Satantango

Fully absorbed, he gazed at the column of numbers sloping right to left with pride while feeling an infinite hatred for the world that made it possible for filthy scoundrels to target people like him for their latest outrage; normally he was capable of sublimating his sudden bouts of fury (“He’s a good-natured man!” his wife used to say to neighbors in town) and contempt to the greater ambitions of his life: in order that these should come true, he knew he should be ready for anything at any time. One misjudged word, one hurried calculation and everything would be ruined. But “sometimes a man can’t govern his temperament” and trouble always comes of it. The landlord was happy enough with his given condition but had suddenly discovered how to develop the foundations of a great ambition. Even in his youth, in fact as a child, he could calculate, right down to a penny, the benefit to be gained from the hatred and disgust that surrounded him. And having discovered this — it was obvious — he couldn’t then make the same mistake! Nevertheless he was subject to occasional fits of temper and whenever he was in the grip of one of these he would retire to his store-room so he could vent his rage without inopportune witnesses. He understood circumspection. Even at times like this he remained circumspect in case he caused some damage. He’d kick the wall or — at worst — would smash an empty wine-rack against the metal door, let him “have his fit” there! But he really couldn’t allow himself this now because they might be able to hear it in the bar. So now, as so often before, he took refuge in numbers. Because there is in numbers a mysterious evidentiary quality, a stupidly undervalued “grave simplicity” and, as a product of the tension between these two ideas a spine-tingling concept might arise, one that proclaimed: “Perspectives do exist.” But did there exist a series of numbers that might defeat this bony, gray-haired, lifeless-looking, horse-faced, heap of trash — that piece of shit, that parasite who belonged in a cesspit, known as Irimiás? What number could possibly vanquish that infinitely treacherous scoundrel straight from hell? Treacherous? Unfathomable? There weren’t words for him! No description could do him justice. Words wouldn’t do it — it wasn’t a matter of words. Sheer strength was required. That’s what was needed to put paid to him! Strength, not a lot of feeble chatter! He draw a line through what he had written but the numbers behind the lines remained legible, sparkling with significance. It was no longer just a matter of the beer, soft drinks and wine to be found in various cases, as far as the landlord was concerned. Far from it! The numbers were becoming ever more significant. He couldn’t help noticing that as the importance of the numbers grew, so did he. He was positively swelling. The greater the significance of the numbers the “greater my own significance.” For a couple of years now the consciousness of his own extraordinary grandeur had constrained him. Limber now, he ran over to the soft drinks to check that he had remembered it all correctly. It worried him that his left hand had started shaking uncontrollably. He had eventually to face the oppressive issue of, “What to do?” “What does Irimiás want?” He heard a hoarse voice in the corner that made his blood freeze for a moment because he thought that, on top of everything else, those infernal spiders had learned to speak. He wiped his brow, leaned against the sacks of flour and lit a cigarette. “So he drinks free for fourteen days and he dares show his mug here again! He’s back! But not just any old how! It’s like he thought it wasn’t enough. I’m going to throw these drunken pigs out of here! I’ll turn off all the lights! I’ll nail up the door! I’ll put a barrier over at the entrance!” He was quite hysterical now. His mind was sprinting down the usual self-made channels. “Let me see. He came to the estate saying, “If you need money you should plant onions everywhere.” That’s all. “What sort of onions?” I asked. “Red onions,” he said. So I planted onions everywhere. And it worked. Then I bought the bar from the Swabian. Greatness is always compounded of simple things. And four days after I open up he comes in and dares tell me that I (yes, I!) owe it all to him, and he gets drinks on credit for fourteen days without even a word of thanks! And now? Perhaps he’s come to take it all back. TAKE BACK WHAT’S MINE! Good God! What’s the world coming to when anyone can walk in one day and without so much as a by your leave, tell you he’s the boss now! What’s this country coming to? Is nothing sacred anymore? Ah no, no my friends! There are laws against that kind of thing!” His eyes slowly cleared and he calmed down. Calmly he counted the cases of soft drinks. “Of course!” he cried slapping his forehead. “Trouble comes when you get into a bit of a panic.” He took out his ledger, opened his notebook and once more put a line through the last page, starting all over again with the same pride.