The Mad Toy

by Roberto Arlt

  ‘Wow, that’s not bad.’

  ‘Next stop: mugging. You know what else he does?’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Think about it! One day I see him going out. “Where you off to?” I say. “To church,” he says. “Balls,” I say, “really, to church?” “Yup,” he says, and he starts to tell me about the box he’d seen in the wall by the entrance, for the alms and how he’d seen the end of a peso sticking out of it. So he squeezed up to the box and used a pin to get the peso out. And then he’d made a hook out of another pin to go and fish out all the pesos that were there. Can you believe it?’

  The Crip laughed, and though I wasn’t sure that Little Guy had invented that trick, I was sure that he would be keen to be the fisherman, but I didn’t say anything else, and instead, patting him on the back, said:

  ‘Oh, Crip, Crip, Crip!’

  And The Crip laughed in such a way as to twist his lips up over his teeth.

  Sometimes in the night.

  Mercy, have mercy upon us.

  Who on this earth will have mercy on us. Wretches, we have no God to bow down before and to bemoan our miserable lives.

  Whom shall I bow down before, whom shall I speak to about my spines and hard thorns, about this pain that appears during the burning afternoon, and which is still in me?

  How small we are, and mother earth does not want to hold us in her arms and here we are, bitter and dismantled by our impotence.

  Why do we know nothing of our God?

  Oh, if He would only come one evening and hold us, with his hands cradling our temples.

  What more could we ask? We would walk away with His smile still in our eyes and with tears hanging from our lashes.

  One day, Thursday, at two in the afternoon, my sister told me that there was an individual at the door waiting for me.

  I went out and was surprised to see The Crip, who was better dressed than normal, for he had replaced his red handkerchief with a modest cotton collar, and the florid sandals with a show-off pair of boots.

  ‘Hello, what are you doing here?’

  ‘Are you free, Blondy?’

  ‘Yes, why?’

  ‘Come on out, we need to talk.’

  ‘Of course, just give me a minute,’ and I went into the house and rapidly put my collar on, took my hat, and left. I should say that I was immediately suspicious, and although I couldn’t imagine what the purpose of The Crip’s visit might be, I resolved to keep on my guard.

  Once we were in the street I realised by looking at his face that he had something important to tell me, because he kept on glancing at me and then looking away again, but I kept my curiosity in hand, saying only:

  ‘And…?’

  ‘You haven’t been to the fair for days,’ he said.

  ‘Yes… I’ve been busy… What about you?’

  The Crip turned to look at me. Because we were walking on the shady side of the street he started to talk about the temperature, then about poverty, then about the difficulties inherent in his daily tasks; he also told me that in the last week someone had stolen a pair of reins and then, once he’d exhausted all possible topics of conversation, he stopped me in the middle of the pavement and, taking hold of my arm, said ex abrupto:

  ‘Tell me, che Blondy, can I trust you or not?’

  ‘And you’ve dragged me out here to ask me that?’

  ‘But can I trust you or not?’

  ‘Look, Crip, tell me, do you believe in me?’

  ‘Yes… I’ve got faith… but tell me, can I talk to you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Look, let’s go in here then, we’ll have a drink.’ The Crip walked to the drinks counter in a grocery, asked for a bottle of beer from the potboy, sat us down at a table in the darkest corner of the room, and after drinking, The Crip said, as if he were getting a great weight off his shoulders:

  ‘I’ve got to ask your advice, Blondy. You’re really scientific. But, please, che… look, Blondy…’

  I interrupted him:

  ‘Look, Crip, hold on a second. I don’t know what you’ve got to tell me, but let me say that I know how to keep a secret. I won’t ask you anything and I won’t tell anything to anyone else.’

  The Crip put his hat on the chair. He was still vacillating, and in his hawkish profile his mental indecision was gently reflected in the movement of the muscles over his jaws. There was a raging fire in his eyes, then he looked at me closely and explained himself:

  ‘It’s a masterplan, Blondy. Ten thousand pesos at least.’

  I looked at him coldly, with the coldness that comes from having discovered a secret that can prove extremely beneficial, and I replied in such a way as to inspire him to confide in me.

  ‘I don’t know what this is about, but it’s not a lot.’

  The Crip’s mouth opened slowly.

  ‘Not. A. Lot. At least ten thousand pesos, Blondy… At least.’

  ‘There’s two of us,’ I insisted.

  ‘Three,’ he replied.

  ‘Worse and worse.’

  ‘But the third one’s my woman.’ Without further explanation he took a key, a little flattened key, out of his pocket and put it on the table, leaving it there. I didn’t touch it.

  I looked into his eyes, he smiled as if a mad joy had filled his soul, he turned momentarily pale; he drank two glasses of beer one after another, wiped his lips with the back of his hand and said in a voice that did not seem his own:

  ‘Life is beautiful!’

  ‘Yes, Crip, life is beautiful. 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.’

  ‘Do you know how to dance, Blondy?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘They say that over there guys who can dance the tango get married to lady millionaires… And I’m going to go there, Blondy, I’m going to get there.’

  ‘What’s the score?’

  He looked at me hard, and then joy opened his face, and a great kindness filled his hawkish visage.

  ‘If you only knew how I’ve worked, Blondy. You see this key? It’s the key to a strongbox.’ He put his hand into his pocket and pulled out another larger key. ‘This is the key to the room where they keep the strongbox. I got it made in a night, Blondy, filing all the time. I worked like a black.’

  ‘She brought them to you?’

  ‘Yes, the first one I’ve had made for a month, the second one I made the day before yesterday. Then I went to wait for you at the fair, and you didn’t turn up.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘You want to help me? We’ll go halves. It’s ten thousand pesos, Blondy. They put them in the strongbox yesterday.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘He went to the Bank. He brought back a big heap. She saw it and she says that they’re all big, bright notes.’

  ‘And you’ll give me half of it?’

  ‘Yes, we’ll go halves, are you up for it?’

  I sat up quickly in the chair, pretending to be extremely enthusiastic.

  ‘Congratulations Crip, it’s a great plan.’

  ‘You really think so, Blondy?’

  ‘Not even a pro could have planned this better than you. No jemmying, no need to force the lock. All clean as a whistle.’

  ‘Right, eh…?’

  ‘Clean as a whistle. We’ll hide the woman.’

  ‘No need, I’ve got a flat with a basement that I’m renting; I’ll stash her away for the first few days there. Then with her got up as a man, I’ll take her to the North.’

  ‘Shall we go, Crip?’

  ‘Okay, let’s go.’

  The canopy of the plane trees protected us from the worst of the sun. The Crip, thoughtful, let his cigarette smoke away between his lips.

  ‘Who’s the owner of the house?’ I asked him.

  ‘An engineer.’

  ‘Oh, an engineer?’

  ‘Yes,
but let’s have it, Blondy, are you up for it?’

  ‘Why not… okay, man… I’m bored of walking around selling paper. Always the same life, breaking yourself down for nothing. Tell me, Crip, does life have a meaning? We work to eat and eat so we can work. A bit of fun, a few crappy parties, and every day the same, Crip. It’s boring already.’

  ‘Yeah, Blondy, you’re right… So you’re up for it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So we’ll do the job tonight.’

  ‘So soon?’

  ‘Yeah, he goes out every night. He goes to the club.’

  ‘Is he married?’

  ‘No, he lives alone.’

  ‘How far is it?’

  ‘Not far, the block before Nazca, in Bogotá Street. If you want we can go and see the house.’

  ‘How many floors has it got?’

  ‘It’s not a tall house, it’s got a garden at the front. All of the doors lead out to the porch. There’s a strip of land that goes all the way along the front.’

  ‘And what about her?’

  ‘She’s the maid.’

  ‘Who cooks?’

  ‘The cook.’

  ‘So he’s rich.’

  ‘You have to see the house! The furniture!’

  ‘And when are we going to go tonight?’

  ‘Eleven.’

  ‘And she’ll be there alone?’

  ‘Yes, the cook goes home as soon as she’s done cooking.’

  ‘Is it safe?’

  ‘It’s safe. The nearest streetlight’s half a block away, she’s going to leave the door open, we’ll go in and go straight to the office, take the loot, divide it up right there, and then I’ll take her off to the hiding place.’

  ‘And the cops?’

  ‘The cops… the cops go for guys with a record. I work as a cart attendant, and anyway, we’ll wear gloves.’

  ‘You want my advice, Crip?’

  ‘Advise away.’

  ‘Okay, listen to me. The first thing we have to do is not be seen there today. Some neighbour could notice us and turn us over. And there’s no point if you know the house already. Right. Next: when does the engineer leave the house?’

  ‘Nine-thirty, ten, but we can watch out for him.’

  ‘It’s only ten minutes to open the box.’

  ‘Not even that, the key’s already been tried.’

  ‘Well done, very thoughtful… So we can go straight there at eleven.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And where shall we meet?’

  ‘Anywhere.’

  ‘No, we need to be careful. I’ll be in Las Orquideas at ten-thirty. You come in, but don’t say hello or anything. Sit down at another table, and we’ll both leave at eleven, I’ll follow you, you go into the house and then I’ll go, and then we each leave separately.’

  ‘That’s less suspicious. Good thinking… Have you got a revolver?’

  ‘No.’

  Suddenly a weapon shone in his hand, and before I could stop him he slid it into my pocket.

  ‘I’ve got another one.’

  ‘No need.’

  ‘You never know what might happen.’

  ‘You’d kill someone?’

  ‘I… what a question, of course I would!’

  ‘Wow.’

  Some passers-by made us shut up. A happiness came down from the blue sky and transformed itself to sadness in my guilty soul. I remembered something I had meant to ask, and said:

  ‘How will she know that we’re coming tonight?’

  ‘I’ll call her.’

  ‘And the engineer isn’t in the house during the day?’

  ‘No, if you want I can call her now.’

  ‘Where from?’

  ‘This store.’

  The Crip went in to buy an aspirin and came out shortly afterwards. He had spoken to his woman.

  I feared a set-up, and I asked for clarification:

  ‘You were banking on me to do this, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, Blondy.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because.’

  ‘Everything’s ready.’

  ‘Everything.’

  ‘Have you got gloves?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll put some stockings over my hands, it’s the same thing.’

  We fell silent.

  All afternoon we walked at random, lost in thought, both of us overwhelmed by our separate, and very different, ideas.

  I remember we went to a boules court.

  We had a drink there, but life rolled around us like the world spins round in a drunk man’s eyes.

  Images that had slept for a long time, images like clouds, raised themselves in my conscience, the solar glare hurt my eyes, a great tiredness weighed down on my senses and every now and then I would say something rapidly without making any sense.

  The Crip looked at me abstractedly.

  Suddenly a subtle idea split in two within my spirit, and I felt it heading down to my warm guts, it was as cold as a thread of water and it touched my heart.

  ‘What if I handed him in?’

  Scared that he might be able to read my thoughts I looked at The Crip in alarm, but he was sitting in the shade of a tree, looking with sleepy eyes at the bowling area, where the balls lay scattered about.

  It was a sombre place, the right place to think up fierce ideas.

  Broad Nazca Street got lost in the distance. Next to the tarred wall of a tall building, the groundsman’s lean-to was made of green-painted wood, and all over the rest of the area were positioned the parallel sandy strips.

  Iron tables were laid out in various positions.

  Once again I thought:

  ‘What if I handed him in?’

  With his chin on his chest and his hat pulled down over his forehead, The Crip had gone to sleep. A sunbeam fell on one leg, on his trousers stained with patches of grease.

  Then a great disgust took hold of my spirit and I grabbed him roughly by one arm and shouted:

  ‘Crip.’

  ‘Eh… eh… what?’

  ‘Come on, Crip.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Home. I need to pack. We do the job tonight and tomorrow we get out of here.’

  ‘Okay, let’s go.’

  Once I was alone, various fears rose up in my mind. I saw my existence spent among mankind. Infamy pulled my life this way and that in their lives and everyone could touch me with a finger. And as for me, I never belonged to myself again.

  I said to myself:

  ‘Because if I do this I’ll ruin the life of the noblest man I’ve ever known. If I do this I will be eternally condemned. And I will be alone, as lonely as Judas Iscariot. I’ll be in pain for the rest of my life. I’ll be in pain for the rest of my days.’ And I saw myself move through the spaces of my inner life, like a pain that was shameful even to me.

  It would be useless to try to mingle with the anonymous crowd. Memory, like a rotten tooth, would be within me, and its stench would make all the perfumes of the earth seem rotten to me, but the more I tried to push this deed away from myself, the more my perverseness found infamy attractive.

  Why not? I would have a secret, a salty repugnant secret, one that would make me investigate the origins of my dark roots. And if I have nothing to do, when I’m feeling sad, I’ll think about The Crip and ask myself ‘Why was I such a bastard?’ and I will not know the answer, and in my searching I will find curious spiritual horizons opening before me. Also, this could be profitable for me. ‘The truth,’ I said to myself, ‘the truth is that I’m a crazy man with elements of the scoundrel about him; but Rocambole was the same: he committed murder… I won’t kill anyone. For a few francs he bore false witness against Papa Nicolo and got him hanged. He strangled and killed the old woman Fipart who loved him like a mother… he killed Captain Williams, who was the reason he became a marquis and got all his millions. Whom didn’t he betray?’

  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: