Page 110 - The Thief's Journal

The Thief's Journal
“You're crazy. I was in cahoots with him, first because he's as crooked as they come, and then so that he'd get me some papers. He's a guy who can take a hint if you wrap it up in a cabbage−leaf.”
“All right, now I feel sure, but yesterday, when I saw you having a drink together, I swear it didn't look so good. Because I've never been able to stomach squealers. Do you realize that suspecting you was like being hit on the head? Thinking that you might've turned stool−pigeon?”
I wasn't as careful as he had been when reproaching me, and I raised my voice a bit. The relief of no longer being despised restored my breath, made me bounce too high and too fast. I was carried away by the joy of emerging from contempt and of being saved from a brawl which would have set all the pimps in the bar against me, and also by dominating Guy in turn with an authority conferred upon me by my mastery of speech. A kind of self−pity enabled me to speak with inflections which moved me, for I had lost, though I landed on my feet. My toughness and intransigence had shown a crack, and the matter of the burglary (which neither of us dared bring up again) was definitely out of the question. We were surrounded by very precious pimps. They were speaking loudly, though very politely. Guy talked to me about his woman. I answered as best I could. I was veiled in a great sadness which was pierced at times by the lightning of my rage. Loneliness (whose image might be a kind of fog or vapor emanating from me), torn apart for a moment by hope, closed over me again. I might have had a comrade in freedom (for I'm quite sure that Guy is an informer); he was denied me. I would have loved to betray with him. For I want to be able to love my accomplices. This extraordinarily lonely situation (of being a thief) must not leave me walled in with a graceless boy. During the act, fear, which is the matter (or rather the light) of which I am almost completely composed, may cause me to collapse in the arms of my accomplice. I do not think that I choose him to be big and strong so as to be protected in case of failure, but rather that an overpowering fear may throw me into the hollow of his arms, or thighs,− those havens of delight. This choice, which often enables fear to give way so completely and turn to tenderness, is a dangerous one. I abandon myself too readily to those beautiful shoulders, to that back, those hips. Guy was tempting when we worked.
Guy came to see me in a state of terror. It was impossible for me to know whether his panic was real. His face was pitiful that morning. He was more at ease in the corridors and on the stairways of the Santo" with pimps whose prestige resided in the dressing−gowns they put on to visit their lawyers. Did the security of prison give him a lighter bearing?
“I'm in the shit and I've got to get out of it. Show me a job to do so I can beat it to the sticks.”
He persisted in living among pimps, and I recognized in his nervousness and in the fatal movement of his head the tragic tone of faggots and actresses. “Is it possible,” I wondered, “that the 'men' in Montmartre are fooled by him?”
“You come blowing in without notice. I don't have jobs on tap.”
“Anything, Jeannot. I'll bump someone off if I have to. I'll drill a guy for just a little loose cash. Yesterday I nearly landed myself in the big house.”
“That doesn't get me anywhere,” I said smilingly. “You don't realize. You live in a swell hotel.”
He irritated me. What have I to fear of smart hotels, chandeliers, reception rooms, the friendship of men? Comfort may give me a certain boldness of spirit. But with my spirit already far off, I am sure that my body will follow.
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