Page 59 - The Thief's Journal

about the size of a brick.
The Thief's Journal
“I'm going ahead by train,” he said.
“But what about customs?”
“Don't worry. I'm in order. You cross as usual, on foot. And don't open the package. It belongs to a friend of mine.”
“What if they nab me?”
“Don't fool around. You'll get it in the neck.” Clever at manipulating contrary charms between which I would oscillate without ever coming to rest at myself, he gave me a nice kiss and went off to the train. I beheld this tranquil Reason, this guardian of the Tables of the Law walking before me, his authority contained in the sureness of his step, in his nonchalance, in the almost luminous play of his buttocks. I did not know what the package contained; it was the sign of confidence and chance. Thanks to it, I was no longer going to cross a border for my own paltry needs but rather out of obedience, out of submission to a sovereign Power. When I took my eyes off Stilitano, the sole aim of my preoccupations was to seek him, and it was the package that directed me. During my expeditions (my thefts, my reconnoitrings, my nights) objects were animated. When I thought of night, it was with a big N. The stones and pebbles on the roads had a sense through which I was to make myself known. The trees were surprised to see me. My fear bore the name of panic. It liberated the spirit of every object, which awaited only my trembling to be stirred. About me the inanimate world gently shuddered; I could have chatted with the rain itself. I very quickly became preoccupied with considering this emotion as something quite special and with preferring it to the one that was its pretext: fear, and the pretext of this fear: a burglary or my flight from the police. Favored by night, the same anxiety came at length to trouble my days. Thus, I moved about in an enigmatic universe, for it had lost the sense of the practical. I was in danger. Indeed, I no longer considered objects from the point of view of their usual purpose but rather from that of the friendly anxiety they offered me. Stilitano's package between my chest and my shirt betokened, made more precise, the mystery of each thing, at the same time resolving it, thanks to the smile (almost cropping out at my lips and revealing my teeth) which it enabled me to venture so as to pass freely. Might it be that I was carrying stolen jewels? What police problems, what goals of blood−hounds, of police dogs and secret telegrams, had their origin in this tiny package? I therefore had to rout all the enemy forces, Stilitano was waiting for me.
“He's a fine son of a bitch,” I said to myself. “He's careful not to run any risks. Just because he's got only one hand, that's no reason.”
When I got to Antwerp, I went straight to his hotel, without shaving or washing, for I wanted to appear with the attributes of my victory, with my beard and filth and my arms laden with fatigue. Isn't that what is symbolized when they cover the victor with laurel, flowers and gold chains? But I carried it naked. In his room, in front of him, I put on a show of exaggerated naturalness as I handed him the package.
“Here it is.”
He smiled, with a triumphant smile. I believe he was not unaware that his power over me had managed everything.
“Were there any hitches?” “None at all. It was easy.”
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