Page 19 - The Thief's Journal

The Thief's Journal
my sense of smell remembers Stilitano's odor, the odor of his armpits, of his never−washed prick; though it may suddenly come upon them with a disquieting veracity, I believe them capable of inspiring me with the wildest rashness. (Sometimes at night I meet a youngster and go with him to his room. At the foot of the stairs, for my trade lives always in shady hotels, he takes me by the hand. He guides me as skillfully as did Stilitano.)
“Watch out.”
He mumbled these words, which were too sweet for me. Because of the position of our arms I was pressed against his body. For a moment I felt the movement of his buttocks. Out of respect, I moved a little to the side. We mounted, narrowly limited by a fragile wall which must have contained the sleep of the whores, thieves, pimps and beggars of the hotel. I was a child being carefully led by his father. (Today I am a father led to love by his child.)
At the fourth landing, I entered his grubby little room. My whole respiratory rhythm was upset. I was in the throes of love. In the Parallelo bars Stilitano introduced me to his cronies. There were so many mariconas among the people of the Barrio Chino that no one seemed to notice that I liked men. Together, he and I pulled off a few easy jobs which provided us with what we needed. I lived with him, slept in his bed, but this big fellow was so exquisitely modest that never did I see him entirely. Had I obtained what I so keenly desired of him, Stilitano would have remained in my eyes the charming and solid master, though neither his strength nor his charm would have gratified my desire for all the manly types: the soldier, the sailor, the adventurer, the thief, the criminal. By remaining inaccessible, he became the epitome of those whom I have named and who rouse me. I was therefore chaste. At times, he was so cruel as to demand that I button the waistband of his pants, and my hand would tremble. He pretended not to see anything and was amused. (I shall speak later of the character of my hands and of the meaning of this trembling. It is not without reason that in India sacred or disgusting persons and objects are said to be Untouchable.) Unable to see it, I invented the biggest and loveliest prick in the world. I endowed it with qualities: heavy, strong and nervous, sober, with a tendency toward pride and yet serene. Beneath my fingers, I felt, sculpted in oak, its full veins, its palpitations, its heat, its pinkness, and at times the racing pulsation of the sperm. It occupied less my nights than my days. Behind Stilitano's fly it was the sacred Black Stone to which Heliogabalus offered up his imperial wealth. Stilitano was happy to have me at his beck and call and he introduced me to his friends as his right arm. Now, it was his right arm that had been amputated. I would repeat to myself delightedly that I certainly was his right arm; I was the one who took the place of the strongest limb. If he had a mistress among the girls of the Calle Carmen, I was unaware of it. He exaggerated his contempt for fairies. We lived together in this way for a few days. One evening when I was at the Criolla, one of the whores told me to leave. She said that a customs officer had been around looking for me. It must have been the one I had first satisfied and then robbed. I went back to the hotel and told Stilitano about it. He said he would attend to the matter and then left.
I
1
was born in Paris on December eighth 1910. As a ward of the Assistance Publique , it was impossible for me
to know anything else about my civil status. When I was twenty−one years old, I obtained a birth certificate. My mother's name was Gabrielle Genet. My father remains unknown. I came into the world at 22 Rue d'Assas.
“I'll find out something about my origin,” I said to myself, and went to the Rue d'Assas. Number 22 was occupied by the Maternity Hospital. They refused to give me any information. I was brought up in Le Morvan by peasants. Whenever I come across genet (broom) blossoms on the heaths — especially at twilight on my way back from a visit to the ruins of Tiffauges where Gilles de Rais lived — I have a deep feeling of kinship with them. I regard them solemnly, with tenderness. My uneasiness seems ordained by all nature! I am alone in the world, and I am not sure that I am not the king — perhaps the sprite of these flowers. They render
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