Page 83 - The Thief's Journal

“All right. Take your pants down.”
The Thief's Journal
I had him lower his pants as far as his heels so that he would get tangled up in them if he tried to run.
“Spread your ass.”
With both hands he did what I ordered, and I quickly tied them up, behind his back.
“What are you doing?”
“Can't you tell, you big dope?”
I had just used the same language and tone of voice had heard Stilitano use when we were once caught stealing a bike.
When at rest on humble things, Stilitano's gaze was softened by a kind of gentleness. His lone hand: would, with a certain kindness, take the greasy menu from the restaurant table. Objects could attach themselves to him who had no scorn for them. Merely to touch a thing was, for Stilitano, to recognize at once its essential quality and to turn it to splendid use. As he smiled at it, it would become his bride.
I am more charmed by the smile on a youngster's face than by his pout. I sometimes contemplate it for a long time. It fascinates me. It becomes a thing detached from the face, animated by a peculiar soul. It is rather a precious animal, with a tough and yet fragile life; it is a lovely and fabulous beast. If I could manage to peel it off, to remove it from the face over which it plays, to carry it away in my pocket, its malicious irony would help me achieve prodigies. I sometimes try to adorn myself with it—this amounts to protecting myself against it—in vain. It is this smile which is the real thief.
“Hey, untie me! Look, I'll give you...” “Shut up! I'll help myself.”
The fear of being caught or of the man's breaking the rope gave me knowledge of the surest twists and knots. I searched his pockets. With keen joy my fingers recognized bank−notes and personal papers. Trembling with fear, he dared not move.
“Come on, let me...” “Shut up!”
There is no reason for such moments to end. I had one of my victims at my mercy and I wanted to make him pay dearly for being so. The place was dark but unsafe. A customs officer might make his rounds and discover us.
“You old son of a bitch, you thought I was going to stick it in!”
I tore his watch from the button−hole of his vest where it was held by the chain. “It's a souvenir,” he murmured.
The Thief's Journal 81