Page 56 - The Thief's Journal

The Thief's Journal
“You see this guy?” he said to his girl. “He's a pal. He's a buddy. He can come to our room whenever he likes.”
They took me to dinner in a restaurant near the harbor. Stilitano informed me that he was in the opium racket. His girl was a whore. With the words “junk” and opium my imagination took wing; I saw Stilitano turning into the bold and rich adventurer. He was a bird of prey flying in great circles. Yet, though his gaze was sometimes cruel, he had none of the rapacity of the birds of prey. Quite the contrary, for, despite his affluence, Stilitano still seemed to be playing. It did not take me long to learn that only his appearance was prosperous. He was living in a small hotel. The first thing I saw was a big pile of colored picture magazines for children stacked on the mantle−piece. The text accompanying the pictures was now in French instead of Spanish: the childishness was the same, as were the handsomeness, vigor and courage of the hero, who was almost always naked. Every morning Sylvia brought him new ones which he read in bed. I thought that two years had rolled by during which time he had been reading gaudy infantile stories, and that meanwhile, on the side, his body had been maturing—and perhaps his mind too. He sold opium, which he bought from sailors, and supervised his girl. He carried his wealth with him: his clothes, his jewels and his wallet. He suggested that I work for him. For a few days I carried tiny packets to the homes of shifty−looking and anxious clients.
Just as in Spain, and with the same promptness, Stilitano had got in with the Antwerp riff−raff. In the bars he was treated to drinks and he kidded the whores and queers. Fascinated by his new beauty, by his opulence, and perhaps bruised by the memory of our friendship, I let myself love him. I followed him everywhere. I was jealous of his friends, jealous of Sylvia, and I would suffer when I met him around noontime, fresh and perfumed, but with dark rings under his eyes. We would stroll along the docks together and talk of old times. He talked particularly about his exploits, for he was boastful. Never did it occur to me to reproach him for his underhandedness, or his treachery, or his cowardice. On the contrary, I admired him for bearing the brand, in my memory, as simply and haughtily as he did.
“You still like men?”
“Of course I do. Why? Does it bother you?”
“Me? You're crazy. On the contrary.”
“Why on the contrary?”
He hesitated and wanted to delay answering.
“Huh?”
“You say on the contrary. You like them too.”
“Me?”
“Yes.”
“No, but sometimes I wonder what it's like.”
“It gets you hot.”
“Don't be a dope. I said it...”
He laughed in embarrassment.
The Thief's Journal 54