was: “If you go too slowly there’s the risk of a heatstroke. But, if you go too fast, you
perspire, and the cold air in the church gives you a chill.” I saw her point; either way
one was in for it.
Some other memories of the funeral have stuck in my mind. The old boy’s face,
for instance, when he caught up with us for the last time, just outside the village. His
eyes were streaming with tears, of exhaustion or distress, or both together. But
because of the wrinkles they couldn’t flow down. They spread out, crisscrossed, and
formed a smooth gloss on the old, worn face.
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13
And I can remember the look of the church, the villagers in the street, the red
geraniums on the graves, Pérez’s fainting fit— he crumpled up like a rag doll— the
tawny-red earth pattering on Mother’s coffin, the bits of white roots mixed up with it;
then more people, voices, the wait outside a café for the bus, the rumble of the engine,
and my little thrill of pleasure when we entered the first brightly lit streets of Algiers,
and I pictured myself going straight to bed and sleeping twelve hours at a stretch.
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14
II
ON WAKING I understood why my employer had looked rather cross when I asked
for my two days off; it’s a Saturday today. I hadn’t thought of this at the time; it only
struck me when I was getting out of bed. Obviously he had seen that it would mean
my getting four days’ holiday straight off, and one couldn’t expect him to like that.
Still, for one thing, it wasn’t my fault if Mother was buried yesterday and not today;
and then, again, I’d have had my Saturday and Sunday off in any case. But naturally
this didn’t prevent me from seeing my employer’s point.
Getting up was an effort, as I’d been really exhausted by the previous day’s
experiences. While shaving, I wondered how to spend the morning, and decided that
a swim would do me good. So I caught the streetcar that goes down to the harbor.
It was quite like old times; a lot of young people were in the swimming pool,
amongst them Marie Cardona, who used to be a typist at the office. I was rather keen
on her in those days, and I fancy she liked me, too. But she was with us so short a
time that nothing came of it.
While I was helping her to climb on to a raft, I let my hand stray over her breasts.
Then she lay flat on the raft, while I trod water. After a moment she turned and
looked at me. Her hair was over her eyes and she was laughing. I clambered up on to
the raft, beside her. The air was pleasantly warm, and, half jokingly, I let my head
sink back upon her lap. She didn’t seem to mind, so I let it stay there. I had the sky
full in my eyes, all blue and gold, and I could feel Marie’s stomach rising and falling
gently under my head. We must have stayed a good half-hour on the raft, both of us
half asleep. When the sun got too hot she dived off and I followed. I caught up with
her, put my arm round her waist, and we swam side by side. She was still laughing.
While we were drying ourselves on the edge of the swimming pool she said: “I’m
browner than you.” I asked her if she’d come to the movies with me that evening.
She laughed again and said, “Yes,” if I’d take her to the comedy everybody was
talking about, the one with Fernandel in it.
When we had dressed, she stared at my black tie and asked if I was in mourning. I
explained that my mother had died. “When?” she asked, and I said, “Yesterday.” She
made no remark, though I thought she shrank away a little. I was just going to
explain to her that it wasn’t my fault, but I checked myself, as I remembered having
said the same thing to my employer, and realizing then it sounded rather foolish. Still,
foolish or not, somehow one can’t help feeling a bit guilty, I suppose.
Anyhow, by evening Marie had forgotten all about it. The film was funny in parts,
but some of it was downright stupid. She pressed her leg against mine while we were
in the picture house, and I was fondling her breast. Toward the end of the show I
kissed her, but rather clumsily. Afterward she came back with me to my place.
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15
When I woke up, Marie had gone. She’d told me her aunt expected her first thing
in the morning. I remembered it was a Sunday, and that put me off; I’ve never cared
for Sundays. So I turned my head and lazily sniffed the smell of brine that Marie’s
head had left on the pillow. I slept until ten. After that I stayed in bed until noon,
smoking cigarettes. I decided not to lunch at Céleste’s restaurant as I usually did;
they’d be sure to pester me with questions, and I dislike being questioned. So I fried
some eggs and ate them off the pan. I did without bread as there wasn’t any left, and
I couldn’t be bothered going down to buy it.
After lunch I felt at loose ends and roamed about the little flat. It suited us well
enough when Mother was with me, but now that I was by myself it was too large and
I’d moved the dining table into my bedroom. That was now the only room I used; it
had all the furniture I needed: a brass bedstead, a dressing table, some cane chairs
whose seats had more or less caved in, a wardrobe with a tarnished mirror. The rest
of the flat was never used, so I didn’t trouble to look after it.
A bit later, for want of anything better to do, I picked up an old newspaper that
was lying on the floor and read it. There was an advertisement of Kruschen Salts and
I cut it out and pasted in into an album where I keep things that amuse me in the
papers. Then I washed my hands and, as a last resource, went out on to the balcony.
My bedroom overlooks the main street of our district. Though it was a fine
afternoon, the paving blocks were black and glistening. What few people were about
seemed in an absurd hurry. First of all there came a family, going for their Sundayafternoon
walk; two small boys in sailor suits, with short trousers hardly down to
their knees, and looking rather uneasy in their Sunday best; then a little girl with a
big pink bow and black patent-leather shoes. Behind them was their mother, an
enormously fat woman in a brown silk dress, and their father, a dapper little man,
whom I knew by sight. He had a straw hat, a walking stick, and a butterfly tie. Seeing
him beside his wife, I understood why people said he came of a good family and had
married beneath him.
Next came a group of young fellows, the local “bloods,” with sleek oiled hair, red
ties, coats cut very tight at the waist, braided pockets, and square-toed shoes. I
guessed they were going to one of the big theaters in the center of the town. That was
why they had started out so early and were hurrying to the streetcar stop, laughing
and talking at the top of their voices.
After they had passed, the street gradually emptied. By this time all the matinees
must have begun. Only a few shopkeepers and cats remained about. Above the
sycamores bordering the road the sky was cloudless, but the light was soft. The
tobacconist on the other side of the street brought a chair out on to the pavement in
front of his door and sat astride it, resting his arms on the back. The streetcars which
a few minutes before had been crowded were now almost empty. In the little café,
Albert Camus v THE STRANGER
16
Chez Pierrot, beside the tobacconist’s, the waiter was sweeping up the sawdust in the
empty restaurant. A typical Sunday afternoon. ...
I turned my chair round and seated myself like the tobacconist, as it was more
comfortable that way. After smoking a couple of cigarettes I went back to the room,
got a tablet of chocolate, and returned to the window to eat it. Soon after, the sky
clouded over, and I thought a summer storm was coming. However, the clouds
gradually lifted. All the same, they had left in the street a sort of threat of rain, which
made it darker. I stayed watching the sky for quite a while.
At five there was a loud clanging of streetcars. They were coming from the
stadium in our suburb where there had been a football match. Even the back
platforms were crowded and people were standing on the steps. Then another
streetcar brought back the teams. I knew they were the players by the little suitcase
each man carried. They were bawling out their team song, “Keep the ball rolling,
boys.” One of them looked up at me and shouted, “We licked them!” I waved my
hand and called back, “Good work!” From now on there was a steady stream of
private cars.
The sky had changed again; a reddish glow was spreading up beyond the
housetops. As dusk set in, the street grew more crowded. People were returning from
their walks, and I noticed the dapper little man with the fat wife amongst the passersby.
Children were whimpering and trailing wearily after their parents. After some
minutes the local picture houses disgorged their audiences. I noticed that the young
fellows coming from them were taking longer strides and gesturing more vigorously
than at ordinary times; doubtless the picture they’d been seeing was of the wild-West
variety. Those who had been to the picture houses in the middle of the town came a
little later, and looked more sedate, though a few were still laughing. On the whole,
however, they seemed languid and exhausted. Some of them remained loitering in
the street under my window. A group of girls came by, walking arm in arm. The
young men under my window swerved so as to brush against them, and shouted
humorous remarks, which made the girls turn their heads and giggle. I recognized
them as girls from my part of the town, and two or three of them, whom I knew,
looked up and waved to me.
Just then the street lamps came on, all together, and they made the stars that were
beginning to glimmer in the night sky paler still. I felt my eyes getting tired, what
with the lights and all the movement I’d been watching in the street. There were little
pools of brightness under the lamps, and now and then a streetcar passed, lighting up
a girl’s hair, or a smile, or a silver bangle.
Soon after this, as the streetcars became fewer and the sky showed velvety black
above the trees and lamps, the street grew emptier, almost imperceptibly, until a time
came when there was nobody to be seen and a cat, the first of the evening, crossed,
unhurrying, the deserted street.
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17
It struck me that I’d better see about some dinner. I had been leaning so long on
the back of my chair, looking down, that my neck hurt when I straightened myself up.
I went down, bought some bread and spaghetti, did my cooking, and ate my meal
standing. I’d intended to smoke another cigarette at my window, but the night had
turned rather chilly and I decided against it. As I was coming back, after shutting the
window, I glanced at the mirror and saw reflected in it a corner of my table with my
spirit lamp and some bits of bread beside it. It occurred to me that somehow I’d got
through another Sunday, that Mother now was buried, and tomorrow I’d be going
back to work as usual. Really, nothing in my life had changed.
Albert Camus v THE STRANGER
18
III
I HAD a busy morning in the office. My employer was in a good humor. He even
inquired if I wasn’t too tired, and followed it up by asking what Mother’s age was. I
thought a bit, then answered, “Round about sixty,” as I didn’t want to make a blunder.
At which he looked relieved— why, I can’t imagine— and seemed to think that closed
the matter.
There was a pile of bills of lading waiting on my desk, and I had to go through
them all. Before leaving for lunch I washed my hands. I always enjoyed doing this at
midday. In the evening it was less pleasant, as the roller towel, after being used by so
many people, was sopping wet. I once brought this to my employer’s notice. It was
regrettable, he agreed— but, to his mind, a mere detail. I left the office building a
little later than usual, at half-past twelve, with Emmanuel, who works in the
Forwarding Department. Our building overlooks the sea, and we paused for a
moment on the steps to look at the shipping in the. harbor. The sun was scorching hot.
Just then a big truck came up, with a din of chains and backfires from the engine, and
Emmanuel suggested we should try to jump it. I started to run. The truck was well
away, and we had to chase it for quite a distance. What with the heat and the noise
from the engine, I felt half dazed. All I was conscious of was our mad rush along the
water front, amongst cranes and winches, with dark hulls of ships alongside and
masts swaying in the offing. I was the first to catch up with the truck. I took a flying
jump, landed safely, and helped Emmanuel to scramble in beside me. We were both
of us out of breath, and the bumps of the truck on the roughly laid cobbles made
things worse. Emmanuel chuckled, and panted in my ear, “We’ve made it!”
By the time we reached Céleste’s restaurant we were dripping with sweat. Céleste
was at his usual place beside the entrance, with his apron bulging on his paunch, his
white mustache well to the fore. When he saw me he was sympathetic and “hoped I
wasn’t feeling too badly.” I said, “No,” but I was extremely hungry. I ate very
quickly and had some coffee to finish up. Then I went to my place and took a short
nap, as I’d drunk a glass of wine too many.
When I woke I smoked a cigarette before getting off my bed. I was a bit late and
had to run for the streetcar. The office was stifling, and I was kept hard at it all the
afternoon. So it came as a relief when we closed down and I was strolling slowly
along the wharves in the coolness. The sky was green, and it was pleasant to be outof-
doors after the stuffy office. However, I went straight home, as I had to put some
potatoes on to boil.
The hall was dark and, when I was starting up the stairs, I almost bumped into old
Salamano, who lived on the same floor as I. As usual, he had his dog with him. For
eight years the two had been inseparable. Salamano’s spaniel is an ugly brute,
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19
afflicted with some skin disease— mange, I suspect; anyhow, it has lost all its hair
and its body is covered with brown scabs. Perhaps through living in one small room,
cooped up with his dog, Salamano has come to resemble it. His towy hair has gone
