Roberto Arlt - The Seven Madmen

The Major spoke once more: “I’m particularly in favour of the camp because we could set up our poison gas factory there. I believe you know something about that, Erdosain.”

“Yes, for example mustard gas can be made by electrolysis, though I haven’t studied the matter in any depth — but you’re right, the gases and the germ laboratory are what we need to concentrate on. Especially the lab for producing the bubonic plague and Asiatic cholera. We need to get hold of some proper bacteria specimens, because the actual production is extremely cheap.”

The Astrologer interrupted them:

“I think it would be best to leave the organisation of the camp until later. For now, we should concentrate on getting Haffner’s project underway. We can only organise the first group to leave for the colony once we are making some money. Was there a family you had in mind, Erdosain?”

“Yes, the Espilas.”

Haffner butted in:

“Hold on a minute! I reckon all this is just so much hot air. I’m nothing more than a collaborator in your secret society, but I reckon we have to sort something out right now.”

The Astrologer stared at him and said:

“Are you willing to put up the money to get us started? No. Well then? Wait until we have some funds, which should be in a matter of days, and then you’ll see.”

Haffner stood up and, looking over at the Gold Prospector, said:

“Listen, friend: once the camp idea is settled, let me know; and if you need people, so much the better; I’ll supply you with a gang of lay-abouts who would be delighted to get out of Buenos Aires” — so saying, he put on his hat and was about to leave without shaking hands with anyone, until he suddenly remembered something and shouted to the Astrologer: “If you hurry up and get the money, there’s a great brothel for sale. It’s got a grill attached to it, and it’s a good place for gambling too. The boss is Uruguayan; he’s asking 15,000 cash, but he’d settle for 10,000 now and the other 5,000 in a year.”

“Could you come here on Friday?”

“Yes.”

“OK, let’s meet on Friday, and I think we can do a deal.”

“’Bye,” was all the Thug said, and left.

Once Haffner had gone, Erdosain, who wanted to talk to the Gold Prospector, also said goodbye to the Astrologer and the Major. He was feeling uneasy again. As he was about to leave, the Astrologer whispered to him:

“Be sure you’re here at nine tomorrow; we have to cash the cheque.”

Erdosain had forgotten about “that”. He glanced all around him as if stunned by a blow. He needed to talk to someone; to forget the dark obligation he was under that made his heart beat faster in the hot midday sun.

He had taken a liking to the Gold Prospector. He went over to him and asked: “Shall we leave together? I’d like to talk to you about ‘down there’.”

The other man studied him with his glittering eyes, then said:

“Of course, I’d be delighted. You seem an interesting guy.”

“Thanks.”

“Especially from what the Astrologer has told me about you. You know that’s a great plan of yours to bring about the revolution using plague germs?”

Erdosain looked up. He felt embarrassed by so much praise. Could it really be that someone took the nonsense he dreamt up seriously?

The Gold Prospector insisted:

“That and the poison gases are a stroke of genius. Can you imagine? To leave a canister in Police Headquarters just when that monster Santiago is there! To poison all the cops like rats!” He gave such a loud snorting laugh that three birds flew up in unison from the branches of a lemon tree. “Yes, Erdosain my friend, you’re something special. Plagues and chlorine! We’re going to make the revolution here in this city. I can just see the day — all the shopkeepers poking their scared snouts out of their holes like weasels, while we cleanse the world of all that garbage with our machine guns. You can buy a fine machine gun for 1,000 pesos. Two hundred and fifty rounds a minute. A real treasure! Then we’ll lay down clouds of chlorine and mustard gas … Oh, you should publish your ideas in the papers, believe me.”

Erdosain interrupted this string of extravagant praise to ask:

“So you found gold, did you? Gold …”

“I take it you didn’t swallow a word of that tale about ‘gold water’?”

“What d’you mean, tale? So the gold …?”

“It exists, of course it does … it’s just a question of finding it.”

Erdosain looked so crestfallen that the Gold Prospector hastily added: “Look here … I told you that because the Astrologer said I could count on you.”

“Yes, but I thought …”

“What?”

“That amongst all the lies, that was one of the few truths …”

“It is true in essence. The gold does exist … we simply have to find it. You should be happy that everything is being organised to go in search of it. Or do you reckon that those numbskulls would move an inch if they weren’t driven on by magnificent lies? I’ve given it so much thought! That’s why the Astrologer’s theory is such a stroke of genius: men only respond to lies. He gives lies the consistency of truth; people who would never have so much as budged to get anything, guys who have become totally cynical and desperate, come to life again in the truth of his lies. Can you imagine anything more sublime? Why, exactly the same thing happens all the time, and nobody protests. Yes, everything is a sham, if we only think about it … there’s no-one who wouldn’t admit that our society is run on niggardly, stupid lies. So what great sin is the Astrologer committing? He’s simply exchanging a trifling lie for one that’s eloquent, enormous, transcendental. With his falsehoods, the Astrologer seems extraordinary to us, but he’s no such thing … or rather, he is, he is … because he’s not after personal gain from his lies; yet he’s not, because all he’s doing is applying an age-old principle that every swindler and social dreamer has always used. If one day his life story gets written, those who read it with any sense of judgement will say: he was great because the methods he employed to achieve his ideals were those available to any charlatan. And what we see as extraordinary and disturbing is simply the fear of weak, uninspired minds who believe success only comes from complicated and mysterious processes rather than from anything simple. And yet you know as well as I do that the greatest gestures are the simplest, like Columbus and his egg.”

“The truth of lies?”

“Exactly. The problem is we aren’t bold enough for these great schemes. We imagine it must be more difficult to run a state than a simple house; we put too much literature, too much stupid romanticism into things.”

“But deep down d’you feel … I mean, do you get the impression that we’re going to succeed?”

“Totally, and believe me … we’re going to be rulers of Argentina … if not the world. It must be. The Astrologer’s plan is a salvation for mankind worn out as it is by the mechanisation of our civilisation. There are no ideas any more. No good or bad symbols. I once heard the Astrologer talking about the colonies set up in the ancient world by all the misfits who did not feel at home in their own countries. We’ll do the same, but we’ll make our society something like a rowdy game … a game that wins over even thc souls of shopkeepers who like to go to watch cowboy movies. Oh, you can’t imagine all the mischief we’ll make! As a last resort we could spread nitroglycerine bombs just to laugh at the panic they cause among the rabble. What d’you think the hellraisers and neighbourhood gangs were in their day? Youngsters who had no other way to channel their energies. So they worked it off beating up some stuck-up gent or an Arab. Just think … Comodoro … Puerto Madryn, Trelew, Esquel, Arroyo Pescado, Campo Chileno, I know all the trails and all the badlands … Believe me … we’ll create a marvellous band of youth” — he was getting carried away — “Don’t you believe there is any gold? You’re like those kids at table whose eyes are bigger than their stomachs. Everything in this country of ours is gold.”