Page 113 - The Thief's Journal

The Thief's Journal
Lost in the forest, led by the ogre, Roger would drop little white pebbles; locked in by a wicked jailer, he signaled his presence by a message left in front of the door. One evening I foolishly amused myself with his fear. Stilitano and I waited a long time before going up. When we found the door, we opened it with infinite caution. A tiny entrance, narrow as an alcove, separated us from the room. With a red carnation between his toes, Roger, naked on the bed, was charming an old gentleman who was undressing slowly in front of the mirror. In the same mirror we saw the following spectacle: Roger skillfully brought his foot to his mouth and snatched the flower. After sniffing at it for a few seconds, he ran it over his armpit. The old man was all excited. He was getting all mixed up in his buttons and suspenders, lusting after the splendid body so cleverly covered with flowers. Roger was smiling.
“You're my rambling rose−bush,” said the old man.
Just at that moment, Roger, wriggling under the rough sheets, turned on his belly and, planting the flower in his behind and crushing his cheek on the pillow, laughed out, “And you're going to ramble over this one!”
“Here I come,” said Stilitano who started moving.
He was calm. His modesty: I have said that it adorned his occasionally almost bestial violence; however, realizing as I do now that this modesty is not an object, a kind of violet on his brow and hands (it did not give color to Stilitano), not a feeling but a constraint, the friction preventing the supple and noble play of the different parts of an inner mechanism, the refusal of an organism to participate in another's joy, the opposite of freedom, realizing that perhaps what elicited it was asinine cowardice, I hesitate to call it an adornment, not that I mean that foolishness can not at times lend to gestures—whether through hesitation or brusqueness—a gracefulness which they would not otherwise have nor that this gracefulness is not an embellishment, but rather that Stilitano's modesty was a paleness; what brought it on was not the rush of blurred ideas, of mysterious waves; it was not a confusion carrying him off to new realms, unknown and yet foreshadowed; I would have thought him charming were he hesitating at the threshold of a world, the revelation of which made his cheeks quiver; it was not love but the ebbing of life itself, leaving room only for the frightful void of imbecility. I am expressing as best I can, from the mere coloring of his epidermis, the attitude of Stilitano. It's very little. But perhaps in this way I do manage to sketch the withered character contained in my memory—this time his modesty hampered neither his voice nor his walk. He strode to the bed threateningly. Prompter than prompt, Roger jumped up and made a dash for his clothes.
“You bitch!”
“What right have you...”
The old gentleman was trembling. He was like a figure in a cartoon where an adulterer is caught in the act. His back was turned to the mirror which reflected his narrow shoulders and yellowish bald head. The scene was lit up by a pink light.
“You shut up. And you,” he said to Roger, “hurry up and get dressed.”
Standing near his pile of clothes, the innocent Roger was still holding the flower.
With the same innocence, he was still erect. His penis finally softened and gradually drooped, though he kept smiling. While Roger was putting on his clothes, Stilitano ordered the old man to hand over his valuables.
“You son of a bitch. You think you're going to screw my brother?”
“But I didn't...”
The Thief's Journal 111