You, my dear, have mentioned several times to me, what if I'd write my life story. It won't, I guess, be a "best seller" as you jokingly remarked, and I most certainly would not want anyone else to read it than you, and, I am surprisingly more open in writing than in speech, so let us give it a try. You want to know me better, I understand. Contrary to your beliefs, I am not going to start from the beginning – my birth. No. I'd rather feel more comfortable telling you about the happiest time of my whole childhood and the story of me becoming a man.
Our story starts on the winter of 1842/43. I was 11 years old and I started to live on my own for the second time in my life. The first attempt was a desperate run away from the miserable place of my birth, which other people call "home", at the age of 8, not to cause trouble and misery to my poor unhappy mother, and back then I clearly was unable to support myself without money and being a young child, I know I would not have lasted for long if gypsies did not take me in. Yet I am not going to talk about this right now.
Just after I left the gypsy caravan after I successfully saved my life from the gypsies who thought the only suitable solution to stop the epidemic running around in the camp was to eliminate the source – me, the oddity with the scary features that brought bad luck and illness to the camp according to them, as I was the only one to suffer from it without noticeable symptoms, - well, so after this episode of my life I would rather forget, I started wandering on the streets yet again, just as 3 years before.
It still wasn't easy, of course, but at least I was able to use my acrobatic skills I learned from the gypsies to be able to perform at their show to entertain people before, so now I used these skills to survive. When I was 8 years old, I sure wasn't able to climb on walls, gutters and wasn't able to jump from tree to tree, like I was at that time. I was light, thanks to my cadaverous form which was present since my infancy, so gutters could easily support my weight. Lock picking was also my forte, and by the time I was 11, no latches or padlocks could restrain me from getting what I needed. I wasn't that helpless child anymore who needed constant support from grown-ups- or so I thought.
I considered myself an independent creature of the night who wanted and needed no one. And of course, I was wanted and needed by no one either. An unwanted mistake on Earth who still needs to care for himself, and it is not his fault he doesn't want to die of hunger. Strangely, though I hated myself, and my existence, the natural instinct always defeated self- loathing and my will to die. It would be kind of simple to die of hunger and not to bother mankind with my accursed ugliness, yet, though I sometimes attempted to commit the easiest and quietest suicide of all time, the pain in my stomach and fear of falling asleep forever always made me steal food in the end.
Most children are afraid of darkness. I wasn't. I feared the light and people. I usually found a good hiding place for myself for the day, as I was yet small and thin, I could fit at most places where people did not think a person would be able to squeeze himself into, so they did not find me, as they did not think to look for me there. During the day I often slept, ate or studied. My only belonging which I constantly carried with myself was my violin I received at the gypsy camp. If I could find a hiding place which was abandoned, I would practice for hours to entertain myself. Many times I would hide in stables and this was the only time I did not only make mischief. Living with the gypsies I learned how to take care of horses and I loved them very much. Entering a stall to hide with them, and noticing they weren't yet taken care of always made me upset. I bet many people got surprised how on Earth did their horses magically became brushed or their box to be cleaned. This was the only good thing I was capable of, and I liked to do.
When night fell and it was already dark I went to get some food, yet sometimes I would steal money, jewelry or even books. At first I read them, then I sold them. Well, selling was not the best way to describe my action, I simply put the book on the counter of a book shop or second- hand bookshop during the night and simply took the amount of money I imagined as the price. Why you ask? Why did I not sell it the honest and acceptable way? My child, who would buy a book, or anything else from a masked, obviously homeless brat? Oh, I know the answer to this question… you… my little naïve…
So, to sum it up, I could at least support myself. I found nothing wrong with that, as I was merely trying to survive, and as God and my earlier mentors gave me talent in getting what I wanted, and I wasn't the only one who lived like this, what should I be ashamed of? No one on Earth would hire a child like me as an aid, no matter what and if I wanted to work fairly, that opportunity wasn't available for me. Wearing my mask, I was just what people assumed of me for the first sight: a bandit. People called me a monster anyway, why to act otherwise? They called me the same even if I just begged, and they would even walk past me, or if they wanted to be mean, kick me, so that method of getting money wasn't an option. Not even begging with violin helped. They simply walked past me because of the mask, I guess. No honorable person covers his face. So I gave up the childish naïve hope of earning money the right way, and I just chose to fill my stomach the only way it was possible for a creature like me. I bet my mother would have sank in shame and then beat me until I bled and wouldn't be able to sit on my rear for weeks, but Mother already knew I was a bad child, without these acts as well. Her memory wasn't making me reconsider my actions. On the contrary. Her hatred towards me just made me sure I was made to be a real monster. If a mother thinks his son will be hung on a nice spring day why to make her disappointed? It goes as it goes!
Back at that time, I rather used pickpocketing if I had to approach people, yet I liked getting into their storerooms and take what I needed more. That way I did not have to interact with them. Sometimes pickpocketing turned to more serious crimes if they caught me and did not wish to give up protecting my prey, and back then, as I was not yet this well- trained, my actions could end two ways. If I was lucky, I got what I wanted and was able to run away. I was a fast runner and good at hiding if they lost my path, they could say an Ave to that said object or money. Yet if my opponent was more experienced, I sometimes ended up beaten, knocked out and left there, ditched in dirt to come to my senses again. Surprisingly I was never arrested back then. If I could run away, that's why, but if I was unsuccessful, I am not sure why they never called the police to jail me. Sometimes they ripped off the mask and ran away in horror either with or without my prey, which was the better option, as even if I was beaten, I still got what I wanted.
These small coincidences and inconveniences when they accidentally saw my face taught me a new and more effortless way to receive goods- I jumped in front of them, and asked for money, simply and politely, like a real thief. If I was given any, I thanked them and walked away, but if they wanted to object, which was more common, I'd simply remove my mask and they threw everything they had at me in fright and would run to the opposite direction. Of course, this included stones and shoes being thrown at me as well, but unlike stones, shoes made me a great service. Shoe size did not matter- that's what newspapers or smaller rags are for you see. The rags are even better, as they keep you warm a bit – not like soaked newspapers in wintertime. No need to pity me so much – it is still better than no shoes at all, do you agree? Wandering miles day by day does not do any good to shoes, you see…
This was going on like this in all the winter season. By the end of March, on my foot and with the aid of some carriages I sneaked up on, I reached a small village on the French- German border, in Germany. I did not really know what I wanted to do there – of course save from the activities I would do anyway- but with my gypsy "friends" I got used to wandering, and anyway, it was safer if I did not plan to settle down anywhere for a long time. I "owed" too many people after a time at the same place, and since I had the bad habit to remove my mask, they already knew what I looked like. It was partly good, as they were too much afraid to approach me mostly, but what if fear turns into hatred and violence… and I sometimes feared once they catch me in a crowd, and would definitely kill me in a superstition and revenge-filled outrage.
So, I reached this small village. The name is unimportant. I have no one there any longer, and if I told you I bet you would go there to investigate my story- you are a real stalker sometimes, more so than I am!
And you are waiting for me to tell what had happened there?
I think only next time! Ha!