Page 77 - The Thief's Journal

The Thief's Journal
“They're happier than we are.”
“There's something more sordid about them than those in Bidonville, you remember, in Casablanca? There's
no denying that the Moroccan costume gives a simple beggar a dignity that no European can ever have.” “We're seeing them when they're all frozen. They have to be seen when the weather is right.”
“On the contrary, the originality of the poses...” From within their warm fleeces the strollers observed this population hunched up with their chins on their knees, unsheltered from the wind and water. Never did I feel in my heart envy or hatred of the rich who turned aside from us in disgust. Prudence recommended repressed feelings: submissiveness, servility. The rich obey the laws of wealth. When Lucien saw them approaching, he felt a kind of anxiety. It was the first time he had seen men come to examine his behavior, his aberrations, his oddities. All at once he was dizzily swept to the depths of the nameless; the fall took his breath away and made his heart leap. Between their gloved hands he saw the malicious gleam of the cruel lenses of their cameras. A few beggars understood French, but he alone could distinguish the shades of the blend of insolence and authoritarian benevolence. Each one wearily undid his covers or rags and raised his head a little.
“Do you want to earn...?”
Like the others, Lucien stood up, leaned on his elbow, squatted, depending upon the shots the tourists wanted to take. He even smiled, as ordered, at an old beggar, and he even allowed them to muss his dirty hair and make it fall down over his wet forehead. The poses took a long time since the weather was grey. The tourists complained about the light, but they praised the quality of their films. Though the beggars might have felt a naive vanity in serving a picturesqueness without which Spain would be less beautiful, Lucien felt shame overflowing, drowning him. They belonged to an illustrious site. Did I myself realize, in Marseilles, when I was fifteen or sixteen years old, amidst other kids waiting for the gentlemen who were to choose us, that I was being used to compose a group of fifteen or twenty hoodlums whom people come to see from the end of the world and who are the extensible but essential element of that city dear to queers. I know a few who are my age, and if they meet me they say, “Oh! yes, I remember, you were from the Rue Bouterie,” or “You were from Belzunce Square.” With an excess of servility, the beggars arranged themselves in the filthiest spots, disdainful of the slightest precaution for their own person. Lucien had sat down on a step that was soaking wet, with his feet in another puddle. He made no further effort to go back to your world; he was in a state of despair. His pitiful image was destined to illustrate the trip of a millionaire amateur.
“I've taken you five times,” said a man. He handed ten pesetas to Lucien who thanked him in Spanish.
The beggars showed a discreet joy and gratitude. Though a few went off to drink, the others resumed their hunched position, seemingly asleep, but in reality secreting a kind of truth which would be their own and which would save them: penury in the pure state.
This scene is only one among many by which I should like the idea of Lucien to be purified so as to emerge perfect, worthy of the good fortune I earned for him at the time.
What I know about him: tenderness, sweetness, vulnerability, rather than qualities and weaknesses (but as in the saying: “the weak spot in his armor"), bringing him before me in situations where he would be so unhappy as to kill himself. However, in order to love him more than myself I have to feel that he is weak and fragile so as never to be tempted (against my will) to desert him. He is served by my adventures. I have lived them. Upon my chosen image of Lucien I cruelly impose the same ordeals. Save that it is my body which has suffered them, and my mind. Then, with them as a basis, I shall shape an image of him which he will imitate.
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