III.x. Modes of Transportation

"Stealing things is a glorious occupation, particularily in the art world."
- Malcolm McLaren

This evening, on the way to a wine bar known as the Corte di Bacco, I stumbled upon a punk not thirty metres from my apartment door. He was standing outside "Yogurtlandia", one of the many purveyors of fast food for the mendicant populations of Bologna. The bohemian entrepreneur was displaying a bright red, single speed bicycle with a lock still attached to the spar. I was with Matt, a friend from high school in Toronto, who is studying in Bologna this year. Matt had already purchased a bicycle for himself, strangely for sale in a gun and ammunition store. It was a doozy, but had been stolen in broad daylight from Piazza Verdi, in plain view of the municipal police station and the crowds of officers that supposedly keep watch over the square. For insurance purposes, Matt did go to the Quaestura to make a denuncia, though there they told him that there was very little to be done. Of course, they knew of the seven or eight individuals who were responsible for the illegal bicycle trade in the city, but they couldn't be stopped; apparently, stealing a bicycle is not an arrestable offence. Not an argument in favour of civil code based justice systems. The police kindly suggested that Matt scour the area in an attempt to find the delinquents selling his bike. Once he had found it, he was to feign an interest in purchasing it, saying he had to go to a bank machine to procure the requisite cash. Instead, he could call the police, and they could help him intervene. "Make sure you don't get beaten up," they told him before he left the station. Despairingly, almost, Matt had made a new purchase, one that was less likely to be fleeced from him. He urged me to do the same.
    "Ten euros." I held out the bill to the dreadlocked man.
    "Fifteen," he insisted.
    "No, ten. Final offer." Actually, Matt, who's Italian is infinitely better than mine, did most of the negotiation, which was limited to a few words; it was getting late and if Yogurtlandia was to close, the man would have to seek out the distant Bombocrêpe or Donermania for nourishment.
    "Alright," he agreed. I took the bike, but an overwhelming feeling of guilt immediately consumed me. Who had previously owned this gem of greased steel, so lovingly covered in thick layers of repainted colours? What if that person were to see me riding this? Matt, ever the rationalizer, attempted to convince me of my innocence in the matter. It was all a little bit over my head.
    "Look, if you were to buy a new bike, or even a legitimate used one, it would be stolen as fast as my old one was. You would be feeding the circuit. So, by buying something for ten euros, you're minimizing the chance of you becoming the victim, while at the same time doing your part to eliminate the vicious circle of bicycle theft. It's a given that a bike will be stolen in Bologna. You're just cutting your losses."
    Where my friend Matt rationalizes, I abstract, and so I applied my situation to that which I know best- the Art World. I likened buying a stolen bike (or at least one of dubious origin) to purchasing a painting, though this comparison did nothing to alleviate my guilt. Art galleries that buy stolen art, even without the knowledge that it had once been stolen, are obliged to return it, or are they? What about the Elgin Marbles at the British Museum, or Napoleon's loot in the Louvre? No, those were examples from the distant past. But the Met in New York? Their galleries are full of pirated art, most of which was purchased this century. Anyhow, is it not preferable to have art on display to the public than in the hands of greedy private owners? I concurred, but I was distancing myself from the little red bicycle, perhaps intentionally. In the end, I decided I ought to rebalance my Karma with some good work instead of performing exercises in apologetics. I would give I discussed these ideas with Matt over a glass of Chianti and some potato chips at the Corte di Bacco. The glass of wine cost forty percent of what I paid for my new bike, but I suppose the wine was of a deeper, more costly shade of red.
    Is there a patron Saint of thieves?