Roberto Arlt - The Seven Madmen

“Yes, and you no longer feel fear or anguish, it’s as if you’re walking on clouds.”

“Right, and the ideal would be to arouse this carefree, naive ferocity in as many men as possible. It’s our job to usher in the age of the Innocent Monster. It will happen, there’s no doubt about it. It’s simply a matter of time and being bold enough, but when men realise that their spirit is being swept down into the cesspit of this civilisation, they must change direction before they drown. The problem is, cowardice and Christianity have prevented them from realising just how sick they are.”

“But didn’t you want to bring everyone faith?”

“No, only the masses … but if that fails, we can always try the opposite tack. We haven’t finally chosen any one principle, and the wisest thing would be to have opposing ones ready just in case. Just like in a pharmacy, we’ll have a wide variety of perfect lies, each one labelled for a different disease of the mind or soul.”

“D’you know I reckon you’re the craziest of all of us, as Barsut said yesterday?”

“What’s known as madness is simply what most people aren’t accustomed to thinking. Look, if that porter over there told you all the ideas in his mind, you’d lock him up in an asylum. Of course, there can’t be many like us … the essential thing is that our actions will bring us fresh strength and energy. That’s where our salvation lies.”

“What about Barsut?”

“He hasn’t the faintest idea of what’s in store for him.”

“How will you do it?”

“Bromberg will strangle him … I don’t know, it doesn’t concern me.”

The two of them stepped round the puddles in the bright sunlight. Erdosain said to himself: “Our city, the city of kings, will be of white marble, set beside the sea … and we’ll be like gods” — at that he turned to his companion, eyes gleaming, and exclaimed — “d’you know that some day we’ll be like gods?”

“That’s what the common herd doesn’t understand. They’ve had their gods slaughtered. But the day will come when they run down the paths shouting: ‘We love God, we need God.’ What imbeciles! I can’t understand how they have killed God. But we’ll bring him back to life … we’ll invent grandiose gods — the epitome of civilisation … and life will be changed for ever!”

“What if it all fails?”

“It doesn’t matter … someone else will come … someone else will come to take my place. That’s what must happen. All we should wish for is that the idea sprouts in people’s imaginations … the day it exists in many souls, wonderful things will happen.”

Erdosain was amazed at how calm he felt.

He had lost all fear, and the room with the ambassadors came into his mind once more, his baleful gaze on the ancient diplomats gazing at him in consternation, their bald heads, ashen faces, hard, furtive eyes. Unable to contain himself, he shouted out:

“What a lot of fuss over wringing one blasted man’s neck!”

The Astrologer stared at him in surprise:

“Are you nervous, or do you get worked up for no particular reason, like an elephant?”

“No, it’s just that I’m so sick of these old-fashioned scruples I feel.”

“That’s what all you kids are like,” the Astrologer replied. “Like a cat not knowing whether to come in or go out.”

“Shall I watch the execution?”

“Does it interest you?”

“A lot.”

But as they entered the Astrologer’s property, a sick feeling churned Erdosain’s stomach, and the gastric taste of vomit rose in his throat. He could hardly stand up. He saw everything through a milky white haze. His arms hung down as heavy as bronze. He walked without any sense of distance; it seemed to him as though the air was turning to glass, as though the ground was heaving beneath his feet, and every now and then the vertical line of the trees seemed to zig-zag in front of his eyes. He panted wearily, his mouth was completely dry, and he could not moisten his parched lips or his burning throat. Only a sense of shame kept him on his feet.

When he next looked through half-closed eyes, he was going into the coachhouse with Bromberg.

The Man Who Saw the Midwife was walking along as if in a daze, his thick hair completely unkempt. His trousers were only loosely held up by his belt, and a bit of white shirt stuck out of the front of his flies like a handkerchief. He was trying to stifle enormous yawns with his fist. His sleepy, absentminded look did not fit in with his criminal intentions. He had fine eyes, blank and solemn as those of some great dumb beast, which gazed out from thick lashes that cast shadows on his rounded, girlish cheeks. Erdosain stared at him, but the other man did not even appear to notice him, so caught up was he in his own magnificent absurdity. Then with the same blank look he gazed across at the Astrologer, who nodded to him, and he undid the padlock. The three men stepped into the stable.

Barsut leapt to his feet: he wanted to talk. Bromberg sprang through the air, and there was the sound of a crack of skulls against wood. The sun painted a yellow rectangle in the dust. Muffled groans came from the shapeless heap on the floor. Erdosain watched the struggle with a cruel fascination, and suddenly, as Bromberg was throttling the other man with his powerful arms, his trousers slipped down, revealing two white buttocks under a crumpled shirt-tail. The groans had stopped. There was a moment’s quiet as the half-naked murderer continued to press his hands round the victim’s throat.

Erdosain stood there looking on immobile.

The Astrologer looked on with watch in hand. They all stayed motionless for two minutes, which to Erdosain seemed like an eternity.

“OK, that’s enough.”

Clumsily, his hair matted on his brow, Bromberg stood up. Without looking at anyone with his blank gaze, he hitched his trousers up, and fastened them as quickly as he could.

Then he left the stables. Erdosain followed him, while the Astrologer cast one last look at the murdered man. Barsut was lying on the floor staring at the ceiling, his jaws slack and his tongue lolling out of his twisted mouth.

Then a strange thing happened, without Erdosain being aware of it. Pausing at the stable door, the Astrologer turned back to look at the dead man, when all of a sudden Barsut raised his head and winked 5at him. The Astrologer touched his hat brim with one finger, then went out to join Erdosain, who burst out:

“Is that all?”

The Astrologer cast him a pitying glance.

“Did you really think it would be like in the theatre?”

“How are you going to get rid of the body?”

“We’ll dissolve it in nitric acid. I’ve got three containers full. But, to change the subject, what happened with the copper rose?”

“It came out perfectly. The Espilas are really happy. I saw a fine specimen last night.”

“OK then, let’s have lunch … we’ve earned it.”

As they were going into the dining-room, a thought struck the Astrologer: “Aren’t we going to wash our hands?”

Taken aback, Erdosain stared at him, then lifted his hands to look at them. The three of them filed out quickly to the bathroom, took off their jackets, and turned on the taps. Erdosain rolled his sleeves up and carefully washed himself with a bar of soap. Then he rinsed his hands and dried them briskly on the towel. Before they went out again, the Astrologer did something odd.

He took the towel and threw it into the bathtub, then took a bottle of alcohol and sprinkled it over the cloth. He struck a match, and for a minute both their faces were lit up in the dark room by the blue flames of the fuel consuming the towel. Eventually all that was left was a blackish pile of ashes: the Astrologer turned the tap on, and the water gushed out, flushing away the remains. The two men headed back to the dining-room.