the top of the steps, and Erdosain made his way, exhausted, through the garden. When he turned to look back from the shadows, the lighted window hung like a yellow rectangle in the darkness.

Day is breaking. Erdosain is walking along the track on the broken ground outside the walled gardens. The morning chill penetrates to the remotest cell of his tired lungs. The sky above is still dark, making everything in the distance invisible, and everything else seem closer. At the far end of the labyrinth of streets, a few greenish stripes are lightening the sky.

As he walks along, Erdosain is thinking: “This is as sad as a desert. At this hour, she’s asleep with him.” 2

Wisps of white mist seep into the streets from the watery light of dawn.

Erdosain says to himself:

“And yet I must be strong. I remember when I was a child. I imagined I saw huge men walking on the crest of clouds, their hair streaming out and their limbs sheathed in light. In fact, they were striding through the land of joy I had within me.

“Oh, losing a dream is almost as bad as losing a fortune. What am I saying? It’s far worse. You have to be strong, that’s all there is to it. And to have no compassion. And however weary you are, to say to yourself: I may be tired now, I may regret everything now, but things will be different tomorrow. That’s all there is: tomorrow.”

Erdosain closes his eyes. A perfume of carnations or balsam fills the air with a strange carnival atmosphere.

And Erdosain thinks:

“In spite of everything, life must be filled with joy. This is no way to live. It’s not right. There must be some kind of joy that rises above all our misery, I don’t know, something nobler than our ugly human face, our appalling human truth. The Astrologer is right. We have to usher in the realm of falsehood, of magnificent lies. To worship someone. Force a way through this forest of stupidity. But how?”

Erdosain goes on talking to himself as the sun brings a pink blush to his cheeks:

“What does it matter if I’m a murderer or a degenerate? Does it? No. It’s a minor problem. There’s something far more important than the baseness of the whole of mankind put together, and that is joy. If I could rejoice, then happiness would absolve me of my crime. Joy is all that matters. That, and loving someone …”

The sky turns green in the distance, while the trunks of the trees are still submerged in low-lying darkness. Erdosain frowns. Wisps of memory float free from his mind, golden mists, glittering rails stretching into the distance of an afternoon landscape under a canopy of sun. And the face of a girl, a small, pale face with green speckled eyes and black curls escaping from beneath a straw hat, rises to the surface.

Two years ago. No. Three. Yes, three years earlier. What was her name? Maria, Maria Esther. What was it? Her sweet face warms the night-time world of his fantasy. He remembers so well! He was sitting beside her, the wind was ruffling her black curls, and all at once he stretched out his hand and cupped her chin in his hands. Where can she be now? What roof is she sleeping under? If he saw her, would he recognise her? Three years ago. He met her on a train, talked with her a few minutes for a fortnight or so, then she disappeared. That was all there was to it. And she did not know he was married. What would she have said if she had known? Yes, now he remembers. Her name was Maria. But what does that matter? Not at all. There was something more precious in it all: the gentle warmth that shone from those eyes of hers, now green, now brown. And her silence. Erdosain remembers the train journeys; he is sitting next to the girl; she rests her head on his shoulder, he twists her curls round his fingers, and the girl trembles in silence. If she knew he was planning to kill someone, what would she say? She might not even understand the word. Erdosain remembers how she reached up like a shy schoolgirl to stroke his rough, unshaven cheeks, and just possibly the happiness he has lost is exactly what is needed to wipe all traces of ugliness from the human face.