I guess I spoke too soon and too much about our documentary project. I held back information, but not enough. Our producer has asked me to block access, temporarily. That makes 20 posts that require a password. Sorry for the inconvenience.
Coming down. Feels strange trying to write ordinary blog stuff after all the excitement covered in my previous 22 posts. As Bob and I now tackle the editing of photos and video of our encounters with thieves, we feel as if we’re still living the experience, still in that odd and wonderful unmentionable metropolis, and still among the pickpockets. All we’re missing is the food, though I’m not doing too bad a job myself.
Sound guy/translator Michele stayed another week in the den of thieves to be with his family (who, of course, have nothing to do with the business of thievery!). In an email, Michele mentioned an amusing coincidence (and allowed me to share it):
I took my final bus in Xxxxxx, the one that took me out of the city until next return. At the bus stop of Xxxxxxxxx, I met all our friends …“ Clay, Ed, Marc, Andy, and Frank. They were on duty and we only exchanged looks and small signs. Alone, Frank stopped by to share some last words. He once again complained about society, government, and all the universe for their infamous fate, but then, with a big smile on his face, he joined the others for the next steal. He had a final hello for you before diving deep into his daily routine of damage and bravado.
Life goes on. Nothing this primal will change. Only, we hope, the behavior of travelers, those who venture both near and far. Bob and I know our pickpocket comedy affects many and our lectures touch even more, helping to raise the antennas of wanderers. If our documentary is successful, it will put a little dent in the pockets of Frank and friends, and others like them elsewhere.
Bob gets cold feet. Overnight, reality began to percolate and bubble over the exhilaration of yesterday’s thieves’ challenge. By morning it was clear to Bob that stealing from the innocent public requires a set of attributes he lacked. Pickpockets in the U.S. call it heart, but they are referring to a lower part of the anatomy. They mean balls. I call it a criminal core.
Bob will not disappoint our gang of thieves in the park, assuming they show up. We will go to the park to thank them for the good time last evening and for participating in our film, and concede defeat in the great steal-off that never was.
Our director is fine with this decision. Crew and cameras are packed into the van; Bob and I are put in a taxi. We meet in the park. Bob paces, still somewhat conflicted. He wrongly accepted this dare in a feverish party atmosphere; but he is not a man to go back on his word, either. Not even to a band of crooks.
Maybe they won’t show up. Then Bob will be off the hook. Of course they’ll show up. Just like they did for the demo in this same park weeks ago, and yesterday’s dinner party. Bob paces in the shadow of the kiddie rides.
Frank zooms up on his motorcycle, grinning. He doesn’t know if the others will come; Andy’s not too reliable, he says. After a few minutes of chat, Bob swings his leg over the bike, wanting to putt around the park. Frank first pushes his helmet on Bob, and ensures that it’s safely fastened.
By the time Bob returns, Ed, Marc, and Andy have arrived. The regrouping of the party gang revs up the mood a few notches and distorts reality once again. The thieves are eager to pit themselves against the stage professional, and their enthusiasm is contagious. The laughter and excitement rise. Then talk turns to location.
“On the buses, of course,” they say in unison, “that’s where we work!”
“How about the market,” Bob suggests. He’s hoping for an environment in which he’d feel a little more control. A place with a large number of potential victims so he can pick just the right one, in just the right situation.
“No, another group is working there today. We don’t want to ruin their day. The bus!”
Somehow it was agreed. It was also agreed that all items would be returned to their owners. Certainly we could not be involved in stealing things for real; not even in accompanying known thieves while they commit criminal acts. All pickpockets, Bob included, would take, display, and return or replace ill-begotten gains.
Again we are a large group. Four thieves, Bob and I, and a crew of five. The eleven of us cross the park and board the next bus.
What happens next is—is—well, I’m very sorry but I can’t say. I will tell you that it is the climax of the film. It is beyond the dinner with thieves in excitement, fascination, and entertainment value. The added element of danger looms large. The speed in which events occur, the drama, and the revelations to us all combine to create lifetime impressions for all of us. Perhaps for you, too, when you see the film.
I know it’s mean to leave a cliffhanger. I admitted in part one of this narrative that I’d be compelled to leave out much good stuff. I’m sorry. But let’s go on.
Two hours later we regroup in the park. There’s been a little one-upmanship between Frank and Andy, a kind of battle using warmth-charisma-speed-guts-and-raw-skill. No hard feelings—it was all in fun. But which of them will be the pickpocket face of this city?
We’re debriefing now. Interviews in the park with the big Red camera back on its tripod and Michele translating while responsible for impeccable sound.
These men are thieves—criminal scavengers—but they are also poets. On camera Andy says:
“Bob, what we do is the same, but we are different. You make people laugh. I make people cry.”
Part one of this story. — Next installment
Dinner with thieves, again. But wait— there’s more! The day isn’t done. And though we want nothing more than to sit and process our dinner with thieves, we have further obligations. Like—another dinner. Yeah, tonight.
“This was the most unbelievable dinner party I’ve had in my life,” Bob said in the taxi on the way back to the hotel. “The mood, the food, the way they let their guard down.” And of course we learned much more about their organization and methods.
Our heads are swimming from the exhilaration of the day, but we have only an hour to change clothes and get ready for the next event. We peel off smoke-soaked clothes and look for fresh outfits. Unlike the earlier dinner, we have not been involved with the planning of this one. We haven’t been told what to expect but we know one thing: we are not hungry!
A taxi comes for us and at 10:15 p.m we’re delivered to a small restaurant. The crew has already been setting up—and setting up surprises for us. We are briefly interviewed at the restaurant’s door. While we’re detained, a pair of men brush past us. We don’t know them, but their moves, their body language, are unmistakable. We don’t know what’s going on. We enter and are led to a cellar table. Three men sit at the table with us, and Michele takes the seat at the head to translate.
One of the men is “Steve,” a former pickpocket, 30ish, with a stellar reputation in his day. After his retirement from crime, he was a pioneer in the failed program that recruited gangsters and thieves to work as tourist guides.
And “Sam,” another former pickpocket, also 30ish, now a bread-baker. As a pickpocket, he was considered the best, bar none, by bosses and police alike. Sam now keeps his hands occupied shaping loaves six and a half days a week. From stealing “bread” to making it.
And “Sid,” a filmmaker who made a short pickpocket movie. All three men have unique stories to tell—stories that will come out in our film.
Turns out that Steve and Sam were supposed to have stolen from Bob as we entered the restaurant. It was our director’s idea, and the two had thought they could pull it off. Who could have predicted that Bob would wear newly purchased slacks and a jacket with all their pockets still sewn shut?
The procession of beautiful dishes is halted when Bob and I beg for mercy. Instead, we move into the dark street—more like an alley—for demonstrations. It’s 80 degrees and three men are knocking into each other with jackets over their arms—tools of the trade. And Steve’s got his floppy messenger bag, under which his fingers used to work. Bob, Steve, and Sam are like three boys out beyond curfew, clandestinely showing off their soccer arsenal, each giddy with friendly conceit.
It’s 1 a.m. by the time we get back to the hotel. It’s been a huge day for us, but there’s more. Lights and cameras are lugged into our room for more interviews, first mine, then Bob’s. What did you think of the day? What did you learn? What about the challenge tomorrow, are you nervous? Do you think you can steal for real?
Part one of this story. — Next installment.
Dinner with thieves, continued. Carafes of white wine land on the table. I join Andy and Lou and have beer. Among much laughter, the feast begins, family style. Plates of bruschetta arrive, and large rounds of mozzarella draped in prosciutto. Andy stands, carves the cheese, and serves everyone. Before he finishes, platters of fried items are placed on the table. Fried cheese, fried mashed potatoes, fried fishballs on sticks, fried squid, fried octopus. Before anyone begins, all glasses must clink all other glasses. Then men stretch across the table, serving themselves and each other with their hands. Ed puts handfuls of crisp-fried squid on my plate, and squeezes a lemon over it all.
Bob and several of the pickpockets are standing again, clowning around and swiping stuff. Watch me! No, wait—try it this way! Our plates are cleared and fresh ones laid down. The room is thick with smoke and loud with laughter. Ed is taking pictures with his mobile phone, or maybe he’s taking video. Bowls of stewed octopus come, and others heaped with steamed mussels. Bob borrows someone’s lit cigarette and pushes it though a handkerchief—no hole!—no burn! The men love it. More beer, more wine, more bread… Bob calls for dessert—maybe some fruit. The thieves laugh. Not yet! We have more courses coming!
Michele is translating for six pickpockets and Bob, as fast as he can. In such demand, he sometimes forgets he’s also sound recordist for a big-time film and someone has to remind him: “Michele, the boom!” I make a little conversation with Ed, on my left, but since I don’t have a translator, I mostly just observe.
A huge platter of pasta comes, covered with buttery mussels and a variety of clams. Its fragrant steam masks the cigarette smoke for a few minutes. It’s a work of art. The pasta is thick and chewy, the clams sweet, garlicky, divine. This dish, served in the den of thieves, is my favorite of all the spectacular meals enjoyed in our host city. It pains me to withhold credit where credit is due. I want to shout the name of the restaurant, and the city we’re in. I will… later.
There’s serious eating for a while. This is food to pay attention to, and these men are no strangers to fine cuisine. Another platter is added to the table, this one heaped with shell fish, crustaceans, and fish. Really, it is too much. Yet Ed is popping baby squids into my mouth with his fingers, and I’m enjoying them. There is some metaphor here—something about the fingers of a thief being exempt from all rules.
The men rise for more demonstrations. Bob swipes the restaurant owner’s wallet, then Andy shows how he can take cash without removing the wallet. Finally, they get to that special front pocket technique, unique to this city. Andy crushes against Bob, as if on a lurching bus. Frank holds Bob in place from the other side. Andy removes bill after bill from Bob’s front pocket, handing them off to Marc. Then Andy turns and skulks away. Playing along, Bob shouts “who took my money!” Marc passes the cash back to Andy, who presents it to Bob with a half bow and hand up in apology. Bob accepts the cash and Andy departs.
“We return the money when we have to,” he explains, “but it’s never the same amount.” Exactly like a magician, he has palmed half the cash before returning it. The victim never counts it on the spot. Andy grins hugely, full of pride.
Lou, now retired, sits out most of the demonstrations, but can’t help getting into the action to show his own wallet extractions. He rocks the wallet—zig-zags it out. The demonstrations and raucous laughter extend through dessert and beyond; through coffee, through liqueur. Then it’s time for picture-taking. All the thieves want to get between Bob and me for a photo.
There’s a surprise: everyone signs full releases agreeing to be in our film, faces shown. We are ecstatic. The thought of blurring these expressive, lively faces was distressing. Now these men, the true stars of our pickpocket documentary, will be laid bare; not only their identities, but their emotions, their humanity.
And there’s a challenge. The pickpockets have admired Bob’s steals, but insist their work is different. Can he perform in their world? Has he got the heart? By that they mean the guts—the nerve. They summons Bob to a test. We’ll meet in the park. Tomorrow.
Part one of this story. — Next installment
Dinner with thieves. It’s 3:00. The film crew’s still perfecting camera angles, lighting, and table arrangements. I’ve taken my seat as requested, so cameras can be adjusted behind me.
I’m antsy. Bob’s irritated. All invitees arrived on time at 2. They’ve been asked to wait in a nearby café. But for how long? They’re our guests and I’m feeling rude.
The restaurant has closed to the public. Its owners and staff stand in the back, arms crossed, unsmiling. Its lighting has been draped with black or white fabric and our own lights have been arranged on large stands. My eyes bounce from the frenzied crew to my watch to the prominent tanks of live seafood bubbling noisily. Sound man Michele frowns at the hum but, as a homeboy, he knows he can’t ask the restaurant owner to turn off the vital air supply to the pricey perishables.
Bob and I were skeptical as the taxi cruised along the unfamiliar streets of this neighborhood. This small restaurant, chosen by Andy, is the best-looking address on the street. Inside, its homey atmosphere is comforting. We can’t help wondering: are the owners relatives?; if not, do they know who today’s guests are?
We thought this gathering would just be a dinner, maybe a party, but it’s more—it’s an ad hoc film set. The crew are now trying to rig a camera to fly over the table. Our producer and official whip-cracker, Kath, is putting on the pressure to open the doors; but sound must be perfect. Lighting and cameras must be just so. I’m wondering if we’ll have any guests at all by the time they’re ready. Finally, at 4:00, the thieves are called in.
They arrive smiling: Frank, and his brother Ed; Andy, and his brother Lou; Lou’s son-in-law Marc; and Clay. Handshakes and hugs all around, as at any dinner party. Then Andy goes straight for Bob’s pockets, feeling him up. With a flourish and a spin, he whips out a wallet from Bob’s breast pocket, laughing. To complete the charade, he hands it off to Marc, who skulks away. The room cracks up. Applause.
Frank has dressed for the occasion, in a purple silk shirt. When we first met him on the bus he was clean-shaven. The next day in the park he signed a release agreeing to be in our film. Now he has a mustache. Has he grown it as a disguise? For a debonaire film-star look? I forget to ask him.
Part one of this story. — Next installment
Anticipation. Frank has RSVPed by email, with enthusiasm. But what about the others? Will they come to our dinner? I wonder about the restaurant chosen by Andy. Is it owned by a relative? Is it a regular thieves’ den? Will the food be appetizing and safe to eat? Is it a dive, or has he taken advantage of our offer to select an outrageously expensive place?
It’s in a rough neighborhood, is all we are told. Later, our crew go there to scout the lighting needs and see how they’ll set up cameras, but the place is closed.
At the dinner, we hope to exchange pickpocketing techniques. Bob is particularly interested in learning the moves involved in a slow, steady extraction from the front pants pocket. To be on the safe side, we decide to buy a pair of pants with the kind of pocket we know will work.
We go shopping, camera crew in tow. And given the neighborhood, given the mass of equipment that surrounds us on this excursion, we have police protection. Not one, but two cops escort us into the alley of cheap clothing, where we find what we think are the perfect pants. Michele shouts as a man runs toward Van, who has the Red on his shoulder; Van can only see what’s in his frame. One of our cops steers the man away.
Waiting for the dinner, we feel we must stay off the buses. We don’t want our pickpocket friends to think we’re looking for their competitors. Neither do we want to infringe on their work—we’re not law enforcement, we remind ourselves. This city could put a dent in thievery if it wanted to, but criminal activity is an innate and intrinsic part of society here; our values are outsiders’ ethics.
We feel it’s safe, so-to-speak, to research another territory. We make a morning trip to a huge outdoor market where we’re told a few female pickpockets work plucking wallets out of women’s purses. Bob and I wander the aisles of clothing, shoes, hardware, luggage, housewares, and electronics. I’m totally, naturally, distracted by the shoes—of top quality and bottom price. A fabulous pair of tall, lace-up boots costs €25, about $30—10% of regular retail! I want to try them on but I’m supposed to be thiefhunting. Our crew is following us with their hidden cameras. Kun is using an exposed Canon D5 for stills, but it also shoots gorgeous video. We have undercover police guards tailing us at the ends of each aisle. Nothing happens. I try on shoes, I set down my purse, I turn my back on it. Nothing. No takers.
Back in the police office we dissect our failure to attract thieves. Kun’s camera was too obvious, the police say. Shouts were heard warning of cameras. The books containing hidden cameras were held unnaturally, raising suspicion. My purse was carried too carelessly, they say, no local woman would hold it like that.
While we’re debriefing in the police office, three separate victims come to report thefts from their purses. The thieves are there. They’re working. But they’re savvy, and they don’t like me as a victim.
The market is closing now; each vendor is packing up and loading boxes onto trucks. Our dinner with thieves is nearing.
Part one of this story. — Next installment
Thieves find us, more. It was a big day for us, and for the whole documentary team. The lowlifers stealing Bob’s wallet, finding Marc and Andy on a bus, catching up on a few years with Andy at a café, then making plans for a big dinner.
I haven’t mentioned that somehow during the day, Bob’s wallet really did disappear, and it isn’t clear how that happened. Did Marc or Andy take it? Could it have been the third man with them, whom we didn’t recognize and lost track of in the excitement? Or was it our own film crew, who never replaced the wallet in Bob’s pocket after filming those pickup shots?
In any case, it’s gone. This upsets Bob, because he’s lost that very wallet hundreds of times in our thiefhunting exploits, and he’s always gotten it back. Now the wallet is gone.
To relax and clear his head, Bob goes for a long shower. From the bathroom he calls me. “Go get the crew. I want to share my thoughts on the day. They can film in here if they want to, I don’t mind.”
They bring the big old Red into the steamy bathroom. Director of photography, film director, and sound man all in the bathroom, shifting angles to avoid seeing themselves in the mirrors. Bob’s in the clear glass shower, water pouring off him, explaining the meaning of that damn wallet, its loss, and how a shower calms him.
After Bob’s shower, we sit on the bed talking a little more to the cameras. It’s late. I’ve got my computer and I check email for the last time before bed. And… there’s an email from Frank. Email from a pickpocket!
It was a long and heartfelt letter and, even with a rough google translation, we could sense the warmth and charm Frank was trying to express. I’m sure Frank won’t mind that I quote this short poetic bit:
I know perfectly well that to touch the soul you can impress both the astonishing perception that sharpens our satisfaction, even if our directions are very different. Yours can be a funny show, quite surreal. but you may feel sick from the fleeting moment of reality that is reflected in my ever infinite talent.
After a long, frustrated account of the city’s political and criminal problems, Frank writes: “I believe that here it is becoming worse. Who would not want to hold a secure job and live a life of tranquility?” Then suddenly, a sentence that had me on the floor laughing. “Dear Bob, I’m a bit pathetically away from our subject…” Frank’s main point was to confirm our restaurant plans. He was politely RSVPing.
Part one of this story. — Next installment
Thieves find us, continued. We’re not looking for pickpockets; just busy filming pickup shots on the bus for the documentary, when known thieves Marc and Andy board the bus with a third man we don’t recognize. “Marc!” we all say, swiveling our cameras in his direction. “Andy!” I say, as the two push past me. Bob and I recognize Andy from past years, but the film crew don’t know him.
The men had boarded at the back of the now-crowded bus. They shimmy through the tightly packed aisle like river water through stones. Marc and Andy pretend they don’t know us, but we and our crew are in relentless pursuit, struggling through the aisle crowd to catch up, to make contact. From the beginning, Marc has been the shifty-eyed cautious one. Even now, he makes as if to jump ship at the first stop, eager to escape. But Bob catches up with him, all smiles, and when the bus lurches to its next stop, we all jump off together: two thieves, Bob and I, and our whole crew.
We land at a café and take a few tables. The big Red camera looks our way and the furry boom mic hovers over us. We order coffee, lemon ice, a few snacks. Andy reminisces over past meetings with Bob and me. Marc reverts to his friendlier self on Andy’s cue.
Bob pulls out his iPod and shows Andy our gallery of local thieves. Andy smiles, laughs, pointing to photos of his friends. He knows every face. He stops at Lou, his brother, and tells us that he’s retired now. At 57, Lou now has a cigarette kiosk and makes a decent living. Bob and I are glad to hear this. We’ve known Lou for 12 years now; he was the first pickpocket we met in this city. Or rather, the first one we spoke with at length.
Though we figure Andy’s already aware of it, Bob expresses his wish to find the most talented pickpocket in this city of talented pickpockets. Andy doesn’t hesitate. “I’m the best!” he brags. “Ask anyone.” Marc nods. Bob describes the technique he hopes to have demonstrated and Andy pops out of his chair, ready to show it. Andy’s talking a blue streak and sound man Michele, translating yet another thief, is listening with a broad grin. He can’t translate everything fast enough, but at one point he beams at me. “He’s incredibly charming. Full of character, like an actor!”
“You say you’re the best,” Bob says. “Then it’s you I’m looking for!” Bob proposes dinner—a big dinner with thieves. “We’ll have a contest and share techniques,” he says. He invites Marc and Andy, and tells them to invite Frank and Frank’s brother Ed. And Clay, because he was there at the demonstration party in the park. And Lou, of course, retired or not!
“We can’t do dinner,” Andy explains. Frank is on restriction; he’s not allowed out after 9 p.m. “Say 2:00 on Friday. Where?”
“Where would you like to go?” our producer chips in generously. Andy names a restaurant without hesitation, and volunteers to make reservations. He scribbles the name and address of the place for us and stands, eager to get back to work.
After Marc and Andy disappear on a bus, Bob and I need a walk to come down. We know the neighborhood and its risks, so we turn in our hidden cameras to the crew. Our van has come to meet us at the café and it will take all the equipment. Bob and I walk.
Part one of this story. — Next installment
Thieves find us. “Police, police! She took my wallet!” That’s Bob screaming at ear-splitting volume. Not his usual reaction to pickpocketing! Usually, he turns and simply asks for the wallet back. Or if he has the time, he’ll steal something else from the thief—his phone or sunglasses—and then propose a trade.
We’d noticed this thief, a lowlife drug-addled woman, at a bus stop, as she and her boyfriend lit cigarette butts plucked from the ground. The bus stop was thick with thieves, all more interesting than this desperado; Bob was hoping his wallet would attract one of the others. But the woman wormed her way through the boarding throng, cutting between Bob and me. I had the perfect view of her sloppy steal. So did our film crew.
We’re at the bus stop for “pickup shots” after the rush and excitement of the past few days. We’d found the pickpocket trio Frank, Marc, and Ed so quickly, and things progressed in such a rush, our film director realized that we needed some establishing shots and close-ups on the bus to set the scene for viewers of the documentary.
Director Kun Chang asks Bob to board the next bus, then hop off before it leaves. That’s when the junkie grabs his wallet. Bob makes a scene and the boyfriend shoves the wallet back in. Cute. Usually they just drop it on the ground. Bob gets off the bus and together, we marvel at the number of “suspects” around us. We don’t recognize any individuals from prior visits, but they all fit the pattern.
Today, though, we’re not thiefhunting, tempting as it is. We need those pickup shots, so we let the bus go without us, onboard thieves free to do their thing unwatched. Bob and I are to board the next red bus, because that’s the kind we rode two days ago with Frank, Marc, and Ed.
Here comes one. We board, along with our film crew. It’s empty—I mean, no suspects. Bob and I stand where we were when Frank & Co. found us, and the cameras get their shots. Until…
The bus stops and doors open and I glance out the window to see faces I recognize. It’s Marc, the younger of the pickpockets we’d met two days ago, and with him Andy, Marc’s uncle-by-marriage and a thief Bob and I have known for years.
We don’t expect them to board. We think they’ll see us and turn away. But no. Along with a third man we don’t recognize, they climb the stairs to work the bus.
Part one of this story. — Next installment.