Diary of a Pickpocket

Diary of a Pickpocket

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March 3rd

This room has become my only shelter. Sealed off from the outside world, it allows me to keep at bay the estrangement I endure when strolling through once-familiar surroundings. Most of the time, the curtains remain shut as I lie on my bed, subdued by relentless bouts of melancholy or the prey of a bizarre loneliness. Yet this passive state is misleading, for my thoughts inexorably gravitate back to those unsuspecting women and the illicit encounters that could take place. Although I consider theft to be wrong, the possibility of committing the perfect and innocent crime continues to exert an unyielding fascination. Off-hours, such as early afternoons or other odd moments in incongruous places, are by far best suited to this type of scheming.

July 28th

As I heard my neighbor come up the stairs earlier today, I performed the same exhausting ritual. I took off my shirt and leaned over the railing. When she enters her dining room, she can see my naked torso. I have been rehearsing this act for several weeks now. When she saw me the first time with my shirt off, it was unpremeditated. That day, it was extremely hot, and I was gazing down into the courtyard. As our eyes briefly locked, I saw in her glance, alongside her surprise and subsequent irritation, a fragment of desire she had been unable to conceal. This is what had caught me off guard. Disturbed by what she had revealed, I hurried away from my window. Ever since, at the sound of her footsteps climbing up the stairs, my heart seems to stop, my thoughts continually tormented by the desire I had seen in her eyes. As I hold my breath, I remain determined to reenact somehow the moment that now links us forever, hoping my silent offering will elicit a response and incite her to reply to my mute advances. But she ignores my actions to the point that I have even thought of going out to meet her. Considering other tenants live on our floor and could overhear us, it would be too great a risk. Worst of all, such an act would take on the appearance of a full-on surrender.

July 30th

Late at night, after the tourists are back in their hotels, the streets surrounding the Invalides are once again still and quiet. It must have been one o’clock when I went out for a walk, lured by the prospect of a fortuitous encounter—though such a meeting, I now sense, can and will no longer take place. In the past, two restless individuals throwing themselves avidly at one another would have been gratifying. Recently, the anticipation that accompanies this type of activity has been perverted. It is no longer a matter of some spontaneous physical attraction but of a bizarre romantic ideal locked into a shameful and shameless seductive strategy. As I approached the Hôtel Matignon, I heard two voices. It was my neighbor. Next to her was a tall and imposing man whose arm she was holding. Turning my back to the street, I pressed my face against the stone wall and waited for them to walk by. Soon, it was quiet again. I also know that had she been alone, I would have most certainly lacked the will to engage in a conversation. At times like this, my courage seems to vanish. I turned around, continued my aimless stroll, and soon found myself drifting along the banks of the Seine. The few people who were still out at this late hour were oblivious to my presence. To them, I was just another lonely and unnoticeable figure.

August 8th

The building is now empty of most of its tenants. As always, my need for seclusion is fraught with restlessness. Throughout the morning and early afternoon, I can hear the chatter of the Spanish and Portuguese maids who clean the apartments below. I wish I could find a way to approach them. After they are gone, the building seems once again deserted. At times, I imagine their lithe and olive-skinned bodies in an empty room. No words would be exchanged. On the other hand, I realize they are unaware of my existence.

August 10th

This afternoon, I left my room, hoping to escape the dullness of my daily life and lured by the possibility of another deceptive seduction. Oblivious to the hordes of tourists, I walked all the way to La-Motte-Picquet, where I took the subway, direction Nation. There are always many travelers on this particular line, even during off-hours. Once I board the métro, I wait for a woman who, I hope, will be receptive to my ambiguous advances and will try to seduce me. As the train jolts forward, I anticipate her body brushing up against mine, convinced she will enjoy this physical contact, and later ask me to follow her. Today, it was a tall and voluptuous woman with blond hair. I held the pole grip tightly. At the slightest jolt, her hips pressed against my hand. She did not seem to mind. At one point, she even smiled. When the train opened its doors at Denfert-Rochereau, the new arrivals climbed in, crushing us. I found myself practically glued to her body. She smiled once again and slowly shifted her weight, this time pressing her breasts against my arm. My heart beat fast, and I waited for her to make the next move. Yet, at Place d’Italie, she turned her back and got off. Dejected, I couldn't summon the courage to follow her. As the train pulled away, I began wondering if I had been too shy or if she considered me too young and inexperienced. What if I had dared to display my real intentions and caress her hand? Conversely, I am beginning to sense that my seductive gestures are simply a game, as if I crave uncertainty and tampering with desire. In truth, I have lost the ability to be straightforward.

August 11th

Once again, I spent the afternoon in my room. For the last two days, it has been raining steadily and quietly. As I look out the window and listen to the pitter-patter of the rain, I am reminded of the tenderness that existed in my past. I don’t recall having ever shared such a feeling. Now, it would be useless, almost cruel, to promise my love to anyone, for I am unable to resist those other advances, be they real or imagined. Still, I hope for love.

August 13th

Today, while I was reading in a bookstore on Boulevard Saint-Michel, I felt an arm brush gently against my shoulder. When I turned around and saw her face, my heart started pounding. A female employee with long brown hair was shelving a stack of foreign novels. Her shiny hair was tied in a ponytail. Pretending to search for a book, I moved closer and managed to rest my shoulder against hers. We remained this way for a few seconds until she looked at me and smiled. Slightly embarrassed by her friendly approach, I asked her where I could find Hölderlin’s Odes and Elegies. The young woman replied that all his works were in the poetry section.

“Come,” she said, “I’ll show you.”

She led me down a few rows and pointed to the top shelf.

“It’s right there, in the middle.”

Though she went back to her job, I was convinced my feelings had been clearly perceived and that she would return. Waiting for her to come back, I browsed through the literature and philosophy sections. The sight of all too familiar texts reminded me of earlier and happier days at the university, long before I embarked on this lonely journey. When I realized the girl wasn’t coming back, I panicked and scanned the other aisles. I found her sitting behind the cash register, bantering with other employees. Persuaded she would take the first step, I went back to the shelf, picked out the Hölderlin text, and then walked over to the cash register. All the girl did was smile. I gave her the exact amount, thanked her, and left without saying another word.

Upset at myself for being so diffident, I decided to continue the pursuit. I sat down at one of the outdoor tables of a small café next to the Place Saint Michel and waited for her to come out. Since she was bound to exit through the bookstore’s main entrance, there was no way she could miss seeing me. I ordered a coffee from the waiter and looked around. In the softness of the evening, the sky was pale blue and dotted with copper-tinted clouds. Up and down Boulevard Saint-Michel, couples strolled in a carefree manner. Perhaps in a few moments, we, too, would be holding hands.

Fifteen minutes later, the girl from the bookstore came out. She walked towards me, stopped, and said teasingly, “It must be a difficult book. You seem so serious.” I nodded and told her she was right. Instead of asking her to sit down and join me, which she would have probably done, I let the exchange die. Thrown off by my aloofness, she left without saying a word and joined her co-workers who were sitting nearby. I had no choice. A formal invitation would have seemed hollow and would have failed my intent to pursue a romance in which preliminary words are unnecessary. A few minutes later, as I got up to leave, I couldn’t help noticing that I was the only person without a friend or companion. The girl and her friends stared at me. It didn’t matter. Soon, I would be in my room, alone, yet safe.

August 18th

Last night, at Les Halles, two tourists came up to me. After a series of trite exchanges, the older of the two made it clear they both wanted to go drinking and, afterward, spend the night with me. What bothered me most was her direct, almost brutal way of seeking gratification. I am attracted only to what is silent and invisible.

August 23rd

My neighbor has been back for several days. Just like before, I desperately seek her attention. As soon as I hear her apartment door close, I take off my shirt and stand like a statue in front of the open window, lifeless and scared. Yesterday, instead of ignoring my presence as she usually does, she looked at me with unmistakable hostility as if to indicate I had gone too far. She then pulled her curtains. For a moment, I thought of going over and apologizing. Before I could put on my shirt, I heard her door slam. Unable to comprehend her annoyance, I retreated to my bed, lonely and dispirited. If only she understood that I never meant any harm and that all I wanted was to please her.

August 24th

It’s too late now. In a cutting voice, the concierge informed me that my neighbor had complained to him and to one of the other tenants. With squinting eyes, he looked over the few things that I owned, then told me it would be in my interest to vacate the premises as soon as possible. On his way out, the balding man added, “Only decent people live here.”

Later that afternoon, I quietly crept out of my apartment, praying that no one would hear me go down the stairs, least of all the concierge. Now, my private life belongs to the public, transformed into something over which I no longer have any control. People will see me as they wish and say whatever they want. No matter, for it will all be true. Filled with inescapable guilt and shame, I left the building and started walking in the direction of the fifteenth arrondissement, determined once again to put an end to my peculiar trade. Yet, my remorse had subsided by the time I had crossed the Pont du Bir-Hakeim. In this neighborhood, no one knew what had taken place back in the rue de Bourgogne. Until proven guilty, I would remain innocent, forever addicted to the thrill of clandestine success. Having nothing to do, I walked down the steps that led to the Allée des Cygnes. A woman sitting alone on one of the benches looked in my direction, her eyes filled with unmistakable interest. My heart began to beat faster and faster—out of both fear and excitement. This time, it was I who had been caught off-guard.

September 1st

I now live in a small hotel on Rue des Carmes, run by a Polish refugee. He is married and has a fifteen-year-old daughter. His French is very poor, and we have a difficult time understanding each other. My room is small and drab and smells of loneliness. Besides an old bed, a sink, and a bidet, there is a stained rug, a cabinet with chipped doors, and a small wooden table that I use as my desk. When I get tired of lying down, I go to the Bibliothèque Sainte-Geneviève and read the same novels over and over. At times, I feel as if I were on a ship that has gone adrift.

September 18th

Now that university classes have started, most of the libraries are full, and it is often difficult to find an empty desk. If I don’t feel like waiting, I go to the Jardin des Plantes and sit on one of the park benches. Around me, the plane trees’ dry and yellow leaves slowly undo their grasp and quietly glide to the ground. There is something graceful, yet resigned, about their movements. Every so often, I manage to overhear students’ conversations as they hurry along to their classes. Their serious tone never fails to impress me. During the last few weeks, I have been feeling overlooked and rejected by my past, with nowhere to go.

September 25th

Today, I was reading at the Bibliothèque Sainte-Geneviève when a student sat down across from me. At one point, her foot bumped into mine. I pretended not to hear her apology, leading her to believe that I hadn’t felt a thing. Out of curiosity, I gently slid my foot towards hers, touching it ever so lightly, feigning, all the while, to be absorbed by my book. She looked across at me, then opened a notebook. Staring absently at the words before me, I cautiously searched for her foot and managed to touch it again. This time, she reciprocated willingly. She then looked across at me, rubbed her foot against mine, and smiled. A few minutes later, one of her friends appeared. The female student got up, gathered her belongings, and followed him out of the main reading room. Confused and frustrated, I got up and returned the book I had borrowed. When I exited the library and passed through the courtyard, I saw the girl talking to the male student. As our eyes met, I realized she had been tempting and testing me. Once again, I felt powerless and exposed.

October 10th

Today, I was alone on a bench in the Square Paul Langevin, rereading a novel that I have practically memorized. As the girl walked towards me, I was struck by her beauty. Her hair was black, her skin light amber, and her lips full. As she got closer, I panicked yet secretly prayed she would sit next to me. When our eyes met, she asked if anyone else was sitting on the bench. I shook my head and continued to read. She set her schoolbag on the other side and sat close to me. I could only think of one thing: how to get her to fall in love with me without speaking. Slowly, I managed to press my thigh against hers. Unbothered by my gesture, she moved closer without saying a word. We remained this way for quite some time, leaning against each other ever so gently, like two timid lovers. Later, with a deep sigh, the girl closed her notebook and asked me if I enjoyed what I was reading. Disappointed by the triteness of her question, I answered briefly before falling back into silence. But it was over. The spell had been broken, and I now felt weary and defeated. For the first time, I tried to remember the exact moment when this need for twisted secrecy had appeared in my life. When had I first touched this poison? Or had it touched me without my knowing? Chances are, I will never find out.

October 15th

I have been offered a teaching assignment in Lublin. The woman at the employment agency mentioned that the housing conditions were very basic and the salary was low. At this point, it no longer matters. I must leave Paris and, along with it, the unsuspecting prison I have methodically built for myself, though, sooner or later, my idle state will certainly ignite this tiresome cycle. The truth is, I don’t belong here anymore, even if I will continue to put myself in a position to shoplift from unwary women and run off with their desires, as only some cheap pickpocket can do.

October 17th

It didn’t take me long to give in. I had finally found a space in a crowded compartment on the night train from Berlin to Warsaw. Due to the lack of heating, everyone was bundled up and lying on the seats that had been pushed together. Across from me, I noticed a blonde woman who looked me over before smiling and closing her eyes. Her provocation was sufficient. At some point during the night, I took advantage of the tossing and shaking of the train and let my thighs gently press against hers. At first, her excitement was mingled with uncertainty. She kept shifting her legs around, unsure if she should allow this seduction to follow its course. It made no difference: I had already made away with part of her desire.