by Roberto Arlt
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.’
Then he stood up and held out his hand to me coldly and I left accompanied by the maid.
The Crip was arrested at nine-thirty that night. He lived in a wooden attic, in a house owned by some poor people. The agents who were waiting for him had found out from Little Guy that The Crip had come home, ‘gone through his stuff and left’. As they didn’t know where he usually went, they appeared unannounced to the lady of the house, made it clear that they were police agents and then went up the steep staircase to The Crip’s room. It looked at first as if there was nothing there worth the trouble of examining. However, and this was an inexplicable and strange thing, they found the two keys, the strongbox key and the office key, hanging on a nail in full view of anyone who came in. In a kerosene tin, alongside some old rags, they found a revolver, and hidden away almost at the bottom of the tin, some newspaper cuttings. They referred to a robbery whose perpetrators had never been identified by the police.
Because they were all articles about the same crime, they assumed with reason that The Crip must have something to do with it, and they formally arrested Little Guy on suspicion of being somehow involved as well: that is, they sent him with an agent down to the local police station.
There was also a white pine table in the attic, with a drawer. They found a lathe and a set of fine files in the drawer. Some of them showed signs of recent use.
With all the evidence gathered and bagged up, the landlady was again called for.
She was a little old lady, rude and greedy; she wrapped up her head with a black kerchief that knotted under her chin. White curls dropped over her forehead, and her jaw swung wide when she spoke. What she had to say shed little light on The Crip’s movements. She had known him for three months. He paid her punctually and worked in the mornings.
When asked about the visits that the thief had received, she gave vague details; however she did remember that ‘last Sunday a black woman came by at three in the afternoon and left at six along with Antonio.’
Deciding that there was no possibility of her being complicit in these events, they ordered her to maintain complete discretion, something which the old woman promised for fear of later complications, and the two agents went back up to the attic to wait for The Crip, because the engineer had explicitly said that The Crip should be arrested at his own house, in order to lighten the punishment he would receive. Maybe he also thought that I was closer to The Crip than I had implied.
The agents thought that he wouldn’t come; he might have dinner in some restaurant in the suburbs, and get drunk to build up enough courage, but they were wrong.
The Crip had won some money with his three-way bets. Aft
er he had left me he’d gone back to the attic to go out later to a brothel he knew. When it was almost shop closing time he went to one that sold luggage and bought some luggage.
Then he went back to his room, very far from being aware of what awaited him. He went up the stairs humming a tango, emphasising the beat by bumping his suitcase against the steps.
When he opened the door he put the suitcase down on the floor.
Then he put his hand in his pocket to get out his box of matches and at that moment a heavy blow on his chest caused him to take a step backwards, just as another policeman caught hold of his arm.
It’s clear that The Crip must have understood what all this was about, because with a desperate effort he tore himself free.
The policemen, trying to follow him, tripped over the suitcase and one of them fell down the stairs, and as he fell his revolver fell out of his pocket and went off.
The noise filled the denizens of the house with terror, and they wrongly attributed the shot to The Crip, who had not yet managed to get through the street door.
Then a terrible thing happened.
The old woman’s son, a butcher, having found out from his mother what was going on, took his stick and went off after The Crip.
He caught up with him after thirty paces. The Crip ran dragging his useless leg, the stick hit him on the arm, he turned his head and the stick hit his cranium.
Dazed by the blow, he tried to defend himself with a single hand, but a policeman who had just arrived tripped him up, and another blow to his shoulder knocked him down. When they put the cuffs on him, The Crip let out a great shout of pain:
‘Ay, mamita!’ But another blow made him shut up and he disappeared into the dark street with his wrists chained together and being led by other chains which the agents marching at his shoulders twisted vindictively.
When I got to the house of Arsenio Vitri, Gabriela was not there.
She had been arrested a few minutes after I had left.
A police officer who had been called in accused her in the presence of the engineer. The mulatto denied everything to begin with, but when they lied and told her that The Crip had been arrested, she began to cry.
Those people who witnessed this scene will never forget it.
The dark woman, cornered, with her eyes shining brightly looked all around her, like a wild beast preparing to spring.
She shuddered incredibly strongly; but when they repeated that the Crip had been arrested and that he was going to suffer because of her, then she softly began to weep; they were such delicate tears that the people around her frowned all the more… suddenly she raised her arms, her fingers came to a halt in the knot of her hair, she pulled out a comb that she wore there and shook her hair out over her back, then she said, putting her hands together, and looking madly at the people present:
‘Yes, it’s right… it’s right… let’s go… let’s go find Antonio…’
They took her to the police station in a wagon.
Arsenio Vitri received me in his office. He was pale and he didn’t look at me as he spoke:
‘Sit down.’
Unexpectedly he asked me in a harsh voice:
‘How much do I owe you?’
‘What?’
‘Yes, how much do I owe you…? Your type can only be paid.’
I understood the contempt that he threw in my face.
I stood up, growing pale.
‘Yes, I see, you can only pay me. Keep your money, I haven’t asked for it. Goodbye.’
‘No, come on, sit down… Tell me, why did you do this?’
‘Why?’
‘Yes, why did you betray your friend? For no reason. Aren’t you ashamed to have so little dignity at your age?’
Blushing to the roots of my hair, I replied:
‘It’s right… There are moments in our lives when we need to be scum, to make ourselves dirty even on the inside, to do something infamous, I don’t know… to destroy a man’s life for ever… and after doing this then we can walk with our heads held high again.’
Vitri didn’t look at my face. His eyes were fixed on the knot of my tie and his face dropped its serious expression and replaced it with one even more serious.
I continued:
‘You have insulted me, but it doesn’t matter.’
‘I could have helped you,’ he murmured.
‘You could have paid me, and now you can’t even do that, because I feel, in spite of all my scandalous behaviour, I feel superior to you.’ And growing suddenly angry I shouted at him:
‘Who are you? It still feels like a dream that I handed The Crip in.’
With a smooth voice he replied:
‘And why are you like this?’
A heavy tiredness fell quickly upon me and I let myself collapse into the chair.
‘Why? God only knows. Even if I live a thousand years I’ll never forget The Crip’s face. What will happen to him? God only knows; but the memory of The Crip will always be in my life, will be in my spirit like the memory of losing a child. He could come and spit in my face and I wouldn’t say anything.’
An enormous sadness passed over my life. I would always remember this moment.
‘If that’s how it is,’ the engineer babbled, and suddenly he got up with his bright eyes fixed on the knot in my tie, and he murmured as if in a dream: ‘You’ve said it. It’s like that. You obey this brutal law that you have within yourself. That’s how it is. That’s how it is. You obey the fierce law. That’s how it is; but who told you that this law exists? Where did you learn it?’
I replied:
‘It’s like there’s a world that will soon fall upon us.’
‘But did you ever imagine that one day you’d become like Judas?’
‘No, but I am calm now. I will go through life as if I were a dead man. I see life like that, like a great yellow desert.’
‘Doesn’t that worry you?’
‘Why? Life is so large. A moment ago it seemed to me that what I did was preordained ten thousand years ago; then I thought that the world split in two, that everything became a far purer colour and that mankind was not ruined.
A boyish smile appeared on Vitri’s face. He said:
‘Is that how it appears to you?’
‘Yes, that will happen one day… it will happen and people will go through the streets asking each other: “Is it right, is this true?”’
‘Tell me, have you ever been ill?’
I understood what he thought and I continued with a smile:
‘No… I know what you’re thinking… But listen to me… I’m not mad. There is a truth, yes… and it is that life will always be extraordinarily beautiful to me. I don’t know if people will sense the life-force as I sense it, but there is a joy in me, a sort of joy-filled unconsciousness.’ A sudden lucidity allowed me to see the motives behind my previous actions and I continued: ‘I’m not perverted, I am curious about this vast force that there is within me…’
‘Go on, go on.’
‘Everything takes me by surprise. Sometimes I feel that I only came to the earth an hour ago and that everything is new, fresh, beautiful. Then I would be able to embrace people in the street, to stop in the middle of the pavement to ask them: “Why do you walk with such sad faces? Life is beautiful, beautiful…” Don’t you think so?’
‘Yes…’
‘And knowing that life is beautiful makes me happy, because everything is filled with flowers… You want to go down on your knees and give thanks to God for allowing us to be born.’
‘And do you believe in God?’
‘I believe that God is the joy there is in life. If you only knew! Sometimes it seems to me that my soul is as large as Flores cathedral… and I want to laugh, to go out into the street and give people friendly punches…’
‘Go on…’
‘Aren’t you bored?’
‘No, go on.’
‘The thing is, that you can’t tell people these things. They think you
’re mad. And I ask myself: what do I do with this life there is in me? And I would like to give it away… to give it as a present… to get close to people and tell them: “You have to be happy!” You get me? “You have to play at pirates… you have to build marble cities… you have to laugh… you have to make fireworks…”’
Arsenio Vitri stood up and said with a smile:
‘That’s all very well, but you have to work. How can I help you?’
I thought for a second, then said:
‘Look; I wanted to go to the South… to Neuquén… where there is ice and clouds… and tall mountains… I wanted to see the mountain…’
‘Perfect; I’ll help you get a job in Comodoro; but go now because I have to work. I’ll write to you soon… Oh! And don’t lose your joy; your joy is very beautiful…’
And his hand squeezed mine firmly. I tripped over a chair… and left.
Biographical note
The son of immigrant parents from Germany and Italy, Roberto Arlt was born in Buenos Aires on 2 April 1900.
Following a startlingly brief and difficult school education, Arlt tried to turn his hand to many different careers (from mechanic and painter to dockworker and member of the armed forces) before lighting on journalism. The fruits of his columns were his ‘Aguafuertes’ (Etchings) in which he documented everyday life in Buenos Aires and for which he is still best remembered and celebrated.
In 1926, Arlt published his first novel El juguete rabioso (The Mad Toy). He would go on to write a number of other novels as well as short stories and plays. In 1935, Arlt travelled through Spain and Africa as a correspondent, hoping that it would lead to a career as a North-American correspondent.
Arlt died in July 1942 following a stroke.
James Womack was born in Cambridge in 1979. He studied Russian and English Literature at university, and has lived in Moscow, Saint Petersburg and Reykjavík. In 2008 he moved to Madrid with his wife, the Spanish writer Marian Womack, where they run Nevsky Prospects, a publishing house producing Spanish translations of Russian literature. He has published translations from Russian and Spanish. His first book of poems, Misprint, was published in 2012.