Roberto Arlt - The Seven Madmen

The ruse Erdosain had thought up and the Astrologer carried out was so successful that the Astrologer decided to hold the first meeting for the “chiefs” to get to know each other on the following Wednesday. On Tuesday afternoon at four, he went to tell Erdosain they would all be meeting in Temperley at nine o’clock the next morning.

He was with Erdosain for a few minutes, and as they were coming out of the house, he suddenly glanced at his watch in panic and said:

“Goodness, it’s four o’clock already, and I’ve got lots of places to visit still … I’ll see you at nine tomorrow … oh, by the way, I was thinking that there’s only one person who could be our Chief of Industry, and that’s you. Anyway, we’ll talk more about it tomorrow … Oh, and don’t forget to present … or rather, don’t forget to prepare a plan to build hydraulic turbines, a simple scheme we could install in the mountains. We’d use it in our colony for the electro-magnetic work we need to do.”

“How many kilowatts?”

“I’ve no idea … that’s your business. Remember, there’ll be electric furnaces … you’ll have to sort it out. The Gold Prospector’s arrived, he can give you more specific details tomorrow. Just make sure you’re prepared when the idea is suggested. Damn, it’s getting late … I’ll see you tomorrow.” He put his hat on, hailed a passing cab, and settled on the back seat.

The next day, as Erdosain walked along the streets of Temperley he was astonished to find that for the first time in many months he felt calm and relaxed.

He strolled along. The tunnels of vegetation he passed through gave him the sense of some titanic, uncontainable effort taking place. He stared with delight at the red gravel paths in the gardens, reaching their scarlet feelers out towards the fields, green baize cloths studded with purple, yellow and red flowers. If he looked up, he could see the watery blue depths of the sky, which made his head spin so much that the heavens suddenly disappeared from his sight, leaving him with a blinding black flash on the retinas of his eyes, before he gradually recovered his sight in a stealthy fluttering of silver atoms, which turned slowly into an image of harsh dry blue slates, like methylene-blue caves. And the sensation of pleasure the morning gave him, this new delight, helped unite the broken shards of his personality, shattered as it had been by all the sufferings that disaster had inflicted on him. He felt as though his body were ready for anything.

The words he kept repeating to himself were: “Augusto Remo Erdosain”, as if simply saying his name gave him a physical pleasure which redoubled the energy the walk had infused in his limbs.

He walked on down the diagonal streets in the shafts of sunlight, rejoicing in the power of his brand-new personality: Chief of Industry. The cool freshness of this botanical stroll filled his mind with great ideas. And this satisfaction helped ground him in the streets, like a doll with lead weights in its shoes. He was thinking of how disdainful he would be at the meeting, and he was gripped by a cold contempt for the weak of this world. The earth belonged to the strong — that was it, to the strong. They would take the world by storm, until they came face-to-face with the imbeciles who stuff their backsides into a chair in every office in every country, while they themselves were armoured in their grandeur like solitary, ruthless emperors. Erdosain again imagined an immense office with glass walls and a round table at its centre.

Papers in hand, pens pushed back behind their ears, his four assistants tiptoed over to consult him, while in a corner the white haired workers’ representatives sat cowed. Then Erdosain turned towards them and simply said: “Either you all go back to work tomorrow or you’ll be shot.” That and nothing more. His orders were brief and softly spoken. His arm ached from signing so many decrees. The voracious appetite of the times kept him going, its need for a tiger’s soul to embellish each day’s end with its quota of bloody executions.

He drew close to the Astrologer’s house, his heart pulsing with renewed enthusiasm, repeating to himself like a haunting refrain Lenin’s phrase: “What kind of a revolution is this if we don’t shoot anyone?”

When he reached the property and was opening the front gate, he saw the Astrologer coming to meet him, dressed as usual in a long grey smock and wearing a straw hat.

The two friends shook hands warmly, and the Astrologer said: “Barsut’s calmed down. I don’t think he’s going to put up too much of a fight about signing the cheque. The others have arrived, but let’s go to see Barsut first. Let them wait, damn it! Can you imagine how I feel? With that money, the world is ours.”

By now they were in the study. The Astrologer was twisting the purple stone on his finger and staring at the map of the United States. He went on: “We shall conquer the earth, we’ll bring our ‘grand idea’ to fruition, we can set up a brothel in San Martin or in Ciudadela, we can establish our colony in the mountains at Los Santos. Who better to take charge of the brothel than the Melancholy Thug? We’ll appoint him our ‘Grand Patriarch of the Brothels’.”

Erdosain went over to the window … the rose bushes gave off a piercing scent, filling the air with a fresh red fragrance like a mountain stream. Bright-winged insects buzzed around the scarlet asterisks in the pomegranate trees. Erdosain stood gazing out for a few moments. The view took him back to the afternoon he had been there in that very same spot. And yet then he had been completely unaware of what the night held in store for him: the shock of Elsa’s departure.

The many shades of green flooded his eyes, but he paid them no attention. In his inner depths what he saw was his wife, her cheek resting against the purple nipples of a square male chest, limp, her eyes rolled back, lips parted to receive the man’s obscene mouth.

A bird crossed his field of vision, and Erdosain turned back to the Astrologer and said, struggling to control his voice: “Do whatever you like.” He sat down, lit a cigarette, and glancing over at the Astrologer, who was busy drawing a circle on a blueprint with a pair of compasses, asked him: “But how will you do it? Will the Melancholy Thug agree to manage the brothels?”

“Yes, that’s no problem, and Barsut isn’t going to put up much of a fight.”

“Is he still in the coachhouse?”

“I thought I’d better hide him. I chained him up in the stables.”

“In the stables?”

“It was the only place I could keep him hidden. And besides, there’s a room up above where the Man Who Saw the Midwife sleeps …”

“What’s that all about?”

“I’ll tell you some day. He saw the midwife and ever since, he can’t sleep at night. And I thought that you …”

“What, it’s going to be me who …?”

“Let me finish. I thought you could go and see Barsut and try to persuade him to sign — explain our ideas to him …”

“What if he won’t sign?”

“Then we’ll have to use force … Naturally I’m against violence, but you can see the spot I’m in. Our idea is so important we can’t let any feelings get in the way — and that’s what you must tell Barsut — tell him we wouldn’t like to find ourselves forced to burn his feet or something worse still — get him to sign the cheque.”

“You’re prepared to go that far?”

“Yes, because we won’t get an opportunity like this again. I was counting on your copper rose invention, but it’s taking time. It’s no good asking the Melancholy Thug for the money. If he hasn’t got it, we’d make him feel bad, and if he does have it but won’t give it us, we’d be losing a friend. The fact that he was generous with you doesn’t mean he would be again with us now. Also, he’s a neurotic who most of the time has no idea if he’s coming or going.”