Maman died today. Or yesterday maybe, I don’t know.
I got a telegram from the home: “Mother deceased.
Funeral tomorrow. Faithfully yours.” That doesn’t mean
anything. Maybe it was yesterday.
The old people’s home is at Marengo, about eighty
kilometers from Algiers, I’ll take the two o’clock bus and
get there in the afternoon. That way I can be there for the
vigil and come back tomorrow night. I asked my boss for
two days off and there was no way he was going to refuse me with an excuse like that. But he wasn’t too
happy about it. I even said, “It’s not my fault.” He didn’t
say anything. Then I thought I shouldn’t have said that.
After all, I didn’t have anything to apologize for. He’s
the one who should have offered his condolences. But he
probably will day after tomorrow, when he sees I’m in
mourning. For now, it’s almost as if Maman weren’t dead.
After the funeral, though, the case will be closed, and
everything will have a more official feel to it.
I caught the two o’clock bus. It was very hot. I ate
at the restaurant, at Celeste’s, as usual. Everybody felt
very sorry for me, and Celeste said, “You only have one mother.” When I left, they walked me to the door. I
was a little distracted because I still had to go up to
Emmanuel’s place to borrow a black tie and an arm band.
He lost his uncle a few months back.
I ran so as not to miss the bus. It was probably because of all the rushing around, and on top of that the
bumpy ride, the smell of gasoline, and the glare of the
sky and the road, that I dozed off. I slept almost
the whole way. And when I woke up, I was slumped
against a soldier who smiled at me and asked if I’d been
traveling long. I said, “Yes,” just so I wouldn’t have to
say anything else.
The home is two kilometers from the village. I walked
them. I wanted to see Maman right away. But the caretaker told me I had to see the director first. He was busy,
so I waited awhile. The caretaker talked the whole time
and then I saw the director. I was shown into his office.
He was a little old man with the ribbon of the Legion
of Honor in his lapel. He looked at me with his clear
eyes. Then he shook my hand and held it so long I
didn’t know how to get it loose. He thumbed through
a file and said, “Madame Meursault came to us three
years ago. You were her sole support.” I thought he was
criticizing me for something and I started to explain.
But he cut me off. “You don’t have to justify yourself,
my dear boy. I’ve read your mother’s file. You weren’t
able to provide for her properly. She needed someone to
look after her. You earn only a modest salary. And the
truth of the matter is, she was happier here.” I said, “Yes, sir.” He added, “You see, she had friends here,
people her own age. She was able to share things from
the old days with them. You’re young, and it must have
been hard for her with you.”
It was true. When she was at home with me, Maman
used to spend her time following me with her eyes, not
saying a thing. For the first few days she was at the home
she cried a lot. But that was because she wasn’t used to
it. A few months later and she would have cried if she’d
been taken out. She was used to it. That’s partly why I
didn’t go there much this past year. And also because it
took up my Sunday-not to mention the trouble of
getting to the bus, buying tickets, and spending two hours
traveling.
The director spoke to me again. But I wasn’t really
listening anymore. Then he said, “I suppose you’d like
to see your mother.” I got up without saying anything
and he led the way to the door. On the way downstairs, he
explained, “We’ve moved her to our little mortuary. So
as not to upset the others. Whenever one of the residents
dies, the others are a bit on edge for the next two or
three days. And that makes it difficult to care for them.”
We crossed a courtyard where there were lots of old
people chatting in little groups. As we went by, the talking would stop. And then the conversation would start
up again behind us. The sound was like the muffied
jabber of parakeets. The director stopped at the door of
a small building. ”I’ll leave you now, Monsieur Meursault. If you need me for anything, I’ll be in my office.

As is usually the case, the funeral is set for ten o’clock in
the morning. This way you’ll be able to keep vigil over
the departed. One last thing : it seems your mother
often expressed to her friends her desire for a religious
burial. I’ve taken the liberty of making the necessary
arrangements. But I wanted to let you know.” I thanked
him. While not an atheist, Maman had never in her life
given a thought to religion.
I went in. It was a very bright, whitewashed room
with a skylight for a roof. The furniture consisted of
some chairs and some cross-shaped sawhorses. Two of
them, in the middle of the room, were supporting a
closed casket. All you could see were some shiny screws,
not screwed down all the way, standing out against the
walnut-stained planks. Near the casket was an Arab
nurse in a white smock, with a brightly colored scarf on
her head.
Just then the caretaker came in behind me. He must
have been running. He stuttered a little. “We put the
cover on, but I’m supposed to unscrew the casket so you
can see her.” He was moving toward the casket when I
stopped him. He said, “You don’t want to?” I answered,
“No.” He was quiet, and I was embarrassed because I
felt I shouldn’t have said that. He looked at me and then
asked, “Why not?” but without criticizing, as if he just
wanted to know. I said, “I don’t know.” He started twirling his moustache, and then without looking at me, again
he said, “I understand.” He had nice pale blue eyes and
a reddish complexion. He offered me a chair and then sat down right behind me. The nurse stood up and went
toward the door. At that point the caretaker said to me,
“She’s got an abscess.” I didn’t understand, so I looked
over at the nurse and saw that she had a bandage
wrapped around her head just below the eyes. Where
her nose should have been, the bandage was Bat. All
you could see of her face was the whiteness of the bandage.
When she’d gone, the caretaker said, ”I’ll leave you
alone.” I don’t know what kind of gesture I made, but
he stayed where he was, behind me. Having this presence
breathing down my neck was starting to annoy me. The
room was filled with beautiful late-afternoon sunlight.
Two hornets were buzzing against the glass roof. I
could feel myself getting sleepy. Without turning around,
I said to the caretaker, “Have you been here long?”
Right away he answered, “Five years”-as if he’d been
waiting all along for me to ask.
After that he did a lot of talking. He would have been
very surprised if anyone had told him he would end up
caretaker at the Marengo home. He was sixty-four and
came from Paris. At that point I interrupted him. “Oh,
you’re not from around here?” Then I remembered that
before taking me to the director’s office, he had talked
to me about Maman. He’d told me that they had to
bury her quickly, because it gets hot in the plains, especially in this part of the country. That was when he told
me he had lived in Paris and that he had found it hard
to forget it. In Paris they keep vigil over the body for three, sometimes four days. But here you barely have
time to get used to the idea before you have to start
running after the hearse. Then his wife had said to him,
“Hush now, that’s not the sort of thing to be telling the
gentleman.” The old man had blushed and apologized.
I’d stepped in and said, “No, not at all.” I thought what
he’d been saying was interesting and made sense.
In the little mortuary he told me that he’d come to
the horne because he was destitute. He was in good
health, so he’d offered to take on the job of caretaker. I
pointed out that even so he was still a resident. He said
no, he wasn’t. I’d already been struck by the way he
had of saying “they” or “the others” and, less often, “the
old people,” talking about the patients, when some of
them weren’t any older than he was. But of course it
wasn’t the same. He was the caretaker, and to a certain
extent he had authority over them.
Just then the nurse carne in. Night had fallen suddenly. Darkness had gathered, quickly, above the skylight. The caretaker turned the switch and I was blinded
by the sudden Bash of light. He suggested I go to the
dining hall for dinner. But I wasn’t hungry. Then he
offered to bring me a cup of coffee with milk. I like milk
in my coffee, so I said yes, and he carne back a few
minutes later with a tray. I drank the coffee. Then I felt
like having a smoke. But I hesitated, because I didn’t
know if I could do it with Marnan right there. I thought
about it; it didn’t matter. I offered the caretaker a cigarette and we smoked.

At one point he said, “You know, your mother’s
friends will be coming to keep vigil too. It’s customary.
I have to go get some chairs and some black coffee.” I
asked him if he could tum off one of the lights. The
glare on the white walls was making me drowsy. He said
he couldn’t. That was how they’d been wired : it was all
or nothing. I didn’t pay too much attention to him after
that. He left, came back, set up some chairs. On one of
them he stacked some cups around a coffee pot. Then
he sat down across from me, on the other side of Maman.
The nurse was on that side of the room too, but with’
her back to me. I couldn’t see what she was doing. But
the way her arms were moving made me think she was
knitting. It was pleasant; the coffee had warmed me
up, and the smell of Rowers on the night air was coming
through the open door. I think I dozed off for a while.
It was a rustling sound that woke me up. Because
I’d had my eyes closed, the whiteness of the room seemed
even brighter than before. There wasn’t a shadow anywhere in front of me, and every object, every angle and
curve stood out so sharply it made my eyes hurt. That’s
when Maman’s friends came in. There were about ten
in all, and they Boated into the blinding light without a
sound. They sat down without a single chair creaking. I
saw them more clearly than I had ever seen anyone, and
not one detail of their faces or their clothes escaped me.
But I couldn’t hear them, and it was hard for me to believe they really existed. Almost all the women were
wearing aprons, and the strings, which were tied tight around their waists, made their bulging stomachs stick
out even more. I’d never noticed what huge stomachs
old women can have. Almost all the men were skinny
and carried canes. What struck me most about their
faces was that I couldn’t see their eyes, just a faint
glimmer in a nest of wrinkles. When they’d sat down,
most of them looked at me and nodded awkwardly, their
lips sucked in by their toothless mouths, so that I couldn’t
tell if they were greeting me or if it was just a nervous
tic. I think they were greeting me. It was then that I
realized they were all sitting across from me, nodding
their heads, grouped around the caretaker. For a second
I had the ridiculous feeling that they were there to judge
me.
Soon one of the women started crying. She was in
the second row, hidden behind one of her companions,
and I couldn’t see her very well. She was crying softly,
steadily, in little sobs. I thought she’d never stop. The
others seemed not to hear her. They sat there hunched
up, gloomy and silent. They would look at the casket,
or their canes, or whatever else, but that was all they
would look at. The woman kept on crying. It surprised
me, because I didn’t know who she was. I wished I
didn’t have to listen to her anymore. But I didn’t dare
say anything. The caretaker leaned over and said something to her, but she shook her head, mumbled something, and went on crying as much as before. Then the
caretaker came around to my side. He sat down next to
me. After a long pause he explained, without looking at me, “She was very close to your mother. She says your
mother was her only friend and now she hasn’t got any-
”
one.
We just sat there like that for quite a while. The
woman’s sighs and sobs were quieting down. She sniffled
a lot. Then finally she shut up. I didn’t feel drowsy
anymore, but I was tired and my back was hurting me.
Now it was all these people not making a sound that
was getting on my nerves. Except that every now and
then I’d hear a strange noise and I couldn’t figure out
what it was. Finally I realized that some of the old
people were sucking at the insides of their cheeks and
making these weird smacking noises. They were so lost
in their thoughts that they weren’t even aware of it. I
even had the impression that the dead woman lying in
front of them didn’t mean anything to them. But I think
now that that was a false impression.
We all had some coffee, served by the caretaker.
After that I don’t know any more. The night passed. I
remember opening my eyes at one point and seeing that
all the old people were slumped over asleep, except for one
old man, with his chin resting on the back of his hands
wrapped around his cane, who was staring at me as if he
were just waiting for me to wake up. Then I dozed off
again. I woke up because my back was hurting more
and more. Dawn was creeping up over the skylight. Soon
afterwards, one of the old men woke up and coughed a
lot. He kept hacking into a large checkered handkerchief, and every cough was like a convulsion. He woke the others up, and the caretaker told them that they
ought to be going. They got up. The uncomfortable
vigil had left their faces ashen looking. On their way
out, and much to my surprise, they all shook my handas if that night during which we hadn’t exchanged as
much as a single word had somehow brought us closer
together.
I was tired. The caretaker took me to his room and
I was able to clean up a little. I had some more coffee
and milk, which was very good. When I went outside,
the sun was up. Above the hills that separate Marengo
from the sea, the sky was streaked with red. And the
wind coming over the hills brought the smell of salt
with it. It was going to be a beautiful day. It had been
a long time since I’d been out in the country, and I
could feel how much I’d enjoy going for a walk if it
hadn’t been for Maman.
But I waited in the courtyard, under a plane tree. I
breathed in the smell of fresh earth and I wasn’t sleepy
anymore. I thought of the other guys at the office. They’d
be getting up to go to work about this time : for me that
was always the most difficult time of day. I thought about
those things a little more, but I was distracted by the
sound of a bell ringing inside the buildings. There was
some commotion behind the windows, then everything
quieted down again. The sun was now a little higher in
the sky : it was starting to warm my feet. The caretaker
came across the courtyard and told me that the director
was asking for me. I went to his office. He had me sign a number of documents. I noticed that he was dressed
in black with pin-striped trousers. He picked up the
telephone and turned to me. “The undertaker’s men
arrived a few minutes ago. I’m going to ask them to seal
the casket. Before I do, would you like to see your
mother one last time?” I said no. He gave the order into
the telephone, lowering his voice: “Figeac, tell the men
they can go ahead.

After that he told me he would be attending thefuneral and I thanked him. He sat down behind his deskand crossed his short legs. He informed me that he andI would be the only ones there, apart from the nurse onduty. The residents usually weren’t allowed to attendfunerals. He only let them keep the vigil. “It’s morehumane that way,” he remarked. But in this case he’dgiven one of mother’s old friends-Thomas Perezpermission to join the funeral procession . At that thedirector smiled. He said, “I’m sure you understand. It’sa rather childish sentiment. But he and your mother werealmost inseparable. The others used to tease them andsay, ‘Perez has a fiancee.’ He’d laugh. They enjoyed it.And the truth is he’s taking Madame Meursault’s deathvery hard. I didn’t think I could rightfully refuse himpermission. But on the advice of our visiting physician,I did not allow him to keep the vigil last night.”We didn’t say anything for quite a long time. Thedirector stood up and looked out the window of his office.A moment later he said, “Here’s the priest from Marengoalready. He’s early.” He warned me that it would take at least three-quarters of an hour to walk to the church,which is in the village itself. We went downstairs. Outin front of the building stood the priest and two altarboys. One of them was holding a censer, and the priestwas leaning toward him, adjusting the length of its silverchain. As we approached, the priest straightened up. Hecalled me “my son” and said a few words to me. He wentinside; I followed.I noticed right away that the screws on the caskethad been tightened and that there were four men wearing black in the room. The director vas telling me that thehearse was waiting out in the road and at the same timeI could hear the priest beginning his prayers. From thenon everything happened very quickly. The men movedtoward the casket with a pall. The priest, his acolytes, thedirector and I all went outside. A woman I didn’t knowwas standing by the door. “Monsieur Meursault,” thedirector said. I didn’t catch the woman’s name; I justunderstood that she was the nurse assigned by the home.Without smiling she lowered her long, gaunt face. Thenwe stepped aside to make way for the body. We followed the pall bearers and left the horne. Outside thegate stood the hearse. Varnished, glossy, and oblong, itreminded me of a pencil box. Next to it was the funeraldirector, a little man in a ridiculous getup, and an awkward, embarrassed-looking old man. I realized that it wasMonsieur Perez. He was wearing a soft felt hat with around crown and a wide brim (he took it off as thecasket was coming through the gate), a suit with trousers that were corkscrewed down around his ankles, and ablack tie with a knot that was too small for the big whitecollar of his shirt. His lips were trembling below a nosedotted with blackheads. Strange, floppy, thick-rimmedears stuck out through his fine, white hair, and I wasstruck by their blood-red color next to the pallor of hisface. The funeral director assigned us our places. Firstcame the priest, then the hearse. Flanking it, the fourmen. Behind it, the director and myself and, bringing upthe rear, the nurse and Monsieur Perez.The sky was already filled with light. The sun wasbeginning to bear down on the earth and it was gettinghotter by the minute. I don’t know why we waited solong before getting under way. I was hot in my darkclothes. The little old man, who had put his hat back on,took it off again. I turned a little in his direction andwas looking at him when the director started talking tome about him. He told me that my mother and MonsieurPerez often used to walk down to the village together inthe evenings, accompanied by a nurse. I was looking atthe countryside around me. Seeing the rows of cypresstrees leading up to the hills next to the sky, and thehouses standing out here and there against that redand green earth, I was able to understand Maman better.Evenings in that part of the country must have been akind of sad relief. But today, with the sun bearing down,making the whole landscape shimmer with heat, it was inhuman and oppressive.We got under way. It was then that I noticed that Perez had a slight limp. Little by little, the hearse waspicking up speed and the old man was losing ground.One of the men Banking the hearse had also droppedback and was now even with me. I was surprised athow fast the sun was climbing in the sky. I noticed thatfor quite some time the countryside had been buzzingwith the sound of insects and the crackling of grass. Thesweat was pouring down my face. I wasn’t wearing ahat, so I fanned myself with my handkerchief. The manfrom the undertaker’s said something to me then whichI missed. He was lifting the edge of his cap with hisright hand and wiping his head with a handkerchiefwith his left at the same time. I said, “What?” He pointedup at the sky and repeated, “Pretty hot.” I said, “Yes.”A minute later he asked, “Is that your mother in there?”Again I said, “Yes.” “Was she old?” I answered, “Fairly,”because I didn’t know the exact number. After that hewas quiet. I turned around and saw old Perez about fiftymeters behind us. He was going as fast as he could, swinging his felt hat at the end of his arm. I looked at thedirector, too. He was walking with great dignity, withouta single wasted motion. A few beads of sweat were forming on his forehead, but he didn’t wipe them off.The procession seemed to me to be moving a littlefaster. All around me there was still the same glowingcountryside Hooded with sunlight. The glare from thesky was unbearable. At one point, we went over a sectionof the road that had just been repaved. The tar hadburst open in the sun. Our feet sank into it, leaving its shiny pulp exposed. Sticking up above the top of thehearse, the coachman’s hard leather hat looked as if ithad been molded out of the same black mud. I felt alittle lost between the blue and white of the sky and themonotony of the colors around me-the sticky black ofthe tar, the dull black of all the clothes, and the shinyblack of the hearse. All of it-the sun, the smell of leatherand horse dung from the hearse, the smell of varnish andincense, and my fatigue after a night without sleep-wasmaking it hard for me to see or think straight. I turnedaround again : Perez seemed to be way back there, fadingin the shimmering heat. Then I lost sight of him altogether. I looked around and saw that he’d left the roadand cut out across the fields. I also noticed there was abend in the road up ahead. I realized that Perez, whoknew the country, was taking a short cut in order to catchup with us. By the time we rounded the bend, he wasback with us. Then we lost him again. He set off crosscountry once more, and so it went on. I could feel theblood pounding in my temples.After that, everything seemed to happen so fast, sodeliberately, so naturally that I don’t remember any ofit anymore. Except for one thing : as we entered thevillage, the nurse spoke to me. She had a remarkablevoice which didn’t go with her face at all, a melodious,quavering voice. She said, “If you go slowly, you riskgetting sunstroke. But if you go too fast, you work upa sweat and then catch a chill inside the church.” Shewas right.

There was no way out. Several other images from that day have stuck in my mind : for instance,
Perez’s face when he caught up with us for the last time,
just outside the village. Big tears of frustration and exhaustion were streaming down his cheeks. But because
of all the wrinkles, they weren’t dripping off. They
spread out and ran together again, leaving a watery film
over his ruined face. Then there was the church and
the villagers on the sidewalks, the red geraniums on the
graves in the cemetery, Perez fainting (he crumpled like
a rag doll), the blood-red earth spilling over Maman’s
casket, the white flesh of the roots mixed in with it, more
people, voices, the village, waiting in front of a cafe, the
incessant drone of the motor, and my joy when the bus
entered the nest of lights that was Algiers and I knew I
was going to go to bed and sleep for twelve hours.

2
As I was waking up, it came to me why my boss had
seemed annoyed when I asked him for two days off :
today is Saturday. I’d sort of forgotten, but as I was
getting up, it came to me. And, naturally, my boss
thought about the fact that I’d be getting four days’
vacation that way, including Sunday, and he couldn’t
have been happy about that. But, in the first place, it
isn’t my fault if they buried Maman yesterday instead
of today, and second, I would have had Saturday and
Sunday off anyway. Obviously, that still doesn’t keep me
from understanding my boss’s point of view.
I had a hard time getting up, because I was tired
from the day before. While I was shaving, I wondered
what I was going to do and I decided to go for a swim. I
caught the streetcar to go to the public beach down at
the harbor. Once there, I dove into the channel. There
were lots of young people. In the water I ran into Marie
Cardona, a former typist in our office whom I’d had a
thing for at the time. She did too, I think. But she’d left
soon afterwards and we didn’t have the time. I helped
her onto a Hoat and as I did, I brushed against her breasts. I was still in the water when she was already lying flat
on her stomach on the float. She turned toward me. Her
hair was in her eyes and she was laughing. I hoisted
myself up next to her. It was nice, and, sort of joking
around, I let my head fall back and rest on her stomach .
She didn’t say anything so I left it there. I had the whole
sky in my eyes and it was blue and gold. On the back
of my neck I could feel Marie’s heart beating softly. We
lay on the Boat for a long time, half asleep. When the
sun got too hot, she dove off and I followed. I caught
up with her, put my arm around her waist, and we
swam together. She laughed the whole time. On the
dock, while we were drying ourselves off, she said, ”I’m
darker than you.” I asked her if she wanted to go to
the movies that evening. She laughed again and told me
there was a Fernandel movie she’d like to see. Once we
were dressed, she seemed very surprised to see I was
wearing a black tie and she asked me if I was in mourning. I told her Maman had died. She wanted to know
how long ago, so I said, “Yesterday.” She gave a little
start but didn’t say anything. I felt like telling her it
wasn’t my fault, but I stopped myself because I remembered that I’d already said that to my boss. It didn’t
mean anything. Besides, you always feel a little guilty.
By that evening Marie had forgotten all about it. The
movie was funny in parts, but otherwise it was just too
stupid. She had her leg pressed against mine. I was
fondling her breasts. Toward the end of the show, I gave
her a kiss, but not a good one. She came back to my place. When I woke up, Marie had gone. She’d explained
to me that she had to go to her aunt’s. I remembered that
it was Sunday, and that bothered me: I don’t like Sundays. So I rolled over, tried to find the salty smell Marie’s
hair had left on the pillow, and slept until ten. Then I
smoked a few cigarettes, still in bed, till noon. I didn’t
feel like having lunch at Celeste’s like I usually did because they’d be sure to ask questions and I don’t like
that. I fixed myself some eggs and ate them out of the
pan, without bread because I didn’t have any left and
I didn’t feel like going downstairs to buy some.
After lunch I was a little bored and I wandered
around the apartment. It was just the right size when
Maman was here. Now it’s too big for me, and I’ve had
to move the dining room table into my bedroom. I live in
just one room now, with some saggy straw chairs, a wardrobe whose mirror has gone yellow, a dressing table, and
a brass bed. I’ve let the rest go. A little later, just for
something to do, I picked up an old newspaper and read
it. I cut out an advertisement for Kruschen Salts and
stuck it in an old notebook where I put things from the
papers that interest me. I also washed my hands, and
then I went out onto the balcony.
My room looks out over the main street in the neighborhood. It was a beautiful afternoon. Yet the pavement
was wet and slippery, and what few people there were
were in a hurry. First, it was families out for a walk : two
little boys in sailor suits, with trousers below the knees,
looking a little cramped in their stiff clothes, and a little girl with a big pink bow and black patent-leather shoes.
Behind them, an enormous mother, in a brown silk
dress, and the father, a rather frail little man I know by
sight. He had on a straw hat and a bow tie and was
carrying a walking stick. Seeing him with his wife, I
understood why people in the neighborhood said he was
distinguished. A little later the local boys went by, hair
greased back, red ties, tight-fitting jackets, wi�h embroidered pocket handkerchiefs and square-toed shoes. I
thought they must be heading to the movies in town.
That was why they were leaving so early and hurrying
toward the streetcar, laughing loudly.
After them, the street slowly emptied out. The
matinees had all started, I guess. The only ones left were
the shopkeepers and the cats. The sky was clear but dull
above the fig trees lining the street. On the sidewalk
across the way the tobacconist brought out a chair, set
it in front of his door, and straddled it, resting his arms
on the back. The streetcars, packed a few minutes before,
were almost empty. In the little cafe Chez Pierrot, next
door to the tobacconist’s, the waiter was sweeping up the
sawdust in the deserted restaurant inside. It was Sunday
all right.
I turned my chair around and set it down like the
tobacconist’s because I found that it was more comfortable
that way. I smoked a couple of cigarettes, went inside to
get a piece of chocolate, and went back to the window to
eat it. Soon after that, the sky grew dark and I thought
we were in for a summer storm. Gradually, though, it cleared up again. But the passing clouds had left a hint
of rain hanging over the street, which made it look
darker.

I sat there for a long time and watched the sky.
At five o’clock some streetcars pulled up, clanging
away. They were bringing back gangs of fans from the
local soccer stadium. They were crowded onto the running boards and hanging from the handrails. The streetcars that followed brought back the players, whom I
recognized by their little athletic bags. They were shouting and singing at the tops of their lungs that their team
would never die. Several of them waved to me. One of
them even yelled up to me, “We beat ’em!” And I
nodded, as if to say “Yes. ” From then on there was a
steady stream of cars.
The sky changed again. Above the rooftops the sky
had taken on a reddish glow, and with evening coming
on the streets came to life. People were straggling back
from their walks. I recognized the distinguished little
man among the others. Children were either crying or
lagging behind. Almost all at once moviegoers spilled
out of the neighborhood theaters into the street. The
young men among them were gesturing more excitedly
than usual and I thought they must have seen an adventure film. The ones who had gone to the movies in
town came back a little later. They looked more serious.
They were still laughing, but only now and then, and
they seemed tired and dreamy. But they hung around
anyway, walking up and down the sidewalk across the
street. The local girls, bareheaded, were walking arm in arm. The young men had made sure they would have
to bump right into them and then they would make
cracks. The girls giggled and turned their heads away.
Several of the girls, whom I knew, waved to me.
Then the street lamps came on all of a sudden and
made the first stars appearing in the night sky grow dim.
I felt my eyes getting tired from watching the street
filled with so many people and lights. The street lamps
were making the pavement glisten, and the light from
the streetcars would glint off someone’s shiny hair, or off
a smile or a silver bracelet. Soon afterwards, with the
streetcars running less often and the sky already blue
above the trees and the lamps, the neighborhood emptied
out, almost imperceptibly, until the first cat slowly made
its way across the now deserted street. Then I thought
maybe I ought to have some dinner.’ My neck was a little
stiff from resting my chin on the back of the chair for
so long. I went downstairs to buy some bread and spaghetti, did my cooking, and ate standing up. I wanted to
smoke a cigarette at the window, but the air was getting
colder and I felt a little chilled. I shut my windows, and
as I was coming back I glanced at the mirror and saw a
corner of my table with my alcohol lamp next to some
pieces of bread. It occurred to me that anyway one more
Sunday was over, that Maman was buried now, that I
was going back to work, and that, really, nothing had
chang

3
I worked hard at the office today. The boss was nice. He
asked me if I wasn’t too tired and he also wanted to
know Maman’s age. I said, “About sixty,” so as not to
make a mistake; and I don’t know why, but he seemed
to be relieved somehow and to consider the matter
closed.
There was a stack of freight invoices that had piled
up on my desk, and I had to go through them all. Before
leaving the office to go to lunch, I washed my hands. I
really like doing this at lunchtime. I don’t enjoy it so
much in the evening, because the roller towel you use
is soaked through: one towel has to last all day. I mentioned it once to my boss. He told me he was sorry but
it was really a minor detail. I left a little late, at half past
twelve, with Emmanuel, who works as a dispatcher. The
office overlooks the sea, and we took a minute to watch
the freighters in the harbor, which was ablaze with sunlight. Then a truck came toward us with its chains
rattling and its engine backfiring. Emmanuel said, “How
’bout it?” and I started running. The truck passed us and
we ran after it. I was engulfed by the noise and the dust. I couldn’t see anything, and all I was conscious of was
the sensation of hurtling forward in a mad dash through
cranes and winches, masts bobbing on the horizon and
the hulls of ships alongside us as we ran. I was first to
grab hold and take a Hying leap. Then I reached out
and helped Emmanuel scramble up. We were out of
breath; the truck was bumping around on the uneven
cobblestones of the quay in a cloud of dust and sun.
Emmanuel was laughing so hard he could hardly breathe.
We arrived at Celeste’s dripping with sweat. Celeste
was there, as always, with his big belly, his apron, and his
white moustache. He asked me if things were “all right
now.” I told him yes they were and said I was hungry. I
ate fast and had some coffee. Then I went home and
slept for a while because I’d drunk too much wine, and
when I woke up I felt like having a smoke. It was late
and I ran to catch a streetcar. I worked all afternoon. It
got very hot in the office, and that evening, when I
left, I was glad to walk back slowly along the docks. The
sky was green; I felt good. But I went straight home
because I wanted to boil myself some potatoes.
On my way upstairs, in the dark, I ran into old
Salamano, my neighbor across the landing. He was with
his dog. The two of them have been inseparable for
eight years. The spaniel has a skin disease-mange, I
think-which makes almost all its hair fall out and
leaves it covered with brown sores and scabs. After
living together for so long, the two of them alone in one
tiny room, they’ve ended up looking like each other. Old Salamano has reddish scabs on his face and wispy yellow
hair. As for the dog, he’s sort of taken on his master’s
stooped look, muzzle down, neck straining. They look as
if they belong to the same species, and yet they hate each
other. Twice a day, at eleven and six, the old man takes
the dog out for a walk. They haven’t changed their route
in eight years. You can see them in the rue de Lyon, the
dog pulling the man along until old Salamano stumbles.
Then he beats the dog and swears at it. The dog cowers
and trails behind. Then it’s the old man who pulls the
dog. Once the dog has forgotten, i t starts dragging its
master along again, and again gets beaten and sworn at.
Then they both stand there on the sidewalk and stare at
each other, the dog in terror, the man in hatred. It’s the
same thing every day. When the dog wants to urinate,
the old man won’t give him enough time and yanks at
him, so that the spaniel leaves behind a trail of little
drops. If the dog has an accident in the room, it gets
beaten again. This has been going on for eight years.
Celeste is always saying, “It’s pitiful,” but really, who’s
to say? When I ran into him on the stairs, Salamano was
swearing away at the dog. He was saying, “Filthy, stinking bastard!” and the dog was whimpering. I said “Good
evening,” but the old man just went on cursing. So I
asked him what the dog had done. He didn’t answer.
All he said was “Filthy, stinking bastard!” I could barely
see him leaning over his dog, trying to fix something on
its collar. I spoke louder. Then, without turning around,
he answered with a kind of suppressed rage, “He’s always there.” Then he left, yanking at the animal, which was
letting itself be dragged along, whimpering.
Just then my other neighbor carne in. The word
around the neighborhood is that he lives off women. But
when you ask him what he does, he’s a “warehouse
guard.” Generally speaking, he’s not very popular. But
he often talks to me and sometimes stops by my place for
a minute, because I listen to him. I find what he.has to
say interesting. Besides, I don’t have any reason not to
talk to him. His name is Raymond Sintes. He’s a little
on the short side, with broad shoulders and a nose like
a boxer’s. He always dresses very sharp. And once he
said to me, talking about Salarnano, “If that isn’t pitiful!”
He asked me didn’t I think it was disgusting and I said
no.
We went upstairs and I was about to leave him when
he said, “I’ve got some blood sausage and some wine at
my place. How about joining me?” I figured it would save
me the trouble of having to cook for myself, so I accepted. He has only one room too, and a little kitchen
with no window. Over his bed he has a pink-and-white
plaster angel, some pictures of famous athletes, and
two or three photographs of naked women. The room
was dirty and the bed was unmade. First he lit his
paraffin lamp, then he took a pretty dubious-looking
bandage out of his pocket and wrapped it around his
right hand. I asked him what he’d done to it. He said
he’d been in a fight with some guy who was trying to
start trouble .

“You see, Monsieur Meursault,” he said, “it’s not thatI’m a bad guy, butl have a short fuse. This guy says tome, ‘If you’re man enough you’ll get down off thatstreetcar.’ I said, ‘C’mon, take it easy.’ Then he said,’You’re yellow.’ So I got off and I said to him, ‘I thinkyou better stop right there or I’m gonna have to teachyou a lesson.’ And he said, ‘You and who else?’ So Ilet him have it. He went down. I was about to help himup but he started kicking me from there on the ground.So I kneed him one and slugged him a couple of times.His face was all bloody. I asked him if he’d had enough.He said, ‘Yes.’ ” All this time, Sintes was fiddling withhis bandage. I was sitting on the bed. He said, “So yousee, I wasn’t the one who started it. He was asking forit.” It was true and I agreed. Then he told me that as amatter of fact he wanted to ask my advice about thewhole business, because I was a man, I knew aboutthings, I could help him out, and then we’d be pals. Ididn’t say anything, and he asked me again if I wantedto be pals. I said it was fine with me: he seemed pleased.He got out the blood sausage, fried it up, and set outglasses, plates, knives and forks, and two bottles of wine.All this in silence. Then we sat down. As we ate, hestarted telling me his story. He ‘>vas a little hesitant atfirst. “I knew this lady . . . as a matter of fact, well, shewas my mistress.” The man he’d had the fight with wasthis woman’s brother. He told me he’d been keepingher. I didn’t say anything, and yet right away he addedthat he knew what people around the neighborhood were saying, but that his conscience was clear and thathe was a warehouse guard.’To get back to what I was saying,” he continued,”I realized that she was cheating on me.” He’d beengiving her just enough to live on. He paid the rent onher room and gave her twenty francs a day for food.”Three hundred francs for the room, six hundred forfood, a pair of stockings every now and then-that madeit a thousand francs. And Her Highness refused to work.But she was always telling me that things were too tight,that she couldn’t get by on what I was giving her. AndI’d say to her, ‘Why not work half-days? You’d be helpingme out on all the little extras. I bought you a new outfitjust this month, I give you twenty francs a day, I payyour rent, and what do you do? . . . You have coffee inthe afternoons with your friends. You even provide thecoffee and sugar. And me, I provide the money. I’ve beengood to you, and this is how you repay me.’ But shewouldn’t work; she just kept on telling me she couldn’tmake ends meet-and that’s what made me realize shewas cheating on me.”Then he told me that he’d found a lottery ticket inher purse and she hadn’t been able to explain how shepaid for it. A short time later he’d found a ticket from theshop in Mont-de-Piete in her room which proved thatshe’d pawned two bracelets. Until then he hadn’t evenknown the bracelets existed. “It was clear that she wascheating on me. So I left her. But first I smacked heraround. And then I told her exactly what I thought of her. I told her that all she was interested in was gettinginto the sack. You see, Monsieur Meursault, it’s like Itold her: ‘You don’t realize that everybody’s jealous ofhow good you have it with me. Someday you’ll know justhow good it was.’ “He’d beaten her till she bled. He’d never beaten herbefore. ”I’d smack her around a little, but nice-like, youmight say. She’d scream a little. I’d close the shuttersand it always ended the same way. But this time it’sfor real. And if you ask me, she still hasn’t gotten whatshe has corning.”Then he explained that that was what he neededadvice about. He stopped to adjust the lamp’s wick,which was smoking. I just listened. I’d drunk close to aliter of wine and my temples were burning. I wassmoking Raymond’s cigarettes because I’d run out. Thelast streetcars were going by, taking the now distantsounds of the neighborhood with them. Raymond wenton. What bothered him was that he “still had sexualfeelings for her.” But he wanted to punish her. Firsthe’d thought of taking her to a hotel and calling thevice squad to cause a scandal and have her listed as acommon prostitute. After that he’d looked up some of hisunderworld friends. But they didn’t come up with anything. As Raymond pointed out to me, a lot of good itdoes being in the underworld. He’d said the same thingto them, and then they’d suggested “marking” her. Butthat wasn’t what he wanted. He was going to thinkabout it. But first he wanted to ask me something. Be fore he did, though, he wanted to know what I thoughtof the whole thing. I said I didn’t think anything butthat it was interesting. He asked if I thought she wascheating on him, and it seemed to me she was; if Ithought she should be punished and what I would doin his place, and I said you can’t ever be sure, but Iunderstood his wanting to punish her. I drank a littlemore wine. He lit a cigarette and let me in on what hewas thinking about doing. He wanted to write her aletter, “one with a punch and also some things in it tomake her sorry for what she’s done.” Then, when shecarne running back, he’d go to bed with her and “rightat the last minute” he’d spit in her face and throw herout. Yes, that would punish her, I thought. But Raymond told me he didn’t think he could write the kindof letter it would take and that he’d thought of askingme to write it for him. Since I didn’t say anything, heasked if I’d mind doing it right then and I said no.He downed a glass of wine and then stood up. Hepushed aside the plates and the little bit of cold sausagewe’d left. He carefully wiped the oilcloth covering thetable. Then from a drawer in his night table he took outa sheet of paper, a yellow envelope, a small red pen box,and a square bottle with purple ink in it. When he toldme the woman’s name I realized she was Moorish. Iwrote the letter. I did it just as it came to me, but Itried my best to please Raymond because I didn’t haveany reason not to please him. Then I read it out loud. Helistened, smoking and nodding his head; then he asked me to read it again. He was very pleased. He said, “I
could tell you knew about these things.” I didn’t notice
at first, but he had stopped calling me “monsieur.” It
was only when he announced “Now you’re a pal,
llleursault” and said it again that it struck me. He re·
peated his remark and I said, “Yes.” I didn’t mind being
his pal, and he seemed set on it. He sealed the letter
and we finished off the wine. Then we sat and smoked
for a while without saying anything. Outside, every·
thing was quiet; we heard the sound of a car passing. I
said, “It’s late.” Raymond thought so too. He remarked
how quickly the time passed, and in a way it was true.
I felt sleepy, but it was hard for me to get up. I must
have looked tired, because Raymond told me not to let
things get to me. At first I didn’t understand. Then he
explained that he’d heard about lllaman’s death but
that it was one of those things that was bound to happen
sooner or later. I thought so too.
I got up. Raymond gave me a very firm handshake
and said that men always understand each other. I left
his room, closing the door behind me, and paused for a
minute in the dark, on the landing. The house was
quiet, and a breath of dark, dank air wafted up from
deep in the stairwell. All I could hear was the blood
pounding in my ears. I stood there, motionless. And in
old Salamano’s room, the dog whimpered softly.

4
I worked hard all week. Raymond stopped by and told
me he’d sent the letter. I went to the movies twice with
Emmanuel, who doesn’t always understand what’s going
on on the screen. So you have to explain things to him.
Yesterday was Saturday, and Marie came over as we’d
planned. I wanted her so bad when I saw her in that
pretty red-and-white striped dress and leather sandals.
You could make out the shape of her firm breasts, and
her tan made her face look like a Hower. We caught a
bus and went a few kilometers outside Algiers, to a
beach with rocks at either end, bordered by shore grass
on the land side. The four o’clock sun wasn’t too hot,
but the water was warm, with slow, gently lapping waves.”
Marie taught me a game. As you swam, you had to
skim off the foam from the crest of the waves with your
mouth, hold it there, then roll over on your back and
spout it out toward the sky. This made a delicate froth
which disappeared into the air or fell back in a warm
spray over my face. But after a while my mouth was
stinging with the salty bitterness. Then Marie swam
over to me and pressed herself against me in the water. She put her lips on mine. Her tongue cooled my lips
and we tumbled in the waves for a moment.
When we’d gotten dressed again on the beach, Marie
looked at me with her eyes sparkling. I kissed her. We
didn’t say anything more from that point on. I held her
to me and we hurried to catch a bus, get back, go to my
place, and throw ourselves onto my bed. I’d left my
window open, and the summer night air Rowing over
our brown bodies felt good.
That morning Marie stayed and I told her that we
would have lunch together. I went downstairs to buy
some meat. On my way back upstairs I heard a woman’s
voice in Raymond’s room. A little later old Salamano
growled at his dog; we heard the sound of footsteps and
claws on the wooden stairs and then “Lousy, stinking
bastard” and they went down into the street. I told
Marie all about the old man and she laughed. She was
wearing a pair of my pajamas with the sleeves rolled up.
When she laughed I wanted her again. A minute later
she asked me if I loved her. I told her it didn’t mean anything but that I didn’t think so. She looked sad. But
as we were fixing lunch, and for no apparent reason, she
laughed in such a way that I kissed her. It was then
that we heard what sounded like a fight break out in
Raymond’s room.
First we heard a woman’s shrill voice and then
Raymond saying, “You used me, you used me. I’ll teach
you to use me.” There were some thuds and the woman
screamed, but in such a terrifying way that the landing immediately filled with people. Marie and I went to see,
too. The woman was still shrieking and Raymond was
still hitting her. Marie said it was terrible and I didn’t
say anything. She asked me to go find a policeman, but
I told her I didn’t like cops. One showed up anyway with
the tenant from the third floor, who’s a plumber. The
cop knocked on the door and we couldn’t hear anything
anymore. He knocked harder and after a minute the
woman started crying and Raymond opened the door.
He had a cigarette in his mouth and an innocent look on
his face. The girl rushed to the door and told the policeman that Raymond had hit her. “What’s your name?”
the cop said. Raymond told him. “Take that cigarette
out of your mouth when you’re talking to me,” the cop
said. Raymond hesitated, looked at me, and took a drag
on his cigarette. Right then the cop slapped him-a
thick, heavy smack right across the face. The cigarette
went flying across the landing. The look on Raymond’s
face changed, but he didn’t say anything for a minute,
and then he asked, in a meek voice, if he could pick up
his cigarette. The cop said to go ahead and added,
“Next time you’ll know better than to clown around
with a policeman.” Meanwhile the girl was crying and
s e h d repeate , e “H beat me up.I He s a , p1mp. 0 I” “Officer,”
Raymond asked, “is that legal, calling a man a pimp like
that?” But the cop ordered him to shut his trap. Then
Raymond turned to the girl and said, “You just wait,
sweetheart-we’re not through yet.” The cop told him
to knock it off and said that the girl was to go and he was
to stay in his room and wait to be summoned to the police station. He also said that Raymond ought to be
ashamed to be so drunk that he’d have the shakes like
that. Then Raymond explained, ”I’m not drunk, officer.
It’s just that I’m here, and you’re there, and I’m shaking,
I can’t help it.” He shut his door and everybody went
away. Marie and I finished fixing lunch. But she wasn’t
hungry; I ate almost everything. She left at one o’clock
and I slept awhile.
Around three o’clock there was a knock on my door
and Raymond came in. I didn’t get up. He sat down on
the edge of my bed. He didn’t say anything for a minute
and I asked him how it had all gone. He told me that
he’d done what he wanted to do but that she’d slapped
him and so he’d beaten her up. I’d seen the rest. I told
him it seemed to me that she’d gotten her punishment
now and he ought to be happy. He thought so too, and
he pointed out that the cop could do anything he wanted,
it wouldn’t change the fact that she’d gotten her beating. He added that he knew all about cops and how to
handle them. Then he asked me if I’d expected him to
hit the cop back. I said I wasn’t expecting anything, and
besides I didn’t like cops. Raymond seemed pretty happy.
He asked me if I wanted to go for a walk with him. I
got up and started combing my hair. He told me that
I’d have to act as a witness for him. It didn’t matter to
me, but I didn’t know what I was supposed to say.
According to Raymond, all I had to do was to state that
the girl had cheated on him. I agreed to act as a witness for him.

We went out and Raymond bought me a brandy. Then he wanted to shoot a game of pool, and I just
barely lost. Afterwards he wanted to go to a whorehouse,
but I said no, because I don’t like that. So we took our
time getting back, him telling me how glad he was that
he’d been able to give the woman what she deserved. I
found him very friendly with me and I thought it was a
nice moment.
From a distance I noticed old Salarnano standing on
the doorstep. He looked flustered. When we got closer,
I saw that he didn’t have his dog. He was looking all
over the place, turning around, peering into the darkness
of the entryway, muttering incoherently, and then he
started searching the street again with his little red eyes.
When Raymond asked him what was wrong,, he didn’t
answer right away. I barely heard him mumble “Stinking bastard,” and he went on fidgeting around. I asked
him where his dog was. He snapped at me and said he
was gone. And then all of a sudden the words carne
pouring out : “I took him to the Parade Ground, like
always. There were lots of people around the booths
at the fair. I stopped to watch The King of the Escape
Artists.’ And when I was ready to go, he wasn’t there.
Sure, I’ve been meaning to get him a smaller collar for
a long time. But I never thought the bastard would take
off like that.”
Then Raymond pointed out to him that the dog
might have gotten lost and that he would come back.
He gave examples of dogs that had walked dozens of
kilometers to get back to their masters. Nevertheless, the old man looked even more flustered. “But they’ll take
him away from me, don’t you see? If only somebody
would take him in. But that’s impossible-everybody’s
disgusted by his scabs. The police’ll get him for sure.”
So I told him he should go to the pound and they’d give
the dog back to him after he paid a fee. He asked me if
it was a big fee. I didn’t know. Then he got mad : “Pay
money for that bastard-hal He can damn well die!”
And he started cursing the dog. Raymond laughed and
went inside. I followed him and we parted upstairs on
the landing. A minute later I heard the old man’s footsteps and he knocked on my door. When I opened it, he
stood in the doorway for a minute and said, “Excuse me,
excuse me.” I asked him to come in, but he refused. He
was looking down at the tips of his shoes and his scabby
hands were trembling. Without looking up at me he
asked, “They’re not going to take him away from me,
are they, Monsieur Meursault? They’ll give him back
to me. Otherwise, what’s going to happen to me?” I
told him that the pound kept dogs for three days so that
their owners could come and claim them and that after
that they did with them as they saw fit. He looked at
me in silence. Then he said, “Good night.” He shut his
door and I heard him pacing back and forth. His bed
creaked. And from the peculiar little noise coming
through the partition, I realized he was crying. For
some reason I thought of Maman. But I had to get up
early the next morning. I wasn’t hungry, and I went
to bed without any dinner.

5Raymond called me at the office. He told me that afriend of his (he’d spoken to him about me) had invitedme to spend the day Sunday at his little beach house,near Algiers. I said I’d really like to, but I’d promised tospend the day with a girlfriend. Raymond immediatelytold me that she was invited too. His friend’s wife wouldbe very glad not to be alone with a bunch of men .I wanted to hang up right away because I know theboss doesn’t like people calling us from town. But Raymond asked me to hang on and told me he could havepassed on the invitation that evening, but he had something else to tell me. He’d been followed all day by agroup of Arabs, one of whom was the brother of hisformer mistress. “If you see him hanging around thebuilding when you get home this evening, let me know.”I said I would.A little later my boss sent for me, and for a second Iwas annoyed, because I thought he was going to tell meto do less talking on the phone and more work. But thatwasn’t it at all. He told me he wanted to talk to me abouta plan of his that was still pretty vague. He just wanted to have my opinion on the matter. He was planning toopen an office in Paris which would handle his businessdirectly with the big companies, on the spot, and hewanted to know how I felt about going there. I’d beable to live in Paris and to travel around for part of theyear as well . “You’re young, and it seems to me i t’s thekind of life that would appeal to you.” I said yes butthat really it was all the same to me. Then he asked meif I wasn’t interested in a change of life. I said that people never change their lives, that in any case one life wasas good as another and that I wasn’t dissatisfied withmine here at all. He looked upset and told me that Inever gave him a straight answer, that I had no ambition,and that that was disastrous in business. So I went backto work. I would rather not have upset him, but Icouldn’t see any reason to change my life. Looking backon it, I wasn’t unhappy. When I was a student, I hadlots of ambitions like that. But when I had to give up mystudies I learned very quickly that none of it reallymattered.That evening Marie carne by to see me and asked meif I wanted to marry her. I said it didn’t make any difference to me and that we could if she wanted to. Then shewanted to know if I loved her. I answered the same wayI had the last time, that it didn’t mean anything but thatI probably didn’t love her. “So why marry me, then?”she said. I explained to her that it didn’t really matterand that if she wanted to, we could get married. Besides,she was the one who was doing the asking and all I was saying was yes. Then she pointed out that marriage wasa serious thing. I said, “No.” She stopped talking for aminute and looked at me without saying anything. Thenshe spoke. She just wanted to know if I would haveaccepted the same proposal from another woman, withwhom I was involved in the same way. I said, “Sure.”Then she said she wondered if she loved me, and therewas no way I could know about that. After anothermoment’s silence, she mumbled that I was peculiar, thatthat was probably why she loved me but that one day Imight hate her for the same reason. I didn’t say anything,because I didn’t have anything to add, so she took my armwith a smile and said she wanted to marry me. I saidwe could do it whenever she wanted. Then I told herabout my boss’s proposition and she said she’d love to seeParis. I told her that I’d lived there once and she askedme what it was like. I said, “It’s dirty. Lots of pigeons anddark courtyards. Everybody’s pale.”Then we went for a walk through the main streets tothe other end of town. The women were beautiful and Iasked Marie if she’d noticed. She said yes and that sheunderstood what I meant. For a while neither of us saidanything. But I wanted her to stay with me, and I toldher we could have dinner together at Celeste’s. Shewould have liked to but she had something to do. Wewere near my place and I said goodbye to her. Shelooked at me. “Don’t you want to know what I have todo?” I did, but I hadn’t thought to ask, and she seemed tobe scolding me. Then, seeing me so confused, she laughed again and she moved toward me with her wholebody to offer me her lips.I had dinner at Celeste’s. I’d already started eatingwhen a strange little woman came in and asked me ifshe could sit at my table. Of course she could. Hergestures were jerky and she had bright eyes in a littleface like an apple. She took off her jacket, sat down, andstudied the menu feverishly. She called Celeste over andordered her whole meal all at once, in a voice that wasclear and very fast at the same time. While she waswaiting for her first course, she opened her bag, tookout a slip of paper and a pencil, added up the bill inadvance, then took the exact amount, plus tip, out of avest pocket and set it down on the table in front of her.At that point the waiter brought her first course and shegulped it down. While waiting for the next course, sheagain took out of her bag a blue pencil and a magazinethat listed the radio programs for the week. One by one,and with great care, she checked off almost every program. Since the magazine was about a dozen pages long,she meticulously continued this task throughout themeal. I had already finished and she was still checkingaway with the same zeal. Then she stood up, put herjacket back on with the same robotlike movements, andleft. I didn’t have anything to do, so I left too and followed her for a while. She had positioned herself rightnext to the curb and was making her way with incredible speed and assurance, never once swerving orlooking around. I eventually lost sight of her and turned back. I thought about how peculiar she was but forgotabout her a few minutes later.I found old Salamano waiting outside my door. Iasked him in and he told me that his dog was lost, because it wasn’t at the pound. The people who workedthere had told him that maybe it had been run over. Heasked if he could find out at the police station. Theytold him that they didn’t keep track of things like thatbecause they happened every day. I told old Salamanothat he could get another dog, but he was right to pointout to me that he was used to this one.I was sitting cross-legged on my bed and Salamanohad sat down on a chair in front of the table. He wasfacing me and he had both hands on his knees. He hadkept his old felt hat on. He was mumbling bits and piecesof sentences through his yellowing moustache. He wasgetting on my nerves a little, but I didn’t have anythingto do and I didn’t feel sleepy. Just for something to say, Iasked him about his dog. He told me he’d gotten it afterhis wife died. He had married fairly late. When he wasyoung he’d wanted to go into the theater: in the army heused to act in military vaudevilles. But he had endedup working on the railroads, and he didn’t regret it,because now he had a small pension. He hadn’t beenhappy with his wife, but he’d pretty much gotten usedto her. When she died he had been very lonely. So heasked a shop buddy for a dog and he’d gotten this onevery young. He’d had to feed it from a bottle. But sincea dog doesn’t live as long as a man, they’d ended up being old together. “He was bad-tempered,” Salamanosaid. “We’d have a run-in every now and then. But hewas a good dog just the same.” I said he was well bredand Salamano looked pleased. “And,” he added, “youdidn’t know him before he got sick. His coat was thebest thing about him.” Every night and every morningafter the dog had gotten that skin disease, Salamanorubbed him with ointment. But according to him, thedog’s real sickness was old age, and there’s no cure forold age.At that point I yawned, and the old man said he’d begoing. I told him that he could stay and that I was sorryabout what had happened to his dog. He thanked me.He told me that Maman was very fond of his dog. Hecalled her “your poor mother.” He said he supposed Imust be very sad since Maman died, and I didn’t sayanything. Then he said, very quickly and with an embarrassed look, that he realized that some people in theneighborhood thought badly of me for having sentMaman to the home, but he knew me and he knew Iloved her very much. I still don’t know why, but I saidthat until then I hadn’t realized that people thoughtbadly of me for doing it, but that the home had seemedlike the natural thing since I didn’t have enough moneyto have Maman cared for. “Anyway,” I added, “it hadbeen a long time since she’d had anything to say to me,and she was bored all by herself.” “Yes,” he said, “and atleast in a home you can make a few friends.” 

Then he
said good night. He Nanted to sleep. His life had changed now and he wasn’t too sure what he was going to do.
For the first time since I’d known him, and with a furtive
gesture, he offered me his hand, and I felt the scales on
his skin. He gave a little smile, and before he left he
said, “I hope the dogs don’t bark tonight. I always think
it’s mine.

6
I had a hard time waking up on Sunday, and Marie had
to call me and shake me. We didn’t eat anything, because we wanted to get to the beach early. I felt completely drained and I had a slight headache. My cigarette
tasted bitter. Marie made fun of me because, she said,
I had on a “funeral face.” She had put on a white
linen dress and let her hair down. I told her she was
beautiful and she laughed with delight.
On our way downstairs we knocked on Raymond’s
door. He told us he’d be right down. Once out in the
street, because I was so tired and also because we hadn’t
opened the blinds, the day, already bright with sun, hit
me like a slap in the face. Marie was jumping with joy
and kept on saying what a beautiful day it was. I felt a
little better and I noticed that I was hungry. I told Marie,
who pointed to her oilcloth bag where she’d put our bathing suits and a towel. I just had to wait and then we
heard Raymond shutting his door. He had on blue
trousers and a white short-sleeved shirt. But he’d put on
a straw hat, which made Marie laugh, and his forearms
were all white under the black hairs. I found it a little
repulsive. He was whistling as he came down the stairs
and he seemed very cheerful. He said “Good morning,
old man” to me and called Marie “mademoiselle.”
The day before, we’d gone to the police station
and I’d testified that the girl had cheated on Raymond.
He’d gotten off with a warning. They didn’t check out
my statement. Outside the front door we talked about
it with Raymond, and then we decided to take the bus.
The beach wasn’t very far, but we’d get there sooner
that way. Raymond thought his friend would be glad
to see us get there early. We were just about to leave
when all of a sudden Raymond motioned to me to look
across the street. I saw a group of Arabs leaning against
the front of the tobacconist’s shop. They were staring at
us in silence, but in that way of theirs, as if we were
nothing but stones or dead trees. Raymond told me that
the second one from the left was his man, and he seemed
worried. But, he added, it was all settled now. Marie
didn’t really understand and asked us what was wrong.
I told her that they were Arabs who had it in for Raymond. She wanted to get going right away. Raymond
drew himself up and laughed, saying we’d better step
on it.
We headed toward the bus stop, which wasn’t far,
and Raymond said that the Arabs weren’t following us.
I turned around. They were still in the same place and
they were looking with the same indifference at the spot
where we’d just been standing. We caught the bus.
Raymond, who seemed very relieved, kept on cracking jokes for Marie. I could tell he liked her, but she hardly
said anything to him. Every once in a while she’d look at
him and laugh.
We got off in the outskirts of Algiers. The beach
wasn’t far from the bus stop. But we had to cross a small
plateau which overlooks the sea and then drops steeply
down to the beach. It was covered with yellowish rocks
and the whitest asphodels set against the already hard
blue of the sky. Marie was having fun scattering the
petals, taking big swipes at them with her oilcloth bag.
We walked between rows of small houses behind green
or white fences, some with their verandas hidden behind the tamarisks, others standing naked among the
rocks. Before we reached the edge of the plateau, we
could already see the motionless sea and, farther out, a
massive, drowsy-looking promontory in the clear water.
The faint hum of a motor rose up to us in the still air.
And way off, we saw a tiny trawler moving, almost imperceptibly, across the dazzling sea. Marie gathered
some rock irises. From the slope leading down to the
beach, we could see that there were already some people
swimming.
Raymond’s friend lived in a little wooden bungalow
at the far end of the beach. The back of the house
rested up against the rocks, and the pilings that held it
up in front went straight down into the water. Raymond
introduced us. His friend’s name was Masson. He was a
big guy, very tall and broad-shouldered, with a plump,
sweet little wife with a Parisian accent. Right off he told us to make ourselves at horne and said that his wife had
just fried up some fish he’d caught that morning. I told
him how nice I thought his house was. He told me that
he spent Saturdays and Sundays and all his days off
there. “With my wife, of course,” he added. Just then
his wife was laughing with Marie. For the first time
maybe, I really thought I was going to get married.
Masson wanted to go for a swim, but his wife and
Raymond didn’t want to come. The three of us went
down to the beach and Marie jumped right in. Masson
and I waited a little. He spoke slowly, and I noticed
that he had a habit of finishing everything he said with
“and I’d even say,” when really it didn’t add anything to
the meaning of his sentence. Referring to Marie, he
said, “She’s stunning, and I’d even say charming.” After
that I didn’t pay any more attention to this mannerism
of his, because I was absorbed by the feeling that the
sun was doing me a lot of good. The sand was starting
to get hot underfoot. I held back the urge to get into the
water a minute longer, but finally I said to Masson ,
“Shall we?” I dove in. He waded in slowly and started
swimming only when he couldn’t touch bottom anymore.
He did the breast stroke, and not too well, either, so I
left him and joined Marie. The water was cold and I was
glad to be swimming. Together again, Marie and I
swam out a ways, and we felt a closeness as we moved
in unison and were happy.
Out in deeper water we floated on our backs and
the sun on my upturned face was drying the last of the water trickling into my mouth. We saw Masson making
his way back to the beach to stretch out in the sun.
From far away he looked huge. Marie wanted us to
swim together. I got behind her to hold her around
the waist. She used her arms to move us forward and
I did the kicking. The little splashing sound followed
us through the morning air until I got tired. I left
Marie and headed back, swimming smoothly and breathing easily. On the beach I stretched out on my stomach
alongside Masson and put my face on the sand. I said
it was nice and he agreed. Soon afterwards Marie came
back. I rolled over to watch her coming. She was
glistening all over with salty water and holding her hair
back. She lay down right next to me and the combined
warmth from her body and from the sun made me doze
off.
Marie shook me and told me that Masson had gone
back up to the house, that it was time for lunch. I got
up right away because I was hungry, but Marie told me
I hadn’t kissed her since that morning. It was true,
and yet I had wanted to. “Come into the water,” she said.
We ran and threw ourselves into the first little waves.
We swam a few strokes and she reached out and held
on to me. I felt her legs wrapped around mine and I
wanted her.
When we got back, Masson was already calling us.
I said I was starving and then out of the blue he announced to his wife that he liked me. The bread was
good; I devoured my share of the fish. After that there was some meat and fried potatoes. We all ate without
talking. Masson drank a lot of wine and kept filling my
glass. By the time the coffee carne, my head felt heavy
and I smoked a lot. Masson, Raymond, and I talked
about spending August together at the beach, sharing
expenses. Suddenly Marie said, “Do you know what
time it is? It’s only eleven-thirty!” We were all surprised, but Masson said that we’d eaten very early and
that it was only natural because lunchtime was whenever you were hungry. For some reason that made Marie
laugh. I think she’d had a little too much to drink.
Then Masson asked me if I wanted to go for a walk on
the beach with him. “My wife always takes a nap after
lunch. Me, I don’t like naps. I need to walk. I tell her all
the time it’s better for her health. But it’s her business.”
Marie said she’d stay and help Madame Masson with
the dishes. The little Parisienne said that first they’d have
to get rid of the men. The three of us went down to the
beach.

The sun was shining almost directly overhead onto
the sand, and the glare on the water was unbearable.
There was no one left on the beach. From inside the
bungalows bordering the plateau and jutting out over
the water, we could hear the rattling of plates and
silverware. It was hard to breathe in the rocky heat
rising from the ground. At first Raymond and Masson
discussed people and things I didn’t know about. I
gathered they’d known each other for a long time and
had even lived together at one point. We headed down to the sea and walked along the water’s edge. Now and
then a little wave would come up higher than the
others and wet our canvas shoes. I wasn’t thinking
about anything, because I was half asleep from the sun
beating down on my bare head.
At that point Raymond said something to Masson
which I didn’t quite catch. But at the same time I
noticed, at the far end of the beach and a long way from
us, two Arabs in blue overalls coming in our direction.
I looked at Raymond and he said, “It’s him.” We kept
walking. Masson asked how they’d managed to follow
us all this way. I thought they must have seen us get on
the bus with a beach bag, but I didn’t say anything.
The Arabs were walking slowly, but they were
already much closer. We didn’t change our pace, but
Raymond said, “If there’s any trouble, Masson, you
take the other one. I’ll take care of my man. Meursault,
if another one shows up, he’s yours.” I said, “Yes,” and
Masson put his hands in his pockets. The blazing sand
looked red to me now. We moved steadily toward the
Arabs. The distance between us was getting shorter and
shorter. When we were just a few steps away from each
other, the Arabs stopped. Masson and I slowed down.
Raymond went right up to his man. I couldn’t hear
what he said to him, but the other guy made a move as
though he were going to butt him. Then Raymond struck
the first blow and called Masson right away. Masson went
for the one that had been poin ted out as his and hit him
twice, as hard as he could. The Arab fell Aat in the water,
facedown, and lay there for several seconds with bubbles
bursting on the surface around his head. Meanwhile
Raymond had landed one too, and the other Arab’s face
was bleeding. Raymond turned to me and said, “Watch
this. I’m gonna let him have it now.” I shouted, “Look
out, he’s got a knife!” But Raymond’s arm had already
been cut open and his mouth slashed. Masson lunged
forward. But the other Arab had gotten back up and gone
around behind the one with the knife. We didn’t dare
move. They started backing off slowly, without taking
their eyes off us, keeping us at bay with the knife. When
they thought they were far enough away, they took off
running as fast as they could while we stood there
motionless in the sun and Raymond clutched at his arm
dripping with blood.
Masson immediately said there was a doctor who
spent his Sundays up on the plateau. Raymond wanted
to go see him right away. But every time he tried to talk
the blood bubbled in his mouth. We steadied him and
made our way back to the bungalow as quickly as we
could. Once there, Raymond said that they were only
flesh wounds and that he could make it to the doctor’s.
He left with Masson and I stayed to explain to the
women what had happened. Madame Masson was crying and Marie was very pale. I didn’t like having to explain to them, so I just shut up, smoked a cigarette, and
looked at the sea.
Raymond came back with Masson around one-thirty.
His arm was bandaged up and he had an adhesive plaster on the comer of his mouth . The doctor had told
him that it was nothing, but Raymond looked pretty
grim. Masson tried to make him laugh. But he still
wouldn’t say anything. When he said he was going
down to the beach, I asked him where he was going.
He said he wanted to get some air. Masson and I said
we’d go with him. But that made him angry and he swore
at us. Masson said not to argue with him. I followed
him anyway.
We walked on the beach for a long time. By now
the sun was overpowering. It shattered into little pieces
on the sand and water. I had the impression that Raymond knew where he was going, but I was probably
wrong. At the far end of the beach we finally came to a
little spring running down through the sand behind a
large rock. There we found our two Arabs. They were
lying down, in their greasy overalls. They seemed perfectly calm and almost content. Our coming changed
nothing. The one who had attacked Raymond was
looking at him without saying anything. The other one
was blowing through a little reed over and over again,
watching us out of the comer of his eye. He kept repeating the only three notes he could get out of his instrument.
The whole time there was nothing but the sun and
the silence, with the low gurgling from the spring and
the three notes. Then Raymond put his hand in his
hip pocket, but the others didn’t move, they just kept
looking at each other. I noticed that the toes on the one playing the flute were tensed. But without taking his
eyes off his adversary, Raymond asked me, “Should I
let him have it?” I thought that if I said no he’d get
himself all worked up and shoot for sure. All I said was,
“He hasn’t said anything yet. It’d be pretty lousy to
shoot him like that.” You could still hear the sound of
the water and the flute deep within the silence and the
heat. Then Raymond said, “So I’ll call him something
and when he answers back, I’ll let him have it.” I
answered, “Right. But if he doesn’t draw his knife, you
can’t shoot.” Raymond started getting worked up. The
other Arab went on playing, and both of them were
watching every move Raymond made. “No,” I said
to Raymond, “take him on man to man and give me your
gun. If the other one moves in, or if he draws his knife,
I’ll let him have it.”
The sun glinted off Raymond’s gun as he handed it
to me. But we just stood there motionless, as if everything had closed in around us. We stared at each other
without blinking, and everything carne to a stop there
between the sea, the sand, and the sun, and the double
silence of the flute and the water. It was then that I
realized that you could either shoot or not shoot. But
all of a sudden, the Arabs, backing away, slipped behind the rock. So Raymond and I turned and headed
back the way we’d come. He seemed better and talked
about the bus back I went with him as far as the bungalow, and as he
climbed the wooden steps, I just stood there at the bottom, my head ringing from the sun, unable to face
the effort it would take to climb the wooden staircase
and face the women again. But the heat was so intense
that it was just as bad standing still in the blinding
stream falling from the sky. To stay or to go, it amounted
to the same thing. A minute later I turned back toward
the beach and started walking.
There was the same dazzling red glare. The sea
gasped for air with each shallow, stifled little wave that
broke on the sand. I was walking slowly toward the
rocks and I could feel my forehead swelling under the
sun. All that heat was pressing down on me and making
it hard for me to go on. And every time I felt a blast of
its hot breath strike my face, I gritted my teeth, clenched
my fists in my trouser pockets, and strained every nerve
in order to overcome the sun and the thick drunkenness
it was spilling over me. With every blade of light that
Hashed off the sand, from a bleached shell or a piece of
broken glass, my jaws tightened. I walked for a long
time.
From a distance I could see the small, dark mass of
rock surrounded by a blinding halo of light and sea
spray. I was thinking of the cool spring behind the rock.
I wanted to hear the murmur of its water again, to escape
the sun and the strain and the women’s tears, and to
find shade and rest again at last. But as I got closer, I
saw that Raymond’s man had come back.
He was alone. He was lying on his back, with his
hands behind his head, his forehead in the shade of the rock, the rest of his body in the sun. His blue overalls
seemed to be steaming in the heat. I was a little surprised. As far as I was concerned, the whole thing was
over, and I’d gone there without even thinking about it.
As soon as he saw me, he sat up a little and put his
hand in his pocket. Naturally, I gripped Raymond’s
gun inside my jacket. Then he lay back again, but without taking his hand out of his pocket. I was pretty far
away from him, about ten meters or so. I could tell he was
glancing at me now and then through half-closed eyes.
But most of the time, he was just a form shimmering
before my eyes in the fiery air. The sound of the waves
was even lazier, more drawn out than at noon. It was
the same sun, the same light still shining on the same
sand as before. For two hours the day had stood still;
for two hours it had been anchored in a sea of molten
lead. On the horizon, a tiny steamer went by, and I
made out the black dot from the corner of my eye because I hadn’t stopped watching the Arab.
It occurred to me that all I had to do was turn
around and that would be the end of it. But the whole
beach, throbbing in the sun, was pressing on my back. I
took a few steps toward the spring. The Arab didn’t
move. Besides, he was still pretty far away. Maybe it
was the shadows on his face, but it looked like he was
laughing. I waited. The sun was starting to burn my
cheeks, and I could feel drops of sweat gathering in my
eyebrows. The sun was the same as it had been the
day I’d buried Maman, and like then, my forehead especially was hurting me, all the veins in it throbbing
under the skin. It was this burning, which I couldn’t
stand anymore, that made me move forward. I knew
that it was stupid, that I wouldn’t get the sun off me
by stepping forward. But I took a step, one step, forward.
And this time, without getting up, the Arab drew his
knife and held it up to me in the sun. The light shot off
the steel and it was like a long Hashing blade cutting at
my forehead. At the same instant the sweat in my eyebrows dripped down over my eyelids all at once and
covered them with a warm, thick film. My eyes were
blinded behind the curtain of tears and salt. All I could
feel were the cymbals of sunlight crashing on my forehead and, indistinctly, the dazzling spear Hying up from
the knife in front of me. The scorching blade slashed at
my eyelashes and stabbed at my stinging eyes. That’s
when everything began to reel. The sea carried up a
thick, fiery breath. It seemed to me as if the sky split open
from one end to the other to rain down fire. My whole
being tensed and I squeezed my hand around the
revolver. The trigger gave; I felt the smooth underside
of the butt; and there, in that noise, sharp and deafening at the same time, is where it all started. I shook off
the sweat and sun. I knew that I had shattered the
harmony of the day, the exceptional silence of a beach
where I’d been happy. Then I fired four more times at
the motionless body where the bullets lodged without
leaving a trace. And it was like knocking four quick times
on the door of unhappiness

PAitTTWO

1
Right after my arrest I was questioned several times, but
it was just so they could find out who I was, which didn’t
take long. The first time, at the police station, nobody
seemed very interested in my case. A week later, however, the examining magistrate looked me over with
curiosity. But to get things started he simply asked my
name and address, my occupation, the date and place of
my birth . Then he wanted to know if I had hired an
attorney. I admitted I hadn’t and inquired whether it
was really necessary to have one. “Why do you ask?”
he said. I said I thought my case was pretty simple. He
smiled and said, “That’s your opinion. But the law is
the law. If you don’t hire an attorney yourself, the court
will appoint one.” I thought it was very convenient that
the court should take care of those details. I told him
so. He agreed with me and concluded that it was a
good law.
At first, I didn’t take him seriously. I was led into a
curtained room; there was a single lamp on his desk
which was shining on a chair where he had me sit while
he remained standing in the shadows. I had read descriptions of scenes like this in books and it all
seemed like a game to me. After our conversation,
though, I looked at him and saw a tall, fine-featured
man with deep-set blue eyes, a long gray moustache, and
lots of thick, almost white hair. He struck me as being
very reasonable and, overall, quite pleasant, despite a
nervous tic which made his mouth twitch now and then.
On my way out I was even going to shake his hand, but
just in time, I remembered that I had killed a man.
The next day a lawyer came to see me at the prison.
He was short and chubby, quite young, his hair carefully slicked back. Despite the heat (I was in my shirt
sleeves) , he had on a dark suit, a wing collar, and an
odd-looking tie with broad black and white stripes. He
put the briefcase he was carrying down on my bed, introduced himself, and said he had gone over my file.
My case was a tricky one, but he had no doubts we’d
win, if I trusted him. I thanked him and he said, “Let’s
get down to business.”
He sat down on the bed and explained to me that
there had been some investigations into my private life.
It had been learned that my mother had died recently at
the horne. Inquiries had then been made in Marengo.
The investigators had learned that I had “shown insensitivity” the day of Marnan’s funeral. “You understand,” my lawyer said, “it’s a little embarrassing for me
to have to ask you this. But it’s very important. And it
will be a strong argument for the prosecution if I can’t
come up with some answers.” He wanted me to help him. He asked if I had felt any sadness that day. The question caught me by surprise and it seemed to me that I
would have been very embarrassed if I’d had to ask it.
Nevertheless I answered that I had pretty much lost the
habit of analyzing myself and that it was hard for me to
tell him what he wanted to know. I probably did love
Maman, but that didn’t mean anything. At one time or
another all normal people have wished their loved ones
were dead. Here the lawyer interrupted me and he
seemed very upset. He made me promise I wouldn’t say
that at my hearing or in front of the examining magistrate. I explained to him, however, that my nature was
such that my physical needs often got in the way of my
feelings. The day I buried Maman, I was very tired and
sleepy, so much so that I wasn’t really aware of what
was going on. What I can say for certain is that I would
rather Maman hadn’t died. But my lawyer didn’t seem
satisfied. He said, “That’s not enough.”
He thought for a minute. He asked me if he could
say that that day I had held back my natural feelings. I
said, “No, because it’s not true.” He gave me a strange
look, as if he found me slightly disgusting. He told me
in an almost snide way that in any case the director
and the staff of the home would be called as witnesses
and that “things could get very nasty” for me. I pointed
out to him that none of this had anything to do with my
case, but all he said was that it was obvious I had never
had any dealings with the law.
He left, looking angry. I wished I could have made him stay, to explain that I wanted things between us to
be good, not so that he’d defend me better but, if I can
put it this way, good in a natural way. Mostly, I could
tell, I made him feel uncomfortable. He didn’t understand me, and he was sort of holding it against me. I
felt the urge to reassure him that I was like everybody
else, just like everybody else. But really there wasn’t
much point, and I gave up the idea out of laziness.
Shortly after that, I was taken before the examining
magistrate again. It was two o’clock in the afternoon,
and this time his office was filled with sunlight barely
softened by a flimsy curtain. It was very hot. He had me
sit down and very politely informed me that, “due to
unforeseen circumstances,” my lawyer had been unable
to come. But I had the right to remain silent and to wait
for my lawyer’s counsel. I said that I could answer for
myself. He pressed a button on the table. A young clerk
came in and sat down right behind me.
The two of us leaned back in our chairs. The
examination began. He started out by saying that people were describing me as a taciturn and withdrawn
person and he wanted to know what I thought. I answered, “It’s just that I don’t have much to say. So I
keep quiet.” He smiled the way he had the first time,
agreed that that was the best reason of all, and added,
“Besides, it’s not important.” Then he looked at me
without saying anything, leaned forward rather abruptly,
and said very quickly, “What interests me is you.” I
didn’t really understand what he meant by that, so I didn’t respond. “There are one or two things,” he
added, “that I don’t quite understand. I’m sure you’ll
help me clear them up.” I said it was all pretty simple.
He pressed me to go back over that day. I went back
over what I had already told him : Raymond, the beach,
the swim, the quarrel, then back to the beach, the little
spring, the sun, and the five shots from the revolver.
After each sentence he would say, “Fine, fine.” When I
got to the body lying there, he nodded and said, “Good.”
But I was tired of repeating the same story over and
over. It seemed as if I had never talked so much in my
life.
After a short silence, he stood up and told me that he
wanted to help me, that I interested him, and that, with
God’s help, he would do something for me. But first
he wanted to ask me a few more questions. Without
working up to it, he asked if I loved Maman. I said,
“Yes, the same as anyone,” and the clerk, who up to then
had been typing steadily, must have hit the wrong key,
because he lost his place and had to go back. Again
without any apparent logic, the magistrate then asked if
I had fired all five shots at once. I thought for a minute
and explained that at first I had fired a single shot and
then, a few seconds later, the other four. Then he said,
“Why did you pause between the first and second shot?”
Once again I could see the red sand and feel the burning
of the sun on my forehead. But this time I didn’t answer.
In the silence that followed, the magistrate seemed to be
getting fidgety. He sat down, ran his fingers through his
hair, put his elbows on his desk, and leaned toward me
slightly with a strange look on his face. “Why, why did
you shoot at a body that was on the ground?” Once again
I didn’t know how to answer. The magistrate ran his
hands across his forehead and repeated his question with
a slightly different tone in his voice. “Why? You must
tell me. Why?” Still I didn’t say anything.
Suddenly he stood up, strode over to a far corner
of his office, and pulled out a drawer in a file cabinet.
He took out a silver crucifix which he brandished as he
came toward me. And in a completely different, almost
cracked voice, he shouted, “Do you know what this is?”
I said, “Yes, of course.” Speaking very quickly and passionately, he told me that he believed in God, that it
was his conviction that no man was so guilty that God
would not forgive him, but in order for that to happen
a man must repent and in so doing become like a child
whose heart is open and ready to embrace all. He was
leaning all the way over the table. He was waving his
crucifix almost directly over my head. To tell the truth,
I had found it very hard to follow his reasoning, first
because I was hot and there were big Hies in his office
that kept landing on my face, and also because he was
scaring me a little. At the same time I knew that that
was ridiculous because, after all, I was the criminal. He
went on anyway. I vaguely understood that to his mind
there was just one thing that wasn’t clear in my confession, the fact that I had hesitated before I fired my
second shot. The rest was fine, but that part he couldn’t
understand.

I was about to tell him he was wrong to dwell on it,
because it really didn’t matter. But he cut me off and
urged me one last time, drawing himself up to his full
height and asking me if I believed in God. I said no. He
sat down indignantly. He said it was impossible; all men
believed in God, even those who turn their backs on him.
That was his belief, and if he were ever to doubt it, his
life would become meaningless. “Do you want my life to
be meaningless?” he shouted. As far as I could see, it
didn’t have anything to do with me, and I told him so.
But from across the table he had already thrust the
crucifix in my face and was screaming irrationally, “I
am a Christian. I ask Him to forgive you your sins. How
can you not believe that He suffered for you?” I was
struck by how sincere he seemed, but I had had enough.
It was getting hotter and hotter. As always, whenever I
want to get rid of someone I’m not really listening to,
I made it appear as if I agreed. To my surprise, he acted
triumphant. “You see, you see!” he said. “You do believe,
don’t you, and you’re going to place your trust in Him,
aren’t you?” Obviously, I again said no. He fell back
in his chair.
He seemed to be very tired. He didn’t say anything
for a minute while the typewriter, which hadn’t let up
the whole time, was still tapping out the last few sentences. Then he looked at me closely and with a little
sadness in his face. In a low voice he said, “I have never
seen a soul as hardened as yours. The criminals who have
come before me have always wept at the sight of this
image of suffering.” I was about to say that that was precisely because they were criminals. But then I
realized that I was one too. It was an idea I couldn’t get
used to. Then the judge stood up, as if to give me the
signal that the examination was over. He simply asked,
in the same weary tone, if I was sorry for what I had
done. I thought about it for a minute and said that
more than sorry I felt kind of annoyed. I got the impression he didn’t understand. But that was as far as
things went that day.
After that, I saw a lot of the magistrate, except that
my lawyer was with me each time. But it was just a
matter of clarifying certain things in my previous statements. Or else the magistrate would discuss the charges
with my lawyer. But on those occasions they never really
paid much attention to me. Anyway, the tone of the questioning gradually changed. The magistrate seemed to
have lost interest in me and to have come to some sort
of decision about my case. He didn’t talk to me about
God anymore, and I never saw him as worked up as he
was that first day. The result was that our discussions
became more cordial. A few questions, a brief conversation with my lawyer, and the examinations were over.
As the magistrate put it, my case was taking its course.
And then sometimes, when the conversation was of a
more general nature, I would be included. I started to
breathe more freely. No one, in any of these meetings,
was rough with me. Everything was so natural, so well
handled, and so calmly acted out that I had the ridiculous impression of being “one of the family.” And I can say that at the end of the eleven months that this investigation lasted, I was almost surprised that I had ever
enjoyed anything other than those rare moments when
the judge would lead me to the door of his office, slap me
on the shoulder, and say to me cordially, “That’s all for
today, Monsieur Antichrist.” I would then be handed
back over to the police.

2
There are some things I’ve never liked talking about. A
few days after I entered prison, I realized that I wouldn’t
like talking about this part of my life.
Later on, though, I no longer saw any point to my
reluctance. In fact, I wasn’t really in prison those first
few days : I was sort of waiting for something to happen.
It was only after Marie’s first and last visit that it all
started. From the day I got her letter (she told me she
would no longer be allowed to come, because she wasn’t
my wife), from that day on I felt that I was at home in
my cell and that my life was coming to a standstill
there. The day of my arrest I was first put in a room
where there were already several other prisoners, most of
them Arabs. They laughed when they saw me. Then they
asked me what I was in for. I said I’d killed an Arab
and they were all silent. A few minutes later, it got dark.
They showed me how to fix the mat I was supposed to
sleep on. One end could be rolled up to make a pillow.
All night I felt bugs crawling over my face. A few days
later I was put in a cell by myself, where I slept on
wooden boards suspended from the wall. I had a bucket for a toilet and a tin washbasin. The prison was on
the heights above the town, and through a small window
I could see the sea. One day as I was gripping the bars,
my face straining toward the light, a guard came in and
told me I had a visitor. I thought it must be Marie. It
was.
To get to the visiting room I went down a long corridor, then down some stairs and, finally, another corridor. I walked into a very large room brightened by a
huge bay window. The room was divided. into three
sections by two large grates that ran the length of the
room. Between the two grates was a space of eight to
ten meters which separated the visitors from the prisoners.
I spotted Marie standing at the opposite end of the room
with her striped dress and her sun-tanned face. On my
side of the room there were about ten prisoners, most
of them Arabs. Marie was surrounded by Moorish women
and found herself between two visitors : a little, thinlipped old woman dressed in black and a fat, bareheaded
woman who was talking at the top of her voice and
making lots of gestures. Because of the distance between
the grates, the visitors and the prisoners were forced to
speak very loud. When I walked in, the sound of the
voices echoing off the room’s high, bare walls and the
harsh light pouring out of the sky onto the windows and
spilling into the room brought on a kind of dizziness.
My cell was quieter and darker. It took me a few seconds
to adjust. But eventually I could see each face clearly,
distinctly in the bright light. I noticed there was a guard sitting at the far end of the passage between the
two grates. Most of the Arab prisoners and their families
had squatted down facing each other. They weren’t
shouting. Despite the commotion, they were managing to
make themselves heard by talking in very low voices.
Their subdued murmuring, coming from lower down,
formed a kind of bass accompaniment to the conversations crossing above their heads. I took all this in very
quickly as I made my way toward Marie. Already pressed
up against the grate, she was smiling her best smile for
me. I thought she looked very beautiful, but I didn’t
know how to tell her.
“Well?” she called across to me. “Well, here I am.”
“Are you all right? Do you have everything you want?”
“Yes, everything.”
We stopped talking and Marie went on smiling. The
fat woman yelled to the man next to me, her husband
probably, a tall blond guy with an honest face. It was the
continuation of a conversation already under way.
“Jeanne wouldn’t take him,” she shouted as loudly as
she could. “Uh-huh,” said the man. “I told her you’d
take him back when you get out, but she wouldn’t take
him.”
Then it was Marie’s turn to shout, that Raymond
sent his regards, and I said, “Thanks.” But my voice was
drowned out by the man next to me, who asked, “Is he
all right?” His wife laughed and said, “He’s never been
better.” The man on my left, a small young man with
delicate hands, wasn’t saying anything. I noticed that he was across from the little old lady and that they were
staring intently at each other. But I didn’t have time to
watch them any longer, because Marie shouted to me
that I had to have hope. I said, “Yes.” I was looking at
her as she said it and I wanted to squeeze her shoulders
through her dress. I wanted to feel the thin material and
I didn’t really know what else I had to hope for other
than that. But that was probably what Marie meant,
because she was still smiling. All I could see was the
sparkle of her teeth and the little folds of her eyes. She
shouted again, “You’ll get out and we’ll get married!” I
answered, “You think so?” but it was mainly just to say
something. Then very quickly and still in a very loud
voice she said yes, that I would be acquitted and that we
would go swimming again. But the other woman took
her turn to shout and said that she had left a basket at
the clerk’s office. She was listing all the things she had
put in it, to make sure they were all there, because they
cost a lot of money. The young man and his mother
were still staring at each other. The murmuring of the
Arabs continued below us. Outside, the light seemed to
surge up over the bay window.
I was feeling a little sick and I’d have liked to leave.
The noise was getting painful. But on the other hand, I
wanted to make the most of Marie’s being there. I don’t
know how much time went by. Marie told me about her
job and she never stopped smiling. The murmuring, the
shouting, and the conversations were crossing back and
forth. The only oasis of silence was next to me where the small young man and the old woman were gazing at
each other. One by one the Arabs were taken away.
Almost everyone stopped talking as soon as the first one
left. The little old woman moved closer to the bars,
and at the same moment a guard motioned to her son.
He said “Goodbye, Maman,” and she reached between
two bars to give him a long, slow little wave.
She left just as another man came in, hat in hand,
and took her place. Another prisoner was brought in and
they talked excitedly, but softly, because the room had
once again grown quiet. They came for the man on my
right, and his wife said to him without lowering her
voice, as if she hadn’t noticed there was no need to
shout anymore, “Take care of yourself and be careful.”
Then it was my turn. Marie threw me a kiss. I looked
back before disappearing. She hadn’t moved and her face
was still pressed against the bars with the same sad, forced
smile on it.
Shortly after that was when she wrote to me. And
the things I’ve never liked talking about began. Anyway,
I shouldn’t exaggerate, and it was easier for me than
for others. When I was first imprisoned, the hardest
thing was that my thoughts were still those of a free man.
For example, I would suddenly have the urge to be on a
beach and to walk down to the water. As I imagined the
sound of the first waves under my feet, my body entering the water and the sense of relief it would give me,
all of a sudden I would feel just how closed in I was by
the walls of my cell. But that only lasted a few months.

Afterwards my only thoughts were those of a prisoner.
I waited for the daily walk, which I took in the courtyard,
or for a visit from my lawyer. The rest of the time I
managed pretty well. At the time, I often thought that
if I had had to live in the trunk of a dead tree, with
nothing to do but look up at the sky flowering overhead,
little by little I would have gotten used to it. I would
have waited for birds to fly by or clouds to mingle,
just as here I waited to see my lawyer’s ties and just as,
in another world, I used to wait patiently until Saturday
to hold Marie’s body in my arms. Now, as I think back
on it, I wasn’t in a hollow tree trunk. There were others
worse off than me. Anyway, it was one of Maman’s ideas,
and she often repeated it, that after a while you could
get used to anything.
Besides, I usually didn’t take things so far. The first
months were hard. But in fact the effort I had to make
helped pass the time. For example, I was tormented by
my desire for a woman. It was only natural; I was young.
I never thought specifically of Marie. But I thought so
much about a woman, about women, about all the ones
I had known, about all the circumstances in which I had
enjoyed them, that my cell would be filled with their
faces and crowded with my desires. In one sense, i t
threw m e o ff balance. But in another, it killed time. I
had ended up making friends with the head guard, who
used to make the rounds with the kitchen hands at mealtime. H e’s the one who first talked to me about women.
He told me it was the first thing the others complained about. I told him it was the same for me and that I
thought it was unfair treatment. “But,” he said, “that’s
exactly why you’re in prison.” “What do you mean that’s
why?” “Well, yes-freedom, that’s why. They’ve taken
away your freedom.” I’d never thought about that. I
agreed. “It’s true,” I said. “Otherwise, what would be
the punishment?” “Right. You see, you understand
these things. The rest of them don’t. But they just end
up doing it by themselves.” The guard left after that.
There were the cigarettes, too. When I entered
prison, theytook away my belt, my shoelaces, my tie, and
everything I had in my pockets, my cigarettes in particular. Once I was in my cell, I asked to have them back.
But I was told I wasn’t allowed. The first few days were
really rough. That may be the thing that was hardest
for me. I would suck on chips of wood that I broke off
my bed planks. I walked around nauseated all day long.
I couldn’t understand why they had taken them away
when they didn’t hurt anybody. Later on I realized that
that too was part of the punishment. But by then I had
gotten used to not smoking and it wasn’t a punishment
anymore.
Apart from these annoyances, I wasn’t too unhappy.
Once again the main problem was killing time. Eventually, once I learned how to remember things, I wasn’t
bored at all. Sometimes I would get to thinking about
my room, and in my imagination I would start at one
corner and circle the room, mentally noting everything
there was on the way. At first it didn’t take long. But every time I started over, it took a little longer. I would
remember every piece of furniture; and on every piece of
furniture, every object; and of every object, all the details; and of the details themselves-a flake, a crack, or
a chipped edge-the color and the texture. At the same
time I would try not to lose the thread of my inventory,
to make a complete list, so that after a few weeks I
could spend hours just enumerating the things that
were in my room. And the more I thought about it, the
more I dug out of my memory things I had overlooked
or forgotten. I realized then that a man who had lived
only one day could easily live for a hundred years in
prison. He would have enough memories to keep him
from being bored. In a way, it was an advantage.
Then there was sleep. At first, I didn’t sleep well at
night and not at all during the day. Little by little, my
nights got better and I was able to sleep during the day,
too. In fact, during the last few months I’ve been sleeping sixteen to eighteen hours a day. That would leave
me six hours to kill with meals, nature’s call, my
memories, and the story about the Czechoslovakian.
Between my straw mattress and the bed planks, I
had actually found an old scrap of newspaper, yellow
and transparent, half-stuck to the canvas. On it was a
news story, the first part of which was missing, but
which must have taken place in Czechoslovakia. A
man had left a Czech village to seek his fortune. Twentyfive years later, and now rich, he had returned with a
wife and a child. His mother was running a hotel with his sister in the village where he’d been born. In order
to surprise them, he had left his wife and child at another
hotel and gone to see his mother, who didn’t recognize
him when he walked in. As a joke he’d had the idea of
taking a room. He had shown off his money. During the
night his mother and his sister had beaten him to death
with a hammer in order to rob him and had thrown his
body in the river. The next morning the wife had come
to the hotel and, without knowing it, gave away the
traveler’s identity. The mother hanged herself. The
sister threw herself down a well. I must have read that
story a thousand times. On the one hand it wasn’t very
likely. On the other, it was perfectly natural. Anyway,
I thought the traveler pretty much deserved what he
got and that you should never play games.
So, with all the sleep, my memories, reading my
crime story, and the alternation of light and darkness,
time passed. Of course I had read that eventually you
wind up losing track of time in prison. But it hadn’t
meant much to me when I’d read it. I hadn’t understood
how days could be both long and short at the same time :
long to live through, maybe, but so drawn out that they
ended up flowing into one another. They lost their
names. n y t e 0 I h d ” wor s yesterd ” ay and “tomorrow st1 ” ‘II
had any meaning for me.
One day when the guard told me that I’d been in for
five months, I believed it, but I didn’t understand it.
For me it was one and the same unending day that was
unfolding in my cell and the same thing I was trying to do. That day, after the guard had left, I looked at myself in my tin plate. My reflection seemed to remain
serious even though I was trying to smile at it. I moved
the plate around in front of me. I smiled and it still had
the same sad, stern expression. It was near the end of the
day, the time of day I don’t like talking about, that
nameless hour when the sounds of evening would rise up
from every floor of the prison in a cortege of silence. I
moved closer to the window, and in the last light of day
I gazed at my reflection one more time. It was still
serious-and what was surprising about that, since at
that moment I was too? But at the same time, and for
the first time in months, I distinctly heard . the sound
of my own voice. I recognized it as the same one that
had been ringing in my ears for many long days, and I
realized that all that time I had been talking to myself.
Then I remembered what the nurse at Maman’s funeral
said. No, there was no way out, and no one can imagine
what nights in prison are like.

3
But I can honestly say that the time from summer to
summer went very quickly. And I knew as soon as the
weather turned hot that something new was in store for
me. My case was set down for the last session of the
Court of Assizes, and that session was due to end some
time in June. The trial opened with the sun glaring outside. My lawyer had assured me that it wouldn’t last more
than two or three days. “Besides,” he had added, “the
court will be pressed for time. Yours isn’t the most important case of the session. Right after you, there’s a
parricide corning up.”
They carne for me at seven-thirty in the morning and
I was driven to the courthouse in the prison van. The
two policemen took me into a small room that smelled
of darkness. We waited, seated near a door through
which we could hear voices, shouts, chairs being dragged
across the Roor, and a lot of commotion which made me
think of those neighborhood fetes when the hall is
cleared for dancing after the concert. The policemen
told me we had to wait for the judges and one of them
offered me a cigarette, which I turned down. Shortly after that he asked me if I had the “jitters.” I said noand that, in a way, I was even interested in seeing a trial.
I’d never had the chance before. “Yeah,” said the other
policeman, “but it gets a little boring after a while.”
A short time later a small bell rang in the room.
Then they took my handcuffs off. They opened the door
and led me into the dock. The room was packed.
Despite the blinds, the sun filtered through in places
and the air was already stifling. They hadn’t opened the
windows. I sat down with the policemen standing on
either side of me. It was then that I noticed a row of
faces in front of me. They were all looking at me : I
realized that they were the jury. But I can’t say what
distinguished one from another. I had just one impression : I was sitting across from a row of seats on a
streetcar and all these anonymous passengers were looking over the new arrival to see if they could find something funny about him. I knew it was a silly idea since it
wasn’t anything funny they were after but a crime.
There isn’t much difference, though-in any case that
was the idea that came to me.
I was feeling a little dizzy too, with all those people
in that stuffy room. I looked around the courtroom again
but I couldn’t make out a single face. I think that at
first I hadn’t realized that all those people were crowding
in to see me. Usually people didn’t pay much attention
to me. It took some doing on my part to understand that
I was the cause of all the excitement. I said to the policeman, “Some crowd!” He told me it was because of the press and he pointed to a group of men at a table just
below the jury box. He said, “That’s them.” I asked,
“Who?” and he repeated, “The press.” He knew one of
the reporters, who just then spotted him and was making
his way toward us. He was an older, friendly man with
a twisted little grin on his face. He gave the policeman a
warm handshake. I noticed then that everyone was
waving and exchanging greetings and talking, as if they
were in a club where people are glad to find themselves
among others from the same world. That is how I explained to myself the strange impression I had of being
odd man out, a kind of intruder. Yet the reporter turned
and spoke to me with a smile. He told me that he hoped
everything would go well for me. I thanked him and
he added, “You know, we’ve blown your case up a little.
Summer is the slow season for the news. And your story
and the parricide were the only ones worth bothering
about.” Then he pointed in the direction of the group
he had just left, at a little man who looked like a
fattened-up weasel. He told me that the man was a
special correspondent for a Paris paper. “Actually, he
didn’t come because of you. But since they assigned him
to cover the parricide trial, they asked him to send a dispatch about your case at the same time.” And again I
almost thanked him. But I thought that that would be
ridiculous. He waved cordially, shyly, and left us. We
waited a few more minutes.
My lawyer arrived, in his gown, surrounded by lots
of colleagues. He walked over to the reporters and shook
some hands. They joked and laughed and looked completely at ease, until the moment when the bell in the
court rang. Everyone went back to his place. My lawyer
walked over to me, shook my hand, and advised me to
respond brieRy to the questions that would be put to me,
not to volunteer anything, and to leave the rest to him.
To my left I heard the sound of a chair being pulled
out and I saw a tall, thin man dressed in red and wearing a pince-nez who was carefully folding his robe as he
sat down. That was the prosecutor. A bailiff said, “All
rise.” At the same time two large fans started to whir.
Three judges, two in black, the third in red, entered with
files in hand and walked briskly to the rostrum which
dominated the room. The man in the red gown sat on
the chair in the middle, set his cap down in front of him,
wiped his bald little head with a handkerchief, and announced that the court was now in session.
The reporters already had their pens in hand. They
all had the same indifferent and somewhat snide look on
their faces. One of them, however, much younger than
the others, wearing gray flannels and a blue tie, had left
his pen lying in front of him and was looking at me. All
I could see in his slightly lopsided face were his two
very bright eyes, which were examining me closely
without betraying any definable emotion. And I had the
odd impression of being watched by myself. Maybe it
was for that reason, and also because I wasn’t familiar
with all the procedures, that I didn’t quite understand
everything that happened next : the drawing of lots for the jury; the questions put by the presiding judge to my
lawyer, the prosecutor, and the jury (each time, the
jurors’ heads would all turn toward the bench at the
same time); the quick reading of the indictment, in
which I recognized names of people and places; and
some more questions to my lawyer.
Anyway, the presiding judge said he was going to
proceed with the calling of witnesses. The bailiff read off
some names that caught my attention. In the middle of
what until then had been a shapeless mass of spectators,
I saw them stand up one by one, only to disappear
again through a side door : the director and the caretaker
from the home, old Thomas Perez, Raymond, Masson,
Salamano, and Marie. She waved to me, anxiously. I
was still feeling surprised that I hadn’t seen them before
when Celeste, the last to be called, stood up. I recognized next to him the little woman from the restaurant,
with her jacket and her stiff and determined manner.
She was staring right at me. But I didn’t have time to
think about them, because the presiding judge started
speaking. He said that the formal proceedings were
about to begin and that he didn’t think he needed to
remind the public to remain silent. According to him,
he was there to conduct in an impartial manner the proceedings of a case which he would consider objectively.
The verdict returned by the jury would be taken in a
spirit of justice, and, in any event, he would have the
courtroom cleared at the slightest disturbance.
It was getting hotter, and I could see the people in the courtroom fanning themselves with newspapers,
which made a continuous low rustling sound. The
presiding judge gave a signal and the bailiff brought
over three fans made of woven straw which the three
judges started waving immediately.
My examination began right away. The presiding
judge questioned me calmly and even, it seemed to me,
with a hint of cordiality. Once again he had me state
my name, age, date and place of birth, and although it
irritated me, I realized it was only natural, because it
would be a very serious thing to try the wrong man. Then
he reread the narrative of what I’d done, turning to me
every few sentences to ask “Is that correct?” Each time
I answered “Yes, Your Honor,” as my lawyer had instructed me to do. It took a long time because the
judge went into minute detail in his narrative. The
reporters were writing the whole time. I was conscious
of being watched by the youngest of them and by
the little robot woman. Everyone on the row of streetcar
seats was turned directly toward the judge, who coughed,
leafed through his file, and turned toward me, fanning
himself.
He told me that he now had to turn to some questions that might seem irrelevant to my case but might in
fact have a significant bearing on it. I knew right away
he was going to talk about Maman again, and at the
same time I could feel how much it irritated me. He
asked me wh) I had put Maman in the home. I answered
that it was because I didn’t have the money to have her looked after and cared for. He asked me if it had been
hard on me, and I answered that Marnan and I didn’t
expect anything from each other anymore, or from anyone else either, and that we had both gotten used to our
new lives. The judge then said that he didn’t want to
dwell on this point, and he asked the prosecutor if he had
any further questions.
The prosecutor had his back half-turned to me, and
without looking at me he stated that, with the court’s
permission, he would like to know whether I had gone
back to the spring by myself intending to kill the Arab.
“No,” I said. Well, then, why was I armed and why
did I return to precisely that spot? I said it just happened
that way. And the prosecutor noted in a nasty voice,
“That will be all for now.” After that things got a little
confused, at least for me. But after some conferring, the
judge announced that the hearing was adjourned until
the afternoon, at which time the witnesses would be
heard.
I didn’t even have time to think. I was taken out,
put into the van, and driven to the prison, where I had
something to eat. After a very short time, just long
enough for me to realize I was tired, they carne back
for me; the whole thing started again, and I found
myself in the same courtroom, in front of the same
faces. Only it was much hotter, and as if by some
miracle each member of the jury, the prosecutor, my
lawyer, and some of the reporters, too, had been provided with straw fans. The young reporter and the little robot woman were still there. They weren’t fanning
themselves, but they were still watching me without
saying a word.
I wiped away the sweat covering my face, and I had
barely become aware of where I was and what I was
doing when I heard the director of the home being
called. He was asked whether Marnan ever complained
about me, and he said yes but that some of it was just a
way the residents all had of complaining about their
relatives. The judge had him clarify whether she used
to reproach me for having put her in the horne, and the
director again said yes. But this time he didn’t add anything else. To another question he replied that he had
been surprised by my calm the day of the funeral. He
was asked what he meant by “calm.” The director then
looked down at the tips of his shoes and said that I
hadn’t wanted to see Marnan, that I hadn’t cried once,
and that I had left right after the funeral without pa·ying my last respects at her grave. And one other thing
had surprised him : one of the men who worked for the
undertaker had told him I didn’t know how old Marnan
was. There was a brief silence, and then the judge
asked him if he was sure I was the man he had just been
speaking of. The director didn’t understand the question,
so the judge told him, “It’s a formality.” He then asked
the prosecutor if he had any questions to put to the
witness, and the prosecutor exclaimed, “Oh no, that is
quite sufficient!” with such glee and with such a triumphant look in my direction that for the first time in years I had this stupid urge to cry, because I could feel
how much all these people hated me.

After asking the jury and my lawyer if they had any
questions, the judge called the caretaker. The same
ritual was repeated for him as for all the others. As he
took the stand the caretaker glanced at me and then
looked away. He answered the questions put to him. He
said I hadn’t wanted to see Maman, that I had smoked
and slept some, and that I had had some coffee. It was
then I felt a stirring go through the room and for the
first time I realized that I was guilty. The caretaker was
asked to repeat the part about the coffee and the cigarette.
The prosecutor looked at me with an ironic gleam in his
eye. At that point my lawyer asked the caretaker if it
wasn’t true that he had smoked a cigarette with me. But
the prosecutor objected vehemently to this question.
“Who is on trial here and what kind of tactics are these,
trying to taint the witnesses for the prosecution in an
effort to detract from testimony that remains nonetheless overwhelming!” In spite of all that, the judge directed
the caretaker to answer the question. The old man
looked embarrassed and said, “I know I was wrong to do
it. But I couldn’t refuse the cigarette when monsieur
offered it to me.” Lastly, I was asked if I had anything to
add. “Nothing,” I said, “except that the witness is right.
It’s true, I did offer him a cigarette.” The caretaker gave
me a surprised and somehow grateful look. He hesitated
and then he said that he was the one who offered me
the coffee. My lawyer was exultant and stated loudly that the jury would take note of the fact. But the prosecutor
shouted over our heads and said, “Indeed, the gentlemen
of the jury will take note of the fact. And they will
conclude that a stranger may offer a cup of coffee, but
that beside the body of the one who brought him into the
world, a son should have refused it.” The caretaker went
back to his bench.
When Thomas Perez’s turn came, a bailiff had to
hold him up and help him get to the witness stand.
Perez said it was really my mother he had known and
that he had seen me only once, on the day of the funeral.
He was asked how I had acted that day and he replied,
“You understand, I was too sad. So I didn’t see anything.
My sadness made it impossible to see anything. Because for me it was a very great sadness. And I even
fainted. So I wasn’t able to see monsieur.” The prosecutor asked him if he had at least seen me cry. Perez
answered no. The prosecutor in turn said, “The gentlemen of the jury will take note.” But my lawyer got
angry. He asked Perez in what seemed to be an exaggerated tone of voice if he had seen me not cry. Perez
said, “No.” The spectators laughed. And my lawyer,
rolling up one of his sleeves, said with finality, “Here
we have a perfect reflection of this entire trial : everything
is true and nothing is true!” The prosecutor had a blank
expression on his face, and with a pencil he was poking
holes in the title page of his case file.
After a five-minute recess, during which my lawyer
told me that everything was working out for the best, we heard the testimony of Celeste, who was called by the
defense. “The defense” meant me. Every now and then
Celeste would glance over in my direction and rotate
his panama hat in his hands. He was wearing the new
suit he used to put on to go with me to the races sometimes on Sundays. But I think he must not have been
able to get his collar on, because he only had a brass
stud keeping his shirt fastened. He was asked if I was
a customer of his and he said, “Yes, but he was also a
friend”; what he thought of me, and he answered that I
was a man; what he meant by that, and he stated that
everybody knew what that meant; if he had noticed that
I was ever withdrawn, and all he would admit was that
I didn’t speak unless I had something to say. The prosecutor asked him if I kept up with my bill. Celeste laughed
and said, “Between us those were just details.” He was
again asked what he thought about my crime. He put his
hands on the edge of the box, and you could tell he had
something prepared. He said, “The way I see it, it’s bad
luck. Everybody knows what bad luck is. It leaves you
defenseless. And there it is! The way I see it, it’s bad
luck.” He was about to go on, but the judge told him
that that would be all and thanked him. Celeste was a
little taken aback. But he stated that he had more to say.
He was asked to be brief. He again repeated that it was
bad luck. And the judge said, “Yes, fine. But we are here
to judge just this sort of bad luck. Thank you.” And
as if he had reached the end of both his knowledge and
his goodwill, Celeste then turned toward me. It looked to me as if his eyes were glistening and his lips were
trembling. He seemed to be asking me what else he
could do. I said nothing; I made no gesture of any kind,
but it was the first time in my life I ever wanted to kiss
a man. The judge again instructed him to step down.
Celeste went and sat among the spectators. He sat there
throughout the entire trial, leaning forward, his elbows on
his knees, the panama hat in his hands, listening to
everything that was said.
Marie entered. She had put on a hat and she was still
beautiful. But I liked her better with her hair loose.
From where I was sitting, I could just make out the
slight fullness of her breasts, and I recognized the little
pout of her lower lip. She seemed very nervous. Right
away she was asked how long she had known me. She
said since the time she worked in our office. The judge
wanted to know what her relation to me was. She said
she was my friend. To another question she answered
yes, it was true that she was supposed to marry me. Flipping through a file, the prosecutor asked her bluntly
when our “liaison” had begun. She indicated the date.
The prosecutor remarked indifferently that if he was
not mistaken, that was the day after Maman died. Then
in a slightly ironic tone he said that he didn’t mean to
dwell on such a delicate matter, and that he fully appreciated Marie’s misgivings, but (and here his tone
grew firmer) that he was duty bound to go beyond
propriety. So he asked Marie to describe briefly that day
when I had first known her. Marie didn’t want to, but at the prosecutor’s insistence, she went over our swim,
the movies, and going back to my place. The prosecutor
said that after Marie had given her statements to the
examining magistrate, he had consulted the movie listings for that day. He added that Marie herself would tell
the court what film was showing. In an almost expressionless voice she did in fact tell the court that it was a
Fernandel film. By the time she had finished there was
complete silence in the courtroom. The prosecutor then
rose and, very gravely and with what struck me as real
emotion in his voice, his finger pointing at me, said
slowly and distinctly, “Gentlemen of the jury, the day
after his mother’s death, this man was out swimming,
starting up a dubious liaison, and going to the movies, a
comedy, for laughs. I have nothing further to say.” He
sat down in the still-silent courtroom. But all of a
sudden Marie began to sob, saying it wasn’t like that,
there was more to it, and that she was being made to say
the opposite of what she was thinking, that she knew me
and I hadn’t done anything wrong. But at a signal from
the judge, the bailiff ushered her out and the trial proceeded.

Hardly anyone listened after that when Masson testified that I was an honest man “and I’d even say a
decent one.” Hardly anyone listened to Salamano either,
when he recalled how I had been good to his dog and
when he answered a question about my mother and me
by saying that I had run out of things to say to Maman
and that was why I’d put her in the home. “You must understand,” Salamano kept saying, “you must understand.” But no one seemed to understand. He was
ushered out.
Next came Raymond, who was the last witness. He
waved to me and all of a sudden, he blurted out that I was
innocent. But the judge advised him that he was being
asked not for judgments but for facts. He was instructed
to wait for the questions before responding. He was
directed to state precisely what his relations with the
victim were. Raymond took this opportunity to say that
he was the one the victim hated ever since he had hit
the guy’s sister. Nevertheless, the judge asked him
whether the victim hadn’t also had reason to hate me.
Raymond said that my being at the beach was just
chance. The prosecutor then asked him how it was that
the letter that set the whole drama in motion had been
written by me. Raymond responded that it was just
chance. The prosecutor retorted that chance already had
a lot of misdeeds on its conscience in this case. He
wanted to know if it was just by chance that I hadn’t
intervened when Raymond had beaten up his girlfriend,
just by chance that I had acted as a witness at the police
station, and again just by chance that my statements on
that occasion had proved to be so convenient. Finishing
up, he asked Raymond how he made his living, and
when Raymond replied “warehouse guard,” the prosecutor informed the jury that it was common knowledge that
the witness practiced the profession of procurer. I was
his friend and accomplice. They had before them the basest of crimes, a crime made worse than sordid by the
fact that they were dealing with a monster, a man without morals. Raymond wanted to defend himself and my
lawyer objected, but they were instructed that they must
let the prosecutor finish. “I have little to add,” the prosecutor said. “Was he your friend?” he asked Raymond.
“Yes,” R d aymon sa1″d. e “W were paIs.” The prosecutor
then put the same question to me, and I looked at Raymond, who returned my gaze. I answered, “Yes.” The
prosecutor then turned to the jury and declared, “The
same man who the day after his mother died was indulging in the most shameful debauchery killed a man
for the most trivial of reasons and did so in order to
settle an affair of unspeakable vice.”
He then sat down. But my lawyer had lost his
patience, and, raising his hands so high that his sleeves
fell, revealing the creases of a starched shirt, he shouted,
“Come now, is my client on trial for burying his mother
or for killing a man?” The spectators laughed. But the
prosecutor rose to his feet again, adjusted his robe, and
declared that only someone with the naivete of his
esteemed colleague could fail to appreciate that between
these two sets of facts there existed a profound, fundamental, and tragic relationship. “Indeed,” he loudly
exclaimed, “I accuse this man of burying his mother
With crime in his heart!” This pronouncement seemed
to have a strong effect on the people in the courtroom.
My lawyer shrugged his shoulders and wiped the sweat
from his brow. But he looked shaken himself, and I
realized that things weren’t going well for me. The trial was adjourned. As I was leaving the courthouse on my way back to the van, I recognized for a
brief moment the smell and color of the summer evening. In the darkness of my mobile prison I could make
out one by one, as if from the depths of my exhaustion,
all the familiar sounds of a town I loved and of a certain time of day when I used to feel happy. The cries
of the newspaper vendors in the already languid air, the
last few birds in the square, the shouts of the sandwich
sellers, the screech of the streetcars turning sharply
through the upper town, and that hum in the sky before
night engulfs the port : all this mapped out for me a
route I knew so well before going to prison and which
now I traveled blind. Yes, it was the hour when, a long
time ago, I was perfectly content. What awaited me
back then was always a night of easy, dreamless sleep.
And yet something had changed, since it was back to
my cell that I went to wait for the next day . . . as if
familiar paths traced in summer skies could lead as
easily to prison as to the sleep of the innocent.

4
Even in the prisoner’s dock it’s always interesting to hear
people talk about you. And during the summations by
the prosecutor and my lawyer, there was a lot said about
me, maybe more about me than about my crime. But
were their two speeches so different after all? My lawyer
raised his arms and pleaded guilty, but with an explanation. The prosecutor waved his hands and proclaimed my
guilt, but without an explanation. One thing bothered me
a little, though. Despite everything that was on my mind,
I felt like intervening every now and then, but my lawyer
kept telling me, “Just keep quiet-it won’t do your case
any good.” In a way, they seemed to be arguing the
case as if it had nothing to do with me. Everything was
happening without my participation. My fate was being
decided without anyone so much as asking my opinion.
There were times when I felt like breaking in on all of
them and saying, “Wait a minute! Who’s the accused
here? Being the accused counts for something. And I
have something to say!” But on second thought, I didn’t
have anything to say. Besides, I have to admit that whatever interest you can get people to take in you doesn’t last very long. For example, I got bored very quickly
with the prosecutor’s speech. Only bits and pieces-a
gesture or a long but isolated tirade-caught my attention or aroused my interest.
The gist of what he was saying, if I understood him
correctly, was that my crime was premeditated. At least
that is what he tried to show. As he himself said, “I will
prove it to you, gentlemen, and I will prove it in two
ways. First, in the blinding clarity of the facts, and
second, in the dim light cast by the mind of this
criminal soul.” He reminded the court of my insensitivity; of my ignorance when asked Marnan1s age; of my
swim the next day-with a woman; of the Fernandel
movie; and finally of my taking Marie horne with me. It
took me a few minutes to understand the last part because he kept saying “his mistress” and to me she was
Marie. Then he carne to the business with Raymond. I
thought his way of viewing the events had a certain
consistency. What he was saying was plausible. I had
agreed with Raymond to write the letter in order to lure
his mistress and submit her to mistreatment by a man
“of doubtful morality.” I had provoked Raymond’s adversaries at the beach. Raymond had been wounded. I
had asked him to give me his gun. I had gone back
alone intending to use it. I had shot the Arab as I
planned. I had waited. And to make sure I had done the
job right, I fired four more shots, calmly, point-blankthoughtfully, as it were.
“And there you have it, gentlemen,” said the prosecu tor. “I have retraced for you the course of events which
led this man to kill with full knowledge of his actions.
I stress this point,” he said, “for this is no ordinary
murder, no thoughtless act for which you might find
mitigating circumstances. This man, gentlemen, this
man is intelligent. You heard him, didn’t you? He knows
how to answer. He knows the value of words. And no
one can say that he acted without realizing what he
was doing.”
I was listening, and I could hear that I was being
judged intelligent. But I couldn’t quite understand how
an ordinary man’s good qualities could become crushing
accusations against a guilty man. At least that was what
struck me, and I stopped listening to the prosecutor until
I heard him say, “Has he so much as expressed any remorse? Never, gentlemen. Not once during the preliminary hearings did this man show emotion over his
heinous offense.” At that point, he turned in my direction, pointed his finger at me, and went on attacking me
without my ever really understanding why. Of course, I
couldn’t help admitting that he was right. I didn’t feel
much remorse for what I’d done. But I was surprised by
how relentless he was. I would have liked to have tried
explaining to him cordially, almost affectionately, that I
had never been able to truly feel remorse for anything.
My mind was always on what was coming next, today
or tomorrow. But naturally, given the position I’d been
put in, I couldn’t talk to anyone in that way. I didn’t
have the right to show any feeling or goodwill. And I tried to listen again, because the prosecutor started talking about my soul.
He said that he had peered into it and that he had
found nothing, gentlemen of the jury. He said the truth
was that I didn’t have a soul and that nothing human,
not one of the moral principles that govern men’s hearts,
was within my reach. “Of course,” he added, “we cannot
blame him for this. We cannot complain that he lacks
what it was not in his power to acquire. But here in this
court the wholly negative virtue of tolerance must give
way to the sterner but loftier virtue of justice. Espe­
cially when the emptiness of a man’s heart becomes, as
we find it has in this man, an abyss threatening to
swallow up society.” It was then that he talked about
my attitude toward Maman. He repeated what he had
said earlier in the proceedings. But it went on much
longer than when he was talking about my crime-so
long, in fact, that finally all I was aware of was how hot a
morning it was. At least until the prosecutor stopped and
after a short silence continued in a very low voice filled
with conviction : “Tomorrow, gentlemen, this same court
is to sit in judgment of the most monstrous of crimes : the
murder of a father.” According to him, the imagination recoiled before such an odious offense. He went so far
as to hope that human justice would mete out punishment unBinchingly. But he wasn’t afraid to say it: my
callousness inspired in him a horror nearly greater than
that which he felt at the crime of parricide. And also
according to him, a man who is morally guilty of killing his mother severs himself from society in the same way
as the man who raises a murderous hand against the
father who begat him. In any case, the one man paved
the way for the deeds of the other, in a sense foreshadowed and even legitimized them. “I am convinced,
gentlemen,” he added, raising his voice, “that you will
not think it too bold of me if I suggest to you that the
man who is seated in the dock is also guilty of the murder
to be tried in this court tomorrow. He must be punished
accordingly.” Here the prosecutor wiped his face, which
was glistening with sweat. He concluded by saying that
his duty was a painful one but that he would carry it
out resolutely. He stated that I had no place in a society
whose most fundamental rules I ignored and that I could
not appeal to the same human heart whose elementary
response I knew nothing of. “I ask you for this man’s
head,” he said, “and I do so with a heart at ease. For
if in the course of what has been a long career I have
had occasion to call for the death penalty, never as
strongly as today have I felt this painful duty made
easier, lighter, clearer by the certain knowledge of a
sacred imperative and by the horror I feel when I look
into a man’s face and all I see is a monster.”
When the prosecutor returned to his seat, there was a
rather long silence. My head was spinning with heat and
astonishment. The presiding judge cleared his throat and
in a very low voice asked me if I had anything to add. I
stood up, and since I did wish to speak, I said, almost at
random, in fact, that I never intended to kill the Arab.

The judge replied by saying that at least that was an
assertion, that until then he hadn’t quite grasped the
nature of my defense, and that before hearing from my
lawyer he would be happy to have me state precisely the
motives for my act. Fumbling a little with my words and
realizing how ridiculous I sounded, I blurted out that
it was because of the sun. People laughed. My lawyer
threw up his hands, and immediately after that he was
given the floor. But he stated that it was late and that he
would need several hours. He requested that the trial be
reconvened in the afternoon. The court granted his
motion.
That afternoon the big fans were still churning
the thick air in the courtroom and the jurors’ brightly
colored fans were all moving in unison . It seemed to me
as if my lawyer’s summation would never end. At one
point, though, I listened, because he was saying, “It is
true I killed a man.” He went on like that, saying “I”
whenever he was speaking about me. I was completely
taken aback. I leaned over to one of the guards and
asked him why he was doing that. He told me to keep
quiet, and a few seconds later he added, “All lawyers
do it.” I thought it was a way to exclude me even further
from the case, reduce me to nothing, and, in a sense, substitute himself for me. But I think I was already very
far removed from that courtroom. Besides, my lawyer
seemed ridiculous to me. He rushed through a plea of
provocation, and then he too talked about my soul. But
to me he seemed to be a lot less talented than the prosecutor. “1, too,” he said, “have peered into this man’s
soul, but unlike the esteemed representative of the
government prosecutor’s office, I did see something there,
and I can assure you that I read it like an open book.”
What he read was that I was an honest man, a steadily
employed, tireless worker, loyal to the firm that employed
him, well liked, and sympathetic to the misfortunes of
others. To him, I was a model son who had supported
his mother as long as he could. In the end I had hoped
that a horne for the aged would give the old woman the
comfort that with my limited means I could not provide
for her. “Gentlemen,” he added, “I am amazed that so
much has been made of this horne. For after all, if it
were necessary to prove the usefulness and importance
of such institutions, all one would have to say is that
it is the state itself which subsidizes them.” The only
thing is, he didn’t say anything about the funeral, and I
thought that that was a glaring omission in his summation. But all the long speeches, all the interminable
days and hours that people had spent talking about my
soul, had left me with the impression of a colorless swirling river that was making me dizzy.
In the end, all I remember is that while my lawyer
went on talking, I could hear through the expanse of
chambers and courtrooms an ice cream vendor blowing
his tin trumpet out in the street. I was assailed by
memories of a life that wasn’t mine anymore, but one
in which I’d found the simplest and most lasting joys :
the smells of summer, the part of town I loved, a certain
evening sky, Marie’s dresses and the way she laughed. The utter pointlessness of whatever I was doing there
seized me by the throat, and all I wanted was to get it
over with and get back to my cell and sleep. I barely
even heard when my lawyer, wrapping up, exclaimed
that the jury surely would not send an honest, hardworking man to his death because he had lost control of
himself for one moment, and then he asked them to find
extenuating circumstances for a crime for which I was
already suffering the most agonizing of punishmentseternal remorse. Court was adjourned and my lawyer
sat back down. He looked exhausted. But his colleagues
came over to shake his hand. I heard : “That was
brilliant!” One of them even appealed to me as a witness. “Wasn’t it?” he said. I agreed, but my congratulations weren’t sincere, because I was too tired.
Meanwhile, the sun was getting low outside and it
wasn’t as hot anymore. From what street noises I could
hear, I sensed the sweetness of evening coming on.
There we all were, waiting. And what we were all waiting for really concerned only me. I looked around the
room again. Everything was the same as it had been the
first day. My eyes met those of the little robot woman
and the reporter in the gray jacket. That reminded me
that I hadn’t tried to catch Marie’s eye once during the
whole trial. I hadn’t forgotten about her; I’d just had too
much to do. I saw her sitting between Celeste and Raymond. She made a little gesture as if to say “At last.”
There was a worried little smile on her face. But my
heart felt nothing, and I couldn’t even return her smile.
The judges came back in. Very quickly a series of questions was read to the jury. I heard “guilty of
murder” . . . “premeditated” . . . “extenuating circumstances.” The jurors filed out, and I was taken to
the little room where I had waited before. My lawyer
joined me. He was very talkative and spoke to me more
confidently and cordially than he ever had before. He
thought that everything would go well and that I would
get off with a few years in prison or at hard labor. I
asked him whether he thought there was any chance of
overturning the verdict if it was unfavorable. He said
no. His tactic had been not to file any motions so as not
to antagonize the jury. He explained to me that verdicts
weren’t set aside just like that, for nothing. That seemed
obvious and I accepted his logic. Looking at it objectively,
it made perfect sense. Otherwise there would be too
much pointless paperwork. “Anyway,” he said, “we can
always appeal. But I’m convinced that the outcome will
be favorable.”
We waited a long time-almost three-quarters of an
hour, I think. Then a bell rang. My lawyer left me, saying, “The foreman of the jury is going to announce the
verdict. You’ll only be brought in for the passing of
sentence.” Doors slammed. People were running on stairs
somewhere, but I couldn’t tell if they were nearby or far
away. Then I heard a muffied voice reading something in
the courtroom. When the bell rang again, when the
door to the dock opened, what rose to meet me was the
silence in the courtroom, silence and the strange feeling
I had when I noticed that the young reporter had turned his eyes away. I didn’t look in Marie’s direction. I didn’t
have time to, because the presiding judge told me in
bizarre language that I was to have my head cut off in a
public square in the name of the French people. Then
it seemed to me that I suddenly knew what was on
everybody’s face. It was a look of consideration, I’m sure.
The policemen were very gentle with me. The lawyer
put his hand on my wrist. I wasn’t thinking about anything anymore. But the presiding judge asked me if I
had anything to say. I thought about it. I said, “No.”
That’s when they took me away.

5
For the third time I’ve refused to see the chaplain. I
don’t have anything to say to him; I don’t feel like
talking, and I’ll be seeing him soon enough as it is. All
I care about right now is escaping the machinery of
justice, seeing if there’s any way out of the inevitable.
They’ve put me in a different cell. From this one, when
I’m stretched out on my bunk, I see the sky and that’s
all I see. I spend my days watching how the dwindling
of color turns day into night. Lying here, I put my
hands behind my head and wait. I can’t count the times
I’ve wondered if there have ever been any instances of
condemned men escaping the relentless machinery, disappearing before the execution or breaking through the
cordon of police. Then I blame myself every time for
not having paid enough attention to accounts of executions. A man should always take an interest in those
things. You never know what might happen. I’d read
stories in the papers like everybody else. But there must
have been books devoted to the subject that I’d never
been curious enough to look into. Maybe I would have
found some accounts of escapes in them. I might have discovered that in at least one instance the wheel had
stopped, that in spite of all the unrelenting calculation,
chance and luck had, at least once, changed something.
Just once! In a way, I think that would have been
enough. My heart would have taken over from there.
The papers were always talking about the debt owed to
society. According to them, it had to be paid. But that
doesn’t speak to the imagination. What really counted
was the possibility of escape, a leap to freedom, out of
the implacable ritual, a wild run for it that would give
whatever chance for hope there was. Of course, hope
meant being cut down on some street comer, as you ran
like mad, by a random bullet. But when I really thought
it through, nothing was going to allow me such a luxury.
Everything was against it; I would just be caught up in
the machinery again.
Despite my willingness to understand, I just couldn’t
accept such arrogant certainty. Because, after all, there
really was something ridiculously out of proportion between the verdict such certainty was based on and the
imperturbable march of events from the moment the
verdict was announced. The fact that the sentence had
been read at eight o’clock at night and not at five o’clock,
the fact that it could have been an entirely different
one, the fact that it had been decided by men who change
their underwear, the fact that it had been handed down
in the name of some vague notion called the French (or
German, or Chinese) people-all of it seemed to detract from the seriousness of the decision. I was forced to admit, however, that from the moment it had been
passed its· consequences became as real and as serious
as the wall against which I pressed the length of my
body.
At times like this I remembered a story Maman used
to tell me about my father. I never knew him. Maybe
the only thing I did know about the man was the story
Maman would tell me back then : he’d gone to watch a
murderer be executed. Just the thought of going had
made him sick to his stomach. But he went anyway,
and when he came back he spent half the morning
throwing up. I remember feeling a little disgusted by
him at the time. But now I understood, it was perfectly
normal. How had I not seen that there was nothing
more important than an execution, and that when you
come right down to it, it was the only thing a man
could truly be interested in? If I ever got out of this
prison I would go and watch every execution there was.
But I think it was a mistake even to consider the possibility. Because at the thought that one fine morning I
would find myself a free man standing behind a cordon
of police–on the outside, as it were-at the thought
of being the spectator who comes to watch and then can
go and throw up afterwards, a wave of poisoned joy rose
in my throat. But I wasn’t being reasonable. It was a
mistake to let myself get carried away by such imaginings,
because the next minute I would get so cold that I would
curl up into a ball under my blanket and my teeth would
be chattering and I couldn’t make them stop. But naturally, you can’t always be reasonable. At
other times, for instance, I would make up new laws. I
would reform the penal code. I’d realized that the most
important thing was to give the condemned man a
chance. Even one in a thousand was good enough to
set things right. So it seemed to me that you could come
up with a mixture of chemicals that if ingested by the
patient (that’s the word I’d use : “patient”) would kill
him nine times out of ten. But he would know thisthat would be the one condition. For by giving it some
hard thought, by considering the whole thing calmly, I
could see that the trouble with the guillotine was that
you had no chance at all, absolutely none. The fact was
that it had been decided once and for all that the patient
was to die. It was an open-and-shut case, a fixed arrangement, a tacit agreement that there was no question of
going back on. If by some extraordinary chance the
blade failed, they would just start over. So the thing
that bothered me most was that the condemned man
had to hope the machine would work the first time. And
I say that’s wrong. And in a way I was right. But in
another way I was forced to admit that that was the
whole secret of good organization. In other words, the
condemned man was forced into a kind of moral collaboration . It was in his interest that everything go off
without a hitch.
I was also made to see that until that moment I’d had
mistaken ideas about these things. For a long time I
believed-and I don’t know why-that to get to the guillotine you had to climb stairs onto a scaffold. I think
it was because of the French Revolution-! mean, because of everything I’d been taught or shown about it.
But one morning I remembered seeing a photograph that
appeared in the papers at the time of a much-talked-about
execution. In reality, the machine was set up right on
the ground, as simple as you please. It was much
narrower than I’d thought. It was funny I’d never
noticed that before. I’d been struck by this picture because the guillotine looked like such a precision instrument, perfect and gleaming. You always get exaggerated notions of things you don’t know anything about.
I was made to see that contrary to what I thought,
everything was very simple: the guillotine is on the
same level as the man approaching it. He walks up to
it the way you walk up to another person. That bothered
me too. Mounting the scaffold, going right up into the
sky, was something the imagination could hold on to.
vVhereas, once again, the machine destroyed everything:
you were killed discreetly, with a little shame and with
great precision.
There were two other things I was always thinking
about : the dawn and my appeal. I would reason with
myself, though, and try not to think about them anymore. I would stretch out, look at the sky, and force
myself to find something interesting about it. It would
turn green : that was evening. I would make another
effort to divert my thoughts. I would listen to my heartbeat. I couldn’t imagine that this sound which had been
with me for so long could ever stop. I’ve never really had much of an imagination. But still I would try to
picture the exact moment when the beating of my
heart would no longer be going on inside my head. But
it was no use. The dawn or my appeal would still be
there. I would end up telling myself that the most
rational thing was not to hold myself back.
They always came at dawn, I knew that. And so I
spent my nights waiting for that dawn. I’ve never liked
being surprised. If something is going to happen to me,
I want to be there. That’s why I ended up sleeping only
a little bit during the day and then, all night long, waited
patiently for the first light to show on the pane of sky.
The hardest time was that uncertain hour when I knew
they usually set to work. After midnight, I would wait
and watch. .My ears had never heard so many noises or
picked up such small sounds. One thing I can say,
though, is that in a certain way I was lucky that whole
time, since I never heard footsteps. Maman used to say
that you can always find something to be happy about.
In my prison, when the sky turned red and a new day
slipped into my cell, I found out that she was right.
Because I might just as easily have heard footsteps and
my heart could have burst. Even though I would rush
to the door at the slightest shuffie, even though, with
my ear pressed to the wood, I would wait frantically
until I heard the sound of my own breathing, terrified
to find it so hoarse, like a dog’s panting, my heart would
not burst after all, and I would have gained another
twenty-four hours.
All day long there was the thought of my appeal. I think I got everything out of it that I could. I would
assess my holdings and get the maximum return on my
thoughts. I would always begin by assuming the worst:
my appeal was denied. “Well, so I’m going to die.”
Sooner than other people will, obviously. But everybody
knows life isn’t worth living. Deep down I knew perfectly well that it doesn’t much matter whether you
die at thirty or at seventy, since in either case other
men and women will naturally go on living-and for
thousands of years. In fact, nothing could be clearer.
Whether it was now or twenty years from now, I would
still be the one dying. At that point, what would disturb
my train of thought was the terrifying leap I would feel
my heart take at the idea of having twenty more years of
life ahead of me. But I simply had to stifle it by imagining what I’d be thinking in twenty years when it
would all come down to the same thing anyway. Since
we’re all going to die, it’s obvious that when and
how don’t matter. Therefore (and the difficult thing
was not to lose sight of all the reasoning that went into
this “therefore”) , I had to accept the rejection of my
appeal.
Then and only then would I have the right, so to
speak-would I give myself permission, as it were-to
consider the alternative hypothesis : I was pardoned. The
trouble was that I would somehow have to cool the hot
blood that would suddenly surge through my body and
sting my eyes with a delirious joy. It would take all my
strength to quiet my heart, to be rational. In order to make my resignation to the first hypothesis more plausible, I had to be level-headed about this one as well.
If I succeeded, I gained an hour of calm. That was
something anyway.
It was at one such moment that I once again refused
to see the chaplain. I was lying down, and I could tell
from the golden glow in the sky that evening was
coming on. I had just denied my appeal and I could
feel the steady pulse of my blood circulating inside me.
I didn’t need to see the chaplain. For the first time in
a long time I thought about Marie. The days had been
long since she’d stopped writing. That evening I thought
about it and told myself that maybe she had gotten
tired of being the girlfriend of a condemned man. It also
occurred to me that maybe she was sick, or dead. These
things happen. How was I to know, since apart from our
two bodies, now separated, there wasn’t anything to
keep us together or even to remind us of each other?
Anyway, after that, remembering Marie meant nothing
to me. I wasn’t interested in her dead. That seemed
perfectly normal to me, since I understood very well
that people would forget me when I was dead. They
wouldn’t have anything more to do with me. I wasn’t
even able to tell myself that it was hard to think those
things.

It was at that exact moment that the chaplain carne
in. When I saw him I felt a little shudder go through me.
He noticed it and told me not to be afraid. I told him
that it wasn’t his usual time. He replied that it was just a friendly visit and had nothing to do with my appeal,
which he knew nothing about. He sat down on my bunk
and invited me to sit next to him. I refused. All the
same, there was something very gentle about him.
He sat there for a few seconds, leaning forward,
with his elbows on his knees, looking at his hands. They
were slender and sinewy and they reminded me of two
nimble animals. He slowly rubbed one against the other.
Then he sat there, leaning forward like that, for so long
that for an instant I seemed to forget he was there.
But suddenly he raised his head and looked straight
at me. “Why have you refused to see me?” he asked. I
said that I didn’t believe in God. He wanted to know if
I was sure and I said that I didn’t see any reason to ask
myself that question : it seemed unimportant. He then
leaned back against the wall, hands Bat on his thighs.
Almost as if .it wasn’t me he was talking to, he remarked
that sometimes we think we’re sure when in fact we’re
not. I didn’t say anything. He looked at me and asked,
“What do you think?” I said it was possible. In any
case, I may not have been sure about what really did
interest me, but I was absolutely sure about what didn’t.
And it just so happened that what he was talking about
didn’t interest me.
He looked away and without moving asked me if I
wasn’t talking that way out of extreme despair. I explained to him that I wasn’t desperate. I was just afraid,
which was only natural. “Then God can help you,” he
said. “Every man I have known in your position has turned to Him.” I acknowledged that that was their right.
It also meant that they must have had the time for it. As
for me, I didn’t want anybody’s help, and I just didn’t
have the time to interest myself in what didn’t interest
me.
At that point he threw up his hands in annoyance
but then sat forward and smoothed out the folds of his
cassock. When he had finished he started in again, addressing me as “my friend.” If he was talking to me this
way, it wasn’t because I was condemned to die; the way
he saw it, we were all condemned to die. But I interrupted
him by saying that it wasn’t the same thing and that be­
sides, it wouldn’t be a consolation anyway. “Certainly,”
he agreed. “But if you don’t die today, you’ll die tomorrow, or the next day. And then the same question
will arise. How will you face that terrifying ordeal?” I
said I would face it exactly as I was facing it now.
At that he stood up and looked me straight in the
eye. It was a game I knew well. I played it a lot with
Emmanuel and Celeste and usually they were the ones
who looked away. The chaplain knew the game well
too, I could tell right away : his gaze never faltered.
And his voice didn’t falter, either, when he said, “Have
you no hope at all? And do you really live with the
thought that when you die, you die, and nothing remains?” “Yes,” I said.
Then he lowered his head and sat back down. He
told me that he pitied me. He thought it was more than
a man could bear. I didn’t feel anything except that he was beginning to annoy me. Then I turned away and
went and stood under the skylight. I leaned my shoulder
against the wall. Without really following what he
was saying, I heard him start asking me questions
again. He was talking in an agitated, urgent voice. I
could see that he was genuinely upset, so I listened
more closely.
He was expressing his certainty that my appeal would
be granted, but I was carrying the burden of a sin from
which I had to free myself. According to him, human
justice was nothing and divine justice was everything. I
pointed out that it was the former that had condemned
me. His response was that it hadn’t washed away my sin
for all that. I told him I didn’t know what a sin was.
All they had told me was that I was guilty. I was
guilty, I was paying for it, and nothing more could be
asked of me. At that point he stood up again, and the
thought occurred to me that in such a narrow cell, if
he wanted to move around he didn’t have many options.
He could either sit down or stand up.
I was staring at the ground. He took a step toward me
and stopped, as if he didn’t dare come any closer. He
looked at the sky through the bars. “You’re wrong, my
son,” he said. “More could be asked of you. And it may
be asked.” “And what’s that?” “You could be asked to
see.” “See what?’
The priest gazed around my cell and answered in a
voice that sounded very weary to me. “Every stone here
sweats with suffering, I know that. I have never looked at them without a feeling of anguish. But deep in my
heart I know that the most wretched among you have
seen a divine face emerge from their darkness. That is
the face you are asked to see.”
This perked me up a little. I said I had been looking
at the stones in these walls for months. There wasn’t
anything or anyone in the world I knew better. M aybe
at one time, way back, I had searched for a face in them.
But the face I was looking for was as bright as the sun
and the flame of desire-and it belonged to Marie. I had
searched for it in vain. Now it was all over. And in any
case, I’d never seen anything emerge from any sweating stones.
The chaplain looked at me with a kind of sadness. I
now had my back flat against the wall, and light was
streaming over my forehead. He muttered a few words
I didn’t catch and abruptly asked if he could embrace
me. “No,” I said. He turned and walked over to the wall
and slowly ran his hand over it. “Do you really love this
earth as much as all that?” he murmured. I didn’t
answer.
He stood there with his back to me for quite a long
time. His presence was grating and oppressive. I was
just about to tell him to go, to leave me alone, when all
of a sudden, turning toward me, he burst out, “No, I
refuse to believe you! I know that at one time or another
you’ve wished for another life.” I said of course I had,
but it didn’t mean any more than wishing to be rich,
to be able to swim faster, or to have a more nicely shaped mouth. It was all the same. But he stopped me and
wanted to know how I pictured this other life. Then I
shouted at him, “One where I could remember this
life!” and that’s when I told him I’d had enough. He
wanted to talk to me about God again, but I went up
to him and made one last attempt to explain to him that
I had only a little time left and I didn’t want to waste
it on God. He tried to change the subject by asking
me why I was calling him “monsieur” and not “father.”
That got me mad, and I told him he wasn’t my father;
he wasn’t even on my side.
“Yes, my son,” he said, putting his hand on my
shoulder, “I am on your side. But you have no way of
knowing it, because your heart is blind. I shall pray for
you.”
Then, I don’t know why, but something inside me
snapped. I started yelling at the top of my lungs, and I
insulted him and told him not to waste his prayers on me.
I grabbed him by the collar of his cassock. I was pouring out on him everything that was in my heart, cries of
anger and cries of joy. He seemed so certain about everything, didn’t he? And yet none of his certainties was
worth one hair of a woman’s head. He wasn’t even sure
he was alive, because he was living like a dead man.
Whereas it looked as if I was the one who’d come
up emptyhanded. But I was sure about me, about
everything, surer than he could ever be, sure of my life
and sure of the death I had waiting for me. Yes, that
was all I had. But at least I had as much of a hold on it as it had on me. I had been right, I was still right, I was
always right.

I had lived my life one way and I could
just as well have lived it another. I had done this and I
hadn’t done that. I hadn’t done this thing but I had done
another. And so? It was as if I had waited all this time
for this moment and for the first light of this dawn to
be vindicated. Nothing, nothing mattered, and I knew
why. So did he. Throughout the whole absurd life I’d
lived, a dark wind had been rising toward me from
somewhere deep in my future, across years that were
still to come, and as it passed, this wind leveled whatever
was offered to me at the time, in years no more real than
the ones I was living. What did other people’s deaths
or a mother’s love matter to me; what did his God or the
lives people choose or the fate they think they elect
matter to me when we’re all elected by the same fate,
me and billions of privileged people like him who also
called themselves my brothers? Couldn’t he see, couldn’t
he see that? Everybody was privileged. There were only
privileged people. The others would all be condemned
one day. And he would be condemned, too. What would
it matter if he were accused of murder and then executed
because he didn’t cry at his mother’s funeral? Salamano’s dog was worth just as much as his wife. The
little robot woman was just as guilty as the Parisian
woman Masson married, or as Marie, who had wanted
me to marry her. What did it matter that Raymond was
as much my friend as Celeste, who was worth a lot more
than him? What did it matter that Marie now offered her lips to a new Meursault? Couldn’t he, couldn’t this
condemned man see . . . And that from somewhere deep
in my future . . . All the shouting had me gasping for
air. But they were already tearing the chaplain from my
grip and the guards were threatening me. He calmed
them, though, and looked at me for a moment without
saying anything. His eyes were full of tears. Then he
turned and disappeared.
With him gone, I was able to calm down again. I
was exhausted and threw myself on my bunk. I must
have fallen asleep, because I woke up with the stars in
my face. Sounds of the countryside were drifting in.
Smells of night, earth, and salt air were cooling my
temples. The wondrous peace of that sleeping summer
Rowed through me like a tide. Then, in the dark hour
before dawn, sirens blasted. They were announcing
departures for a world that now and forever meant nothing to me. For the first time in a long time I thought
about Maman. I felt as if I understood why at the end
of her life she had taken a “fiance,” why she had
played at beginning again. Even there, in that home
where lives were fading out, evening was a kind of wistful respite. So close to death, Maman must have felt
free then and ready to live it all again. Nobody, nobody
had the right to cry over her. And I felt ready to live i t
all again too. As if that blind rage had washed m e clean,
rid me of hope; for the first time, in that night alive with
signs and stars, I opened myself to the gentle indifference
of the world. Finding it so much like myself-so like a brother, really-! felt that I had been happy and that I
was happy again. For everything to be consummated, for
me to feel less alone, I had only to wish that there be a
large crowd of spectators the day of my execution and
that they greet me with cries of hate.