Page 127 - The Thief's Journal

The Thief's Journal
1
she had gone home.
tenderness but without a smile.) Since prostitution was not regulated in Belgium as it was in France, a pimp could live with his girl without any danger. Stilitano and I walked toward his hotel. He cleverly stopped talking about our plans but recalled our life in Spain.
“You had a big crush on me at the time.”
“What about now?”
“Now? Do you still have it?”
I think he wanted to be assured of my love and that I would desert Armand for him. It was three or four in the morning. We had come from a country where the light and noise are violent.
“Not like before.”
“No kidding?”
We were still walking. He smiled and glanced at me sideways.
1. We left quickly, for it is a well−known sign that when the whores aren't on their beat the police are nearby., “When the whores aren't around, the cops are” is an underworld proverb.
“What's the matter?”
His smile was frightful. My effort—as often, and especially since that time—to be stronger than I was, to overcome my natural disposition, to lie about him, had made me utter a remark which, though spoken calmly, was a provocation. I had to explain, in detail, this first proposition which was laid down like the premisses of a theorem. My new attitude had to follow from the explanation and not vice−versa.
“Nothing's the matter.”
“Well? You don't like me as much?” “I don't love you.”
I felt my pants getting hot. At that moment we were passing under one of the arches of the bridge over which the railroad goes. It was darker than elsewhere. Stilitano had stopped and had turned to look at me. He took a step forward. I held my ground. With his mouth almost on mine, he muttered, “Jean, I'm glad you've got nerve.”
There were a few seconds of silence. I was afraid he might draw his knife to kill me, and I don't think I would have defended myself. But he smiled.
“Light me a cigarette,” he said.
I took one from his pocket, lit it, took a long drag, and put it between his lips, in the middle. With a neat flick of his tongue, Stilitano moved it to the right corner of his mouth and, still smiling, took a step forward, threatening to burn my face if I didn't back up. My hand, which was hanging in front of me, went right to his basket. It was hard. Stilitano smiled and looked me in the eyes. He must have easily been storing the smoke in his chest. He opened his mouth without even a whiff escaping. All that was visible was the element of cruelty
(I noted that when it came to his girl, his irony disappeared. He spoke of her without
The Thief's Journal 125