Roberto Arlt - The Mad Toy

Suddenly I remembered with surprising clarity this passage from the work:

Rocambole forgot for a moment his physical pain. The prisoner, whose back was covered with weals dealt out by the Overseer’s stick, was in a daze: he thought to see before him like a confusing whirlpool Paris, Les Champs Elysées, the Boulevard des Italiens, the whole of that dazzling and deafening world in the bosom of which he had lived previously.

I thought:

‘And I… Will I be like that? Will I have as bright a life as Rocambole?’ And the words which I had said to The Crip before sounded once again in my ears, but as if they were being said by someone else:

‘Yes, life is beautiful, Crip… It’s beautiful. Think about it, the wide-open fields, imagine the cities on the other side of the sea. The women who’ll follow us; we’ll be sugar daddies in the cities across the sea.’

Slowly another voice grew louder in my ears:

‘A bastard… you’re a bastard.’

My mouth twisted. I remembered an idiot who lived next to my house and who was always saying in a nasal voice:

‘It’s not my fault.’

‘Bastard… you’re a bastard….’

‘It’s not my fault.’

‘Oh! Bastard… bastard…’

‘I don’t care… and I will be beautiful as Judas Iscariot. I will be in pain for the rest of my life… pain… Anguish will open vast spiritual horizons to my eyes… Why make such a fuss! Don’t I have the right…? Have I…? I will be beautiful as Judas Iscariot… and I will be in pain for the rest of my life… but… ah! Life is beautiful, Crip… it’s beautiful… and I… I will destroy you, I’ll cut your throat… I’ll let you down royally… yes, you… so clever… so cunning… I’ll sink you… yes, Crip, I’ll sink you… and then… then I’ll be beautiful as Judas Iscariot… and I’ll have a pain… pain… You pig!’

Huge golden stains carpeted the horizon, from which there arose storm clouds in tin plumes, surrounded by whirling orange veils.

I raised my head and near the zenith, among sheets of cloud, I saw a star shining weakly. It was like a spatter of water trembling in a crack made of blue porcelain.

I was in the suburb that The Crip worked.

The pavements were shaded by the thick foliage of acacia and privet. The street was calm, bourgeois in a romantic fashion, with painted fences protecting the gardens, little sleeping fountains among the bushes and a few damaged plaster statues. A piano could be heard in the dusky twilight, and I felt suspended among the sounds, like a drop of dew on the stem of a plant. So strong a gust of perfume came from an unseen rosebush that my knees shook as I was reading a brass plaque on one of the houses:

ARSENIO VITRI — Engineer

It was the only sign in three blocks that announced someone of that profession.

Like the other houses in the area, the flowering garden spread out in front of the living room, and stopped at the tiled path that led up to the sliding glass door; then it carried on to form an angle and cover the whole of the side wall of the house. A crystal canopy protected the upper floor from the rain.

I stopped and rang the bell.

The sliding door opened and in the doorway I saw a mono-browed mulatto woman with wicked eyes who asked me rudely what it was I wanted.

When I asked her if the engineer was in, she replied that she would go and see, and in her turn asked me who I was and what it was I wanted. Without getting annoyed I said that I was called Fernán González and that I was a draughtsman.

The mulatto came back and let me in, more friendly this time. We went through several shuttered rooms, then she suddenly opened the door into a study, and at a desk to the left with a green-shaded lamp on the top I saw a bent grey head; the man looked at me, I said hello and he signed for me to come in. Then he said:

‘A moment, señor, and I will be at your service.’

I looked at him. He was young despite his hair.

There was an expression of fatigue and melancholy in his face. He had deep worry-lines on his forehead, the bags under his eyes formed a triangle with his eyelids, and the ends of his lightly drooping lips mimicked the posture of that head, which he now held supported in the palm of his hand as he bent over a paper.

The walls of the room were covered with plans and designs of luxury buildings; I looked at a bookcase that was filled with volumes, and had managed to read one of the titles, Water Legislation , when Señor Vitri spoke to me:

‘How may I help you, señor?’

In a low voice I replied:

‘Excuse me, sir; first of all, are we alone?’

‘I would imagine so.’

‘May I ask what might seem an indiscreet question? You are not married, are you?’

‘No.’

Now he was looking at me seriously, and his narrow face gradually, so to speak, dropped its expression of grave contemplation and replaced it with one even more grave.

Leaning back in his chair, he had thrown his head back; his grey eyes looked sternly at me, at one moment they stared at the knot of my tie, then they paused at my own eyes and seemed, so immobile in their sockets, to be waiting to surprise something out of the ordinary in me.

I understood that I should stop beating around the bush.

‘Sir, I’ve come to tell you that they are planning to rob you tonight.’

I was expecting to surprise him, but I was mistaken.

‘Right, yes… and how do you know about this?’

‘I’ve been invited to be in on the theft by the thief. I know that you have taken a large sum of money out of the Bank and that you’ve put it in your strongbox here.’

‘That’s true…’

‘The thief has the keys, the key to the strongbox and the key to this room.’

‘Have you seen them yourself?’ He took a keyring out of his pocket and showed me a key with an over-large guard.

‘Is it this one?’

‘No, it’s this other one.’ I picked out one that was identical to the key The Crip had shown me.

‘Who are the thieves?’

‘The organiser is a cart attendant called The Crip, and your servant is his accomplice. She took your keys away at night and The Crip copied them very fast.’

‘And what was your role in this business?’

‘I… I was invited to the party as someone The Crip knew. He came to my house and asked me to be his accomplice.’

‘When did he see you last?’

‘At about midday today.’

‘And before that, did you know what this guy was planning?’

‘Not what he was planning, no. I know The Crip; we got to know each other because I sold paper to people at the fair he worked at.’

‘So you were his friend… it’s the sort of thing you only tell your friends.’

I blushed.

‘He wasn’t really my friend, no… But I was always interested in his psychology.’

‘Nothing else?’

‘No, why?’

‘I would say… But when were you meant to come tonight?’

‘We were going to wait for you to leave for your club, then the mulatto was going to open the door for us.’

‘It’s a good plan. Where does the guy you call The Crip live?’

‘Condarco 1375.’

‘Okay, it’ll all get sorted out. And where do you live?’

‘Caracas 824.’

‘Okay, come round tonight at about ten. Everything will be well guarded by then. Your name is Fernán González.’

‘No, I gave a false name just in case the mulatto knew via The Crip about my participation in this business. My name is Silvio Astier.’

The engineer rang an electric bell and looked around; a few moments later the maid appeared.

Arsenio Vitri’s face was immobile.

‘Gabriela, this gentleman will come tomorrow morning to pick up this roll of plans,’ — he pointed to a sheaf of papers abandoned on a chair — ‘give them to him even if I am not here.’