Roberto Arlt - The Seven Madmen

“You’re getting off the point. I was asking what your motives were for wanting to organise this secret society of yours.”

“That’s a stupid question. Why did Einstein invent his theory? The world can do without his relativity. How can I know whether or not I’m an instrument in the hands of higher powers, which I don’t believe in at all? I haven’t the faintest idea. The world is a mystery. I may be nothing more than the hand-servant, the slave preparing the perfect abode where the Chosen One, the Saint, will come to die.”

Barsut smiled faintly. To hear this man with his cauliflower ear, his unkempt mane of hair and his carpenter’s smock talking of the Chosen One produced a strange sense of contempt in him. How far was this clown putting it all on? But the strangest thing of all was that he was not angry: the feeling the Astrologer produced in him was something else, as if what he was saying were no surprise, as if he had heard it all before, in exactly the same tone of voice, on some remote occasion lost in the dim grey contours of a dream.

The Astrologer’s tone became less exalted.

“Believe me, this is what always happens in times of uncertainty and disorientation. A few people somehow foresee that something extraordinary is about to happen … And these people with intuition, this club of seers — of which I count myself a member — feel the need to arouse humanity’s awareness … to do something, even if it turns out to be merely ridiculous. In my case, that something is my secret society. Good God! Does anyone have any real idea of the consequences of his actions? When I think I’m about to set in motion a whole world of puppets … puppets that will go forth and multiply … I shudder in terror. It even occurs to me that what might happen is as far removed from what I intend as the disasters committed by an electrician who suddenly goes berserk at his controls are from the wishes of the factory owner. But in spite of that I feel the pressing need to set everything in motion, to bring together the disparate energies of a hundred diverse psychologies, to harmonise them by playing on egotism, vanity, passions and illusions, to make a lie the foundation of this effort, and to make gold its reality … red gold …”

“All you say is true … you’re bound to succeed.”

“So, what do you want from me?” Barsut countered.

“I told you before. I want you to sign a cheque for 17,000 pesos. That will leave you 3,000, to do what the hell you like with. We’ll pay you back the rest in monthly instalments out of what we make from the brothels and the gold mining.”

“And I’ll get out of here?”

“Just as soon as we cash the cheque.”

“What proof do I have you’re telling the truth?”

“Certain things can’t be proved … but if you want proof, let me simply say that if you refuse to sign the cheque, I’ll have you tortured by the Man Who Saw the Midwife, and once he’s forced you to sign, I’ll kill you …”

Barsut raised his washed-out eyes; covered in a three-day beard, his face looked as if it were enveloped in a copper mist. Kill him! The words had no effect on him. At that moment, they meant nothing. Besides, life was of so little importance … for a long time he had been expecting some kind of disaster, and now it had happened; but instead of feeling overwhelmed by terror, he discovered in himself an indifference that left him shrugging his shoulders at whatever fate might hold in store. The Astrologer continued:

“But I wouldn’t want things to go that far … what I want is for you to help us … for you to take an interest in our projects. Believe me, we’re living in terrible times. The person who can find the lie the masses need will be King of this World. Everyone is a prey to anxiety … no-one is happy with Catholicism, but Buddhism isn’t suited to our temperament, because we’re so corrupted by the need for pleasure. Perhaps we should be talking of Lucifer and the Evening Star. You can add on all the poetry our dreams need, and we can target young people … oh, it’s such a great idea, so great …”

The Astrologer collapsed on to the trunk. The speech had exhausted him. He wiped the sweat from his brow with a rough check handkerchief. The three of them sat in silence for a moment.

All of a sudden Barsut said: “Yes, you’re right, it is a great idea. Untie me, and I’ll sign your cheque for you.” He thought the Astrologer’s speech had been so much hot air, and this almost led to his downfall.

The Astrologer stood up, protesting:

“No, I’ll set you free once we’ve cashed the cheque. Today is Wednesday. You could be free by midday tomorrow, but you’ll only be able to leave our house in two months” — he was saying this because he realised the other man did not believe in any of his plans — “Do you need anything this afternoon?”

“No.”

“OK, see you later.”

“But … you can’t go just like that … stay a while …”

“No. I’m tired. I need to take a nap. I’ll come back tonight and we can talk some more. Do you want any cigarettes?” “Yes.” The two of them left the stables. Barsut lay down on his bed of hay. He lit a cigarette and blew out some smoke. As it rose, a slanting beam of sunlight picked it out in luminous steel-blue rings. Now he was alone, his thoughts fell neatly into place, and he said to himself:

“Why not give ‘that fellow’ a helping hand? His plan for a revolutionary camp is interesting, and now I understand why that cretin Erdosain is so taken with him. Of course, it’ll mean I’m out on the street — maybe so, maybe not … but I always knew it had to come to an end one way or another.” He closed his eyes to muse on the future.

His hat pulled down over his face, the Astrologer turned to Erdosain as they walked along, and said: “Barsut reckons he’s pulling the wool over our eyes. Tomorrow after he signs the cheque we’ll have to kill him …”

“No: you’ll have to kill him …”

“That’s fine by me … we’ve no other choice. Once he were free, he’d turn us in to the police. And he thinks we’re the crazy ones! We would be if we let him live.”

They came to a halt close to the house. Up in the blue heavens, the jagged edge of chocolate-coloured clouds pushed rapidly across the sky.

“Who’s going to do it?”

“The Man Who Saw the Midwife.”

“You know, it’s no easy thing to die with summer just around the corner.”

“That’s true enough …”

“What about the cheque?”

“You can cash it.”

“Aren’t you afraid I might run off with the money?”

“Not for the moment, no.”

“Why?”

“Just because. Because you more than anyone need our secret society to succeed — to save you from boredom. That’s why you’re going along with me in this … out of boredom, and anxiety.”

“You may be right. What time shall we meet tomorrow?”

“Let’s see … at nine in the station. I’ll bring you the cheque. By the way, have you got any identity papers?”

“Yes.”

“Well then, nothing can go wrong. Ah, just one thing. I advise you to be brief and calm when you speak in the meeting.”

“Are they all here?”

“Yes.”

“The Gold Prospector as well?”

“Yes.”

The two men pushed their way through the branches and made for the summer-house. This was an open construction of latticed wood, into which shoots from a honeysuckle bush pushed their purple and white clusters.

As the two of them entered, the circle of men inside stood up. Erdosain halted in amazement when he saw that one was an army officer in a major’s uniform.

Apart from the Major, the Gold Prospector, Haffner, and someone he did not know were also present. Haffner had his elbows on a table, and was scanning some scribbled sheets of paper, while the Gold Prospector pored over a map opposite him. A rough stone placed on top of the sheet stopped the breeze blowing it away. The Thug shook Erdosain’s hand, and he sat down next to him, still staring at the Major, who had immediately aroused his curiosity. The Astrologer certainly was a master of surprises.