Page 125 - The Thief's Journal

“What about you?”
The Thief's Journal
“Me? Why not? If he's got a big pile. I rob a lot of other people. There's no reason not to. What about you? Answer me.”
By the change of tense, a sudden present in place of a dubitative past, I realized that we had just agreed to rob Armand. And I knew that as a result of calculation and modesty I had been acting cynical in telling Stilitano that I would rob him. Such cruelty in our relations was bound to blot out the cruelty of acts aimed at a friend of ours. In fact, we had realized that something united us. Our complicity was not due to self−interest. It was born of friendship.
“It's dangerous,” I answered. “Not very.”
I was staggered at the idea that Stilitano must have set aside his friendship with Robert to suggest such a plan to me. I would have kissed him with gratitude had he not been screened by his smile. Then I wondered whether he had asked Robert the same thing and whether Robert had refused. Perhaps at that very moment Robert was trying to establish between Armand and himself the same intimate relationship that bound me to Stilitano. But I felt certain that I had chosen my partner in this dance.
Stilitano explained what he expected of me: that I was to steal, before Armand had time to smuggle it into Holland and France, the stock of opium which he was to receive from the seamen and other machinists of a tramp−steamer flying the Brazilian flag, the Aruntai.
“Why the hell worry about Armand? You and I were in Spain together.”
Stilitano spoke of Spain as of a heroic theatre. We walked along in the freezing dampness. “Don't kid yourself about Armand. When he can rob a guy...”
I realized that I was not to protest. Since I had enough power to decree moral laws (of my own making) which I would impose, I had to use the customary pretence, to agree to act as a lover of justice in order to excuse my crimes.
“...he's not shy about it. You ought to hear the stories about him. Just ask some of the guys who knew him.”
“If he knows that I'm the one...”
“He won't know. You'll just have to tell me where he hid it. I'll go up to his room when he's out.”
I attempted to save Armand and added, “I can't imagine that he'll leave it in the room. He must have a bunk somewhere.”
“Then you've got to find it. You're smart enough to manage”.
Before Armand had granted me the esteem of which I have already spoken, I probably would not have betrayed him. The mere idea would have horrified me. So long as he had not given me his confidence, betraying him had no meaning: it meant simply obeying the elementary rule which governed my life. But now I loved him. I recognized his omnipotence. And though he might not love me, he contained me within him. His moral authority was so absolute, so generous, that it made intellectual rebellion within his bosom
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