Roberto Arlt - The Seven Madmen

“Yes, see you then.”

Erdosain got on to the train, closely followed by the Major, who signalled to the Astrologer in acknowledgement. Erdosain did not see him.

Slumped in his seat, Erdosain thought:

“What an extraordinary man! How on earth did he know I wouldn’t run out on him? If he’s as right about everything else, he’s bound to succeed.” Then, lulled by the rocking of the train, he dozed off to sleep again.

The Major was sitting behind him. When Erdosain got to the bank, his heart was pounding. The clerk called him, and he went up to the window:

“Large or small notes?”

“Large.”

“Sign here.”

Erdosain signed the back of the cheque. He thought they would ask for his identity card, but the clerk, forearms protected by plastic cuffs, merely counted out ten 1,000 peso notes, five of 500, and the rest in smaller notes. Erdosain was so nervous he wanted to run away as fast as he could, but instead he slowly counted out the money, put it in his wallet, put that in his trouser pocket, and walked out of the bank, keeping a tight grip on it.

A spiral of sky glowed like newly forged metal in between banks of white cloud. Erdosain felt happy. He thought that in a different climate, under permanently blue skies like the one he could glimpse above, there must be remarkable women. They would have shining glossy hair, and big almond eyes, shaded by long lashes. And the scented air would waft from the caverns of morning to all the street corners in cities that rose through grassy lawns, their spherical towers rising high above all the waving plumes of greenery in the parks and terraces.

The thought of the Astrologer’s broad face, with his drooping moustache covering the corners of his mouth, made him feel even more content: if the society succeeded, he could go on with his electro-magnetic experiments. He strode down the streets like an emperor down on his luck, not noticing that his easy swagger caught the eye of washerwomen passing by with baskets under their arms, and of seamstresses returning from the sweatshops with their bundles.

He would invent the death ray, a sinister violet beam with millions of volts’ power, which would melt the steel of dreadnoughts like a furnace melts a blob of wax, and would blow the cement cities to smithereens, as if volcanoes of dynamite had exploded under them. He saw himself as the Lord of the Universe. He summoned the ambassadors of the great powers with a terse command. He found himself in a huge glass-walled room with a round table in the middle. All around it, the old diplomats sat slumped in their armchairs, bald, ashen-faced, with hard, shifty eyes. Some tapped their pencils on the glass table-top, others smoked in silence, while a gigantic negro in green livery stood motionless beside the red velvet curtains draped over the doorway.

And he! Erdosain, Augusto Remo Erdosain, the ex-thief, the ex-debt collector, stood up. The glass table reflected the top half of his body, elegant in a double-breasted black blazer, with four fingers of his right hand thrust into his pocket, a sheaf of papers in the other. He stood and stared coldly at the ambassadors’ expressionless faces. A delicious frisson drained the blood from his face. The great heroes of the past came to life in him. Ulysses, Demetrius, Hannibal, Loyola, Napoleon, Lenin, Mussolini flashed in front of his eyes like huge burning wheels, then sank beneath the lonely earth in an other-worldly twilight.

His words poured out in short chunks, as hard and solid as steel. Captivated by the spectacle, he observed himself in an imaginary mirror, vibrant and proud.

He was imposing conditions.

The nations had to hand over their fleets, thousands of cannons and great stocks of rifles. Then a few hundred members of each race would be selected, taken to an island, and the rest of humanity destroyed. He would use the ray to blow up cities, sweep clean the fields, turn livestock and forests to ashes. All memory of knowledge, art and beauty would be lost for ever. An aristocracy of cynics, bandits as sceptical as they were civilised, would seize power, with him at their head. And since to be happy all men need to base their hope on a metaphysical lie, they would strengthen the clergy, and set up an inquisition to root out any heresy that might threaten the foundations of the dogma or unity of faith that would be the basis for human happiness. In this way, mankind could return to primitive society, and as in the time of the pharaohs devote itself to agriculture. This metaphysical lie would give mankind back the happiness that rational thought had killed off in its heart. His words fell with short sharp thuds, like steel rods. He told the ambassadors:

“Our city, the city of kings, will be of white marble, set beside the sea. It will measure seven leagues round, and will have lakes and woods, and rosy copper domes. This will be the dwelling-place of all the fake holy men, the false prophets, the quack magicians, the apocryphal goddesses. All science will be magic. Doctors will travel round disguised as angels, and when mankind multiplies too much, it will be punished by glowing dragons flying through the air to drop the bacteria of Asiatic cholera.

“Mankind will live immersed in miracles, and will be rich above all in faith. At night we’ll use powerful searchlights to project ‘The entry of the just into heaven’ on to the clouds. Can you imagine it? All of a sudden, a green and purple ray rises from behind the mountains, and the clouds become a garden where the dazzling air floats like snowflakes. An angel with rose-coloured wings will cross the divide, come to a halt at the gates of paradise, and with open arms will welcome in the just man, a man of the people, with his battered hat, long beard, and stick. Can you see it, you professional scoundrels, you eminent cynics? Can you? The angel with rose-coloured wings welcomes the man who on earth sweats and suffers. D’you realise how brilliant my idea is, how wonderful my simple miracle? And the masses will worship God on their knees, and only we, the sad bandits who have power, knowledge and the ultimate truth, will know that heaven does not exist.”

He shook as he spoke.

“We’ll be like gods. We’ll offer mankind tremendous miracles, delicious beauties, we’ll present them with the certainty of such a glorious future that all the priests’ promises will pale beside the reality of our apocryphal wonders. And finally, they’ll be happy … Can you see it, you cretins?”

A careless passer-by bumped into him and sent him flying against a wall. Erdosain got his breath back fearfully, clutching the money in his pocket. He was excited, like a tiger cub let loose in a brick jungle, and spat his defiance at the window of a fashion boutique:

“You will be ours, city.”

The Major followed close behind him.

The Astrologer was waiting for him at Temperley Station. He smiled warmly at Erdosain, who almost ran to meet him, but the other man took hold of his arms and stood looking into his eyes for a moment. Then he said:

“So, are you satisfied?”

Erdosain blushed. At that instant a double mystery was revealed to him. First, the Astrologer had not been lying, and second, he felt so close to him he could have talked endlessly with him, telling him all the most intimate details of his desolate life. All he managed to say was:

“Yes, I’m very happy.” The Astrologer came to a halt for a moment on the platform. Suddenly serious again, he said:

“D’you know something? Many of us have a superman inside. The superman is our will when it is fully realised, when it overcomes all moral scruples and carries out the most dreadful acts, with an almost naive joy … what you might call the innocent game of cruelty.”