Page 64 - The Thief's Journal

The Thief's Journal
myself—long since forgotten. My heart awoke, and at once my body thawed. With wild speed and precision the boy registered on me: his gestures, his hair, the jerk of his hips, the curve of his back, the merry−go−round on which he was working the movement of the horses, the music, the fair−ground' the city of Antwerp containing them, the Earth cautiously turning, the Universe protecting so precious a burden, and I standing there, frightened at possessing the world and at knowing I possessed it.
I did not see the spit on his hands: I recognized the puckering of the cheek and the tip of the tongue between his teeth. I again saw the chap rubbing his tough, black palms. As he bent down to grab the handle, I noticed his crackled, but thick, leather belt. A belt of that kind could not be an ornament like the one that holds up the trousers of a man of fashion. By its material and thickness it was penetrated with the following function: holding up the most obvious sign of masculinity which, without this strap, would be nothing, would no longer contain, would no longer guard its manly treasure but would tumble down on the heels of a shackled male. The boy was wearing a windbreaker. As the belt was not inserted into loops, at every movement it rose a bit as the pants slid down, revealing his skin. I stared at the belt, petrified. I saw it operating surely. At the sixth jerk of the hips, it girdled—except at the fly where the two ends were buckled—the chap's bare back and waist.
“It's nice to see, huh?” said Stilitano.
Watching me watch, he spoke not of the merry−go−round but of its guardian spirit. “Go tell him you like him. Go on.”
“Don't kid around.”
“I'm talking seriously.
He was smiling. As neither my age nor bearing would have permitted me to approach or observe him with the light or amused arrogance assumed by distinguished−looking gentlemen, I wanted to go away. Stilitano grabbed me by the sleeve.
“Come on.”
I shook him off.
“Let me alone,” I said.
“I can see that you like him.
“What of it?”
“What of it? Invite him to have a drink.
He smiled again and said, “Are you afraid of Armand?”
“You're crazy.”
“Well? You want me to go up to him.”
Just at that moment, the boy stood up straight, his face flushed and gleaming: he was a congested prick. As he adjusted his belt, he approached us. We were on the pavement and he was standing on the baseboards of the
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