Page 62 - The Thief's Journal

The Thief's Journal
musical effect. With so hurried a movement one expected a high−pitched timbre or, from so deep a voice, that it would move heavily, with difficulty: it was agile. This contrast also produced some elegant inflections. Armand barely articulated. The syllables did not collide. As his speech, though simple, flowed freely, the words linked up with a horizontal tranquillity. It was his voice in particular that made you realize that throughout his youth he had been admired, especially by men. Those who, because of their strength or beauty, encounter the admiration of men can be recognized by a kind of impertinent assurance. They are both more sure of themselves and more accessible to gentleness. Armand's voice touched a spot in my throat and took my breath away. It was a rare thing for him to hurry, but if, once in a great while, he had to rush to an appointment, as he walked between Stilitano and me, his head high, leaning slightly forward, despite his massive stature and his free and easy bearing, his voice, growing increasingly rapid with the depth of the timbre, achieved almost too audacious a masterpiece. Whenever there was a bit of fog, there issued from this leaden athlete a voice of azure.
One might have supposed that it belonged to a hurried, nimble, joyous, glorified adolescent, sure of his grace, strength, beauty and strangeness, and of the beauty and strangeness of his voice.
Within him, in his organs, which I imagined to be elementary though of solid tissue and of very lovely speckled shades, couched in warm and generous guts, I think he spun out his will to impose, apply and render invisible hypocrisy, stupidity, meanness, cruelty and servility and thereby achieve for his entire person the most obscene success possible. I saw him in Sylvia's room. When I entered, Stilitano told him that I was French and that we had met in Spain. Armand was standing up. He did not offer me his hand, but he looked at me. I remained near the window without seeming to pay any attention to them. When they decided to go to the bar, Stilitano said to me, “Are you coming, Jeannot?”
Before I had a chance to answer, Armand asked, “Do you usually take him along?” Stilitano laughed and said, “If it bothers you, we can leave him.”
“Oh, bring him along.”
I followed them. After having a drink, they separated and Armand did not shake my hand. Stilitano said not a word about him to me. A few days later when I met him near the docks, Armand ordered me to follow him. Almost without speaking, he took me to his room. With the same apparent scorn, he subjected me to his pleasure. Dominated by his strength and age, I gave the work my utmost care. Crushed by that mass of flesh, which was devoid of the slightest spirituality, I experienced the giddiness of finally meeting the perfect brute, indifferent to my happiness. I discovered the softness that could be contained in a thick fleece on torso, belly and thighs and what force it could transmit. I finally let myself be buried in that stormy night. Out of gratitude or fear I placed a kiss on Armand's hairy arm.
“What's eating you? Are you nuts or something?” “I didn't do any harm.”
I remained at his side so as to serve his nocturnal pleasure. When he went to sleep, Armand whipped his leather belt from the loops of his pants and made it snap. It was flogging an invisible victim, a shape of transparent flesh. The air bled. If he frightened me then, it was because of his powerlessness to be the Armand I saw, who was heavy and mean. The snapping accompanied and supported it. His rage and despair at not being him made him tremble like a horse subdued by darkness, made him tremble worse than ever. He would not, however, have tolerated my living idly. He advised me to prowl around the station or the zoo and pick up clients. Knowing the terror inspired in me by his person, he didn't bother to keep an eye on me. The money I earned I brought back intact. He himself operated in the bars. He carried on various kinds of traffic with the
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