by Roberto Arlt
The Astrologer's yellow smock seemed to be the robe of some Buddhist monk. The Astrologer continued: "Do you know they burned several men alive?"
"Yes," said the Ruffian. "I read the telegrams."
Erdosain now began to take a good look at the Melancholy Ruffian. The Astrologer called him that because many years ago the pimp had tried to kill himself. That was a mysterious affair. Overnight, and after years of exploiting prostitutes, Haffner shot a bullet into his chest, right next to his heart. Only the contraction of the organ at the precise moment of the bullet's entry saved him. Later, he went on with his life just as always, only maybe with a little added glamor from this gesture which made no sense to any of his fellow vultures. The Astrologer went on:
"The Ku Klux Klan collected millions—"
In a fit of despair the Ruffian cut in:
"Yes, and their Dragon—and a dragon is the right word for him!—gets hauled into court for theft." The Astrologer ignored this outburst. "What in Argentina prevents the formation of a secret sect that could grow just as strong as that one did there? And I'll speak frankly now. I don't know if our group will be Bolshevik or Fascist. Sometimes I think the best thing would be to invent some tutti-frutti that would leave everyone guessing. See, I'm being as open about all this as anybody could ask. What I mean to do is make a big something to be the ultimate focus of human yearnings. My plan is to appeal especially to young Bolsheviks, students, and intelligent proletarians. Besides them, we'll appeal to all the world reformers, clerks who fantasize being millionaires, frustrated inventors—not you, of course, Erdosain—plus anyone who's been laid off or else had some run-in with the law, people who're out on the street not knowing where to turn—"
Erdosain remembered what had brought him to the Astrologer's house, and said: "I have to talk to you—"
"Just a moment... I'll be with you," and he resumed his pitch. "The power of our group will come not from member contributions, but from brothels each cell will set up for funding. When I talk about a secret society, I don't mean the classic setup but some supermodern version, where each member and initiate has an interest and shares earnings, since that's the only way to really get them involved in the projects which only a few will be very informed about. Anyway, that's the business side of it. The brothels will fund the growing branches of the society. In the mountains, we'll build a revolutionary training camp. There, we'll school new recruits in anarchist tactics, revolutionary propaganda, military hardware, industrial planning, so as soon as they get out of training they can set up a new cell anywhere. Do you see? The secret society will have its training institute, the Revolutionary Institute."
The clock on the wall struck five. Erdosain saw there was no time to lose, and burst out:
"Forgive my interrupting. I came on serious business. Do you have six hundred pesos?"
The Astrologer put down his pointer and crossed his arms.
"What's your problem?"
"If I don't show up with six hundred pesos tomorrow the Sugar Company will send me to jail."
Both men stared at Erdosain. He had to be in great distress to go blurting out his plea like that. Erdosain went on:
"You have to help me. Over the past few months, I managed to embezzle six hundred pesos. Somebody turned me in with an anonymous letter. If I don't bring the money in tomorrow, they'll send me to jail."
"And how did you come to steal all that money?"
"It just happened, sort of one day at a time."
The Astrologer fiddled with his beard in dismay.
"But how did it happen?"
Erdosain had to explain all over again. Whenever the retailers got a shipment of goods, they signed a receipt showing they owed whatever the price was. Erdosain, along with the other clerks in his department, got a bunch of those receipts at the end of the month and had thirty days to collect.
The bills which they said they could not collect on just stayed with them until the retailers paid up. And Erdosain went on:
"Just think, the clerk was so lax about it that he never checked back on the bills we said we couldn't collect on, so if we did collect and pocketed the money, we could just enter it as a regular bill paid and then cover for it using money from a bill we collected on later. See how the coverup worked?"
Erdosain was the vortex of the triangle formed by the three. The Melancholy Ruffian and the Astrologer exchanged glances from time to time. Haffner flicked the ash from his cigarette and then, with one eyebrow cocked, kept examining Erdosain from head to foot. At last he put a strange question to him:
"Did you get pleasure from stealing?"
"No, none ..."
"But why are you still wearing those wornout shoes?"
"I didn't make much money."
"What about all that money you stole, though?"
"It never occurred to me to buy shoes with that money."
That was the truth. His initial glee at getting away with spending somebody else's money soon wore out. One day Erdosain noticed he was full of a restless ache that turned sunny skies soot black in a way that only a wretched soul could perceive.
When he found out he already owed four hundred pesos, the shock plunged him into madness. Then he dashed about in a mad frenzy trying to get the money spent. He bought candy, which he never even liked, lunched on crab, tortoise soup, and frogs in restaurants that charge for the privilege of sitting among the well-dressed, he drank expensive liquors and wines which were wasted on his untrained taste buds, and still he was without the most necessary items for simple comfort, such as underwear, shoes, neckties ...
He started giving money to beggars and big tips to waiters who served him, just to be rid of the last bits of that stolen money he carried in his billfold and that might be taken away from him at any moment.
"So you never thought about new shoes?" insisted Haffner.
"Really, now that you make me think about it, it does seem strange, but to tell the truth I never thought those things could be bought with stolen money."
"So, what did you spend the money on?"
"I gave two hundred pesos to a family of friends, the Espilas, to buy an accumulator and set up a small galvanoplasties lab, for the production of a copper rose, which is—"
"Yes, I know already—"
"Yes, I told him all about it," said the Astrologer.
"And the other four hundred?"
"I don't know ... I spent them just in a crazy way..."
"And what's your plan now?"
"I don't know."
"Don't you know anyone to help you out?"
"No, no one. I went to a relative of my wife's, Barsut, ten days ago. He said he couldn't..."
"So you go to jail?"
"Well, of course ..."
The Astrologer turned to the pimp and said:
"You know I need to have a thousand pesos. That's for setting up my big projects. So all I can give you, Erdosain, is three hundred pesos. Still, my friend, you sure manage to look after your affairs!"
Suddenly Erdosain forgot all about Haffner and burst out:
"It's unhappiness. You know what I mean? This fucking unhappiness is what pulls you under—"
"How's that?" interrupted the Ruffian.
"I said, it's unhappiness. You steal, you do all these crazy things because you're unhappy. You walk down the streets under a yellow sun, and it looks like a festering plague sun.... Sure. You have to have been down to know. Walking around with five thousand pesos in your pocket, still you're miserable. And suddenly a little idea blooms: to steal. That night you can't sleep for joy. The next day you do your accounts, you're shaking all over but you make it look really good, and so you have to keep on with it—it's just like your suicide attempt."
These words made Haffner sit bolt upright in his armchair and grip his knees with clenched fingers. The Astrologer tried to shush Erdosain. It was no use, for he went on in the same vein:
"Yes, just like your suicide attempt. I've often pictured it to myself. You
were sick of pimping. If you only knew how much I've wanted to meet you! I said to myself: that must be one strange pimp. Of course, out of a thousand men like you who deal in women, there's one who's like you. You asked me if I got pleasure from stealing. Now, you tell me if you get pleasure—But, what the hell, I'm not here to give explanations, see? What I need is money, not a lot of talk."
Erdosain had got up, and now he stood clenching his hat brim in his fists. He glared indignantly at the Astrologer, at his hat blocking the view of Kansas on his map, and at the Ruffian, who stuck his hands between belt and pants. Haffner settled back into the armchair covered in green velvet, propped one cheek on his plump hand and with a smirk he said calmly:
"Sit down, here, friend, I'll give you that six hundred pesos."
Erdosain pulled his arms up against his sides. Then, not moving, he stared for a time at the Ruffian. The man insisted, and this time emphasized his words more clearly.
"Relax, sit down. I’ll give you that six hundred pesos. What are real men for?"
Erdosain did not know what to say. He was flooded with the same terrible torrent of sadness that had been unleashed in his soul when the pig-headed office boss told him he could go now. So, life was not so bad, after all.
"Let's do it like this," said the Astrologer. "I give him three hundred pesos and you give him the other three hundred."
"No," said Haffner. "You need the money. I don't. I have three women bringing it in." And, turning to Erdosain, he went on: "So see, now, how things have a way of working out? Things okay now?"
He spoke with a smirking calm, with the unshakable cool of a country man who knows that he knows enough about the natural world to cope with any crisis. And it was only then that Erdosain noticed the overpowering rose scent and the tap dripping into the barrel, plunking clearly outside the half-open door. Outside, the roads meandered away, wavy in the afternoon sun, and birds sitting in the pomegranate trees bent the boughs downward in great sagging clusters of scarlet asterisks.
Again a nasty gleam appeared in the Ruffian's eyes. Cocking one eyebrow, he waited for Erdosain to light up with joy, but, when that didn't happen, he said:
"Have you been going on like this for long?"
"Yes, quite a while."
"Do you remember I once told you, even before you had confided in me, that you couldn't go on living the way you were?" the Astrologer objected.
"Yes, but I didn't feel like talking about it. I don't know... things that really confuse you are the ones you won't talk about even with people you know you can trust."
"When will you put the money back?"
"Tomorrow."
"Good, then I'll write you a check right now. You'll have to cash it tomorrow."
Haffner turned to the desk. He pulled out his checkbook and wrote the sum firmly, then signed his name.
Erdosain went through a paralyzed moment of utter suspension, as unthinking as someone who is confronted with a dream landscape that stays in his memory later, so that he would swear that sometimes life really operates with an intelligent fatalism.
"Here you go, pal."
Erdosain took the check, and without reading it folded it twice and put it in his pocket. It was all over in a minute. It was more absurd than anything in a novel, and yet it was a real live person doing it. And he did not know what to say. Just a minute before he was six hundred pesos and seven cents in debt. Now he was no longer in debt, and this miracle had been worked by a single move on the Ruffian's part. By all standards of logic it should not even have happened, but it went off without a hitch. He wanted to say something. He peered again into the face of that man lounging in the frayed velvet armchair. Now the revolver stood out visibly under the gray fabric of the suit coat, and Haffner, irritated, propped his bluish cheek on three flashy-nailed fingers. He wanted to thank the Ruffian, but no words came to him. The man understood, and, turning to the Astrologer, who had sat down on a stool by the desk, said:
"So then, your society will be very big on obedience?"
"That and industrialism. We need gold if we want to seize men's minds. So just as there was mysticism in religion and then again with chivalry and knights-errant, what we need is industrial mysticism. Make man see how beautiful it is to head a great foundry, as beautiful as it used to be to discover a continent. My political man, my student, my right hand in the movement will be someone who sets out to win happiness through industry. He will be a revolutionary equipped to speak on fabric processing as well as the demagnetization of steel. That's why I was so impressed when I met Erdosain. He thought along these exact same lines. You remember how often we talked about how many ideas we shared. The creation of a proud, beautiful, inexorable man who will harness the multitudes and show them a future based on science. How else can we have a social revolution? The leader of today must be a man who knows everything. We will create this prince of wisdom. The society will undertake the fabrication and dissemination of his myth. A Ford or an Edison has a thousand more chances to touch off a revolution than a politician. Do you think future dictatorships will be the military type? No, sir, the military man is nothing compared to an industrialist. The most he can be is the industrialist's tool. That's all. Future dictators will be kings of petroleum, steel, wheat. Through our society, we will set the scene for all this. We will familiarize people with our theories. For that purpose, there has to be a thorough study of propaganda techniques. We need to use students, both male and female. Science must be made to seem glamorous, must be made accessible to everybody ..."
"I'm going now," said Erdosain.
He was going to say good-bye to Haffner when the man said:
"Wait a minute, listen."
The Astrologer and the pimp went out for a moment, then came back in, and as he said his good-byes at the door of the house, Erdosain looked back and saw that giant man with his arms raised in farewell.
The Opinions of the Melancholy Ruffian
And once they were around the corner from the house, Erdosain said:
"You know I have no way to thank you for the huge favor you just did me? Why did you give me the money?"
The man, who swaggered a little in the shoulders as he walked, turned to him and replied tartly:
"I don't know. You just caught me in the right mood is all. It's not like I had to do it every day ... but coming at me like that... anyway, look, I'll make it back in a week easy."
A question popped out spontaneously. "How come, if you already have a fortune, you keep pimping?"
Haffner turned on him, looking feisty, then said: "Look here, pimping isn't a game any fool can play. You know? So why should I leave three women at loose ends when they can bring in two thousand pesos a month? Would you just let them go? No. So?"
"And you don't love them? None of them especially appeals to you?"
As soon as it was out of his mouth, Erdosain saw what an asinine question he had asked. The pimp looked at him a second, then answered:
"Now listen to this. If tomorrow some doctor came and told me: that Basque woman of yours will be dead in a week on or off the job, then I'd let that woman, who's brought me in some thirty thousand pesos over four years, work six days more and die the seventh."
The pimp was hoarse now. There was some rabid, bitter streak running through his words, a bitter streak Erdosain would later recognize in that whole breed of operators and bored sharpers.
"Pity, huh?" he went on. "Listen, it's idiotic to pity a woman who sells herself. No woman could be harder, more bitter than the one who goes into the streets. Don't be surprised, because I know them. The only way to keep them in line is with the back of your hand. Like ninety percent of all people, you see the pimp as the exploiter and the prostitute as the victim. But tell me: what would a woman do with the money she brings in? What novelists don't mention is that a woman like that without a man goes running all over looking for a man to cheat her, smash her down every so often, and take all the money she makes, because that's what a mutt she is. Th
ey say woman is equal to man. What garbage. Woman is inferior to man. Take your wild savage tribe. She does the cooking, the work, everything, but the male goes off to hunt or fight. Same for modern life. The man, apart from making money, does nothing. And believe me, if you don't take a hooker's money she'll think very little of you. It's true, as soon as she starts to grow fond of you the first thing she wants is for you to hit on her ... She goes into ecstasy when you ask her, 'Ma chérie, could you loan me one hundred pesos?' Then she feels things are okay between you. At last the filthy money she makes is good for something if it makes her man happy. Naturally, novelists leave that part of it out. And people think we're monsters or some exotic creatures, that whole image they get from the pulps. But come live in our world, get to know it, and you'll see it's just like the middle class or aristocracy. The kept woman looks down on the showgirl, the showgirl looks down on the streetwalker, the streetwalker looks down on the woman in a brothel and, the funny thing is, just as the brothel girl almost always finds a man to take her for all she's worth, the showgirl finds some little rich kid, or even some crumbbum doctor to exploit her. The psychology of the hooker? You have it in a nutshell in something one told me through her tears when a friend of mine gave her the heave-ho: 'Encore avec mon cul je peux soutenir un homme.' That's the part people don't know and novelists don't tell them. A French proverb says it all: 'Gueuse seule ne peut pas mener son cul.'"
Erdosain looked at him stupefied. Haffner went right on:
"Who looks after her like the pimp? Who takes care of her when she's sick or gets busted? What do people know about that? If some Saturday morning you heard a woman say to her 'marlu,' 'Mon chéri, I made fifty pesos more this week than last,' you'd take up pimping, see? Because that woman tells you 'I made fifty more' just in the same tone an honest woman uses to tell her husband: 'Dear, by not buying a new dress and doing the laundry at home, I saved thirty pesos this month.' Believe me, friend, woman, honest or not, is an animal crazed with the idea of self-sacrifice. She's just made that way. Why do you think the Church fathers thought so little of women? Because most of them had sown a lot of wild oats and saw first-hand what a little animal she is. And the hooker is even worse. She's like a child, you have to point everything out to her. 'You can walk past this place, only keep away from that corner, don't say hi to that "operator." Don't go getting into a fight with that woman.' You have to tell her everything."