The Seven Madmen

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As soon as he opened the frosted glass door to the manager’s office, Remo Erdosain wanted to turn back; he realised he was a lost man, but it was too late.

Waiting for him were the director, a short squat man with the head of a wild boar, grey hair cropped short in the style of Umberto I of Italy, and an implacable gaze that filtered through grey fish eyes; Gualdi, small, skinny, sweet-tongued, but with a calculating stare; and the assistant manager, son of the man with the boar’s head, a handsome young fellow of thirty, with a shock of white hair and a cynical aspect, his voice gruff and his look as harsh as his father’s. None of the three: the director bending over some accounts, his assistant lolling back in an armchair with one leg dangling over the arm, or Gualdi hovering respectfully next to the desk, bothered to return Erdosain’s greeting. Only the assistant manager lifted his head and said:

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