Page 16 - The Thief's Journal

The Thief's Journal
losing. Every thigh was quivering with fatigue or anxiety. The weather that day was threatening. I was caught up in the youthful impatience of the young Spaniards. I played and I won. I won every hand. I didn't say a word during the game. Besides, the gipsy was a stranger to me. Custom permitted me to pocket my money and leave. The boy was so good−looking that I had the feeling that by leaving him in that way I was lacking in respect for the beauty, suddenly become sad, of his face which was drooping with heat and boredom. I gently gave him back his money. Slightly astonished, he took it and simply thanked me.
“Hello, Pepe,” a kinky, swarthy−looking beggar called out as he limped by.
“Pepe,” I said to myself, “his name is Pepe.” And I left, for I had just noticed his delicate, almost feminine little hand. But hardly had I gone a few steps in that crowd of thieves, whores, beggars and fairies than I felt someone touching me on the shoulder. It was Pepe. He had just left the game. He spoke to me in Spanish:
“My name is Pepe.”
“Mine is Juan.”
“Come, let's have a drink.”
He was no taller than I. His face, which I had seen from above when he was squatting, looked less flattened. The features were finer.
“He's a girl,” I thought, summoning up the image of his slender hand, and I thought that his company would bore me. He had just decided that we would drink the money I had won. We made the round of the bars, and all the while we were together he was quite charming. He wore a very low−necked blue jersey instead of a shirt. From the opening emerged a solid neck, as broad as his head. When he turned it without moving his chest, an enormous tendon stood out. I tried to imagine his body, and, despite the almost frail hands, I imagined it to be solid, for his thighs filled out the light cloth of his pants. The weather was warm. The storm did not break. The nervousness of the players around us heightened. The whores seemed heavier. The dust and sun were oppressive. We drank hardly any liquor, but rather lemonade. We sat near the pedlars and exchanged an occasional word. He kept smiling, with a slight weariness. He seemed to be indulging me. Did he suspect that I liked his cute face? I don't know, but he didn't let on. Besides, I had the same sly sort of look as he; I seemed a threat to the well−dressed passer−by; I had his youth and his filth, and I was French. Toward evening he wanted to gamble, but it was too late to start a game as all the places were taken. We strolled about a bit among the players. When he brushed by the whores, Pepe would kid them. Sometimes he would pinch them. The heat grew more oppressive. The sky was flush with the ground. The nervousness of the crowd became irritating. Impatience prevailed over the gipsy who had not decided which game to join. He was fingering the money in his pocket. Suddenly he took me by the arm.
“Venga!”
He led me a few steps away to the one comfort−station on the Parallelo. It was run by an old woman. Surprised by the suddenness of his decision, I questioned him:
“What are you going to do?” “Wait for me.”
“Why?”
The Thief's Journal 14