meticulous attention. Then she rose, put on her jacket again with the same abrupt,
robot-like gestures, and walked briskly out of the restaurant.
Having nothing better to do, I followed her for a short distance. Keeping on the
curb of the pavement, she walked straight ahead, never swerving or looking back,
and it was extraordinary how fast she covered the ground, considering her smallness.
In fact, the pace was too much for me, and I soon lost sight of her and turned back
homeward. For a moment the “little robot” (as I thought of her) had much impressed
me, but I soon forgot about her.
As I was turning in at my door I ran into old Salamano. I asked him into my room,
and he informed me that his dog was definitely lost. He’d been to the pound to
inquire, but it wasn’t there, and the staff told him it had probably been run over.
When he asked them whether it was any use inquiring about it at the police station,
they said the police had more important things to attend to than keeping records of
stray dogs run over in the streets. I suggested he should get another dog, but,
reasonably enough, he pointed out that he’d become used to this one, and it wouldn’t
be the same thing.
I was seated on my bed, with my legs up, and Salamano on a chair beside the table,
facing me, his hands spread on his knees. He had kept on his battered felt hat and
was mumbling away behind his draggled yellowish mustache. I found him rather
boring, but I had nothing to do and didn’t feel sleepy. So, to keep the conversation
going, I asked some questions about his dog— how long he had had it and so forth.
He told me he had got it soon after his wife’s death. He’d married rather late in life.
When a young man, he wanted to go on the stage; during his military service he’d
often played in the regimental theatricals and acted rather well, so everybody said.
However, finally, he had taken a job in the railway, and he didn’t regret it, as now he
had a small pension. He and his wife had never hit it off very well, but they’d got
used to each other, and when she died he felt lonely. One of his mates on the railway
whose bitch had just had pups had offered him one, and he had taken it, as a
companion. He’d had to feed it from the bottle at first. But, as a dog’s life is shorter
than a man’s, they’d grown old together, so to speak.
“He was a cantankerous brute,” Salamano said. “Now and then we had some
proper set-tos, he and I. But he was a good mutt all the same.”
Albert Camus v THE STRANGER
31
I said he looked well bred, and that evidently pleased the old man.
“Ah, but you should have seen him before his illness!” he said. “He had a
wonderful coat; in fact, that was his best point, really. I tried hard to cure him; every
mortal night after he got that skin disease I rubbed an ointment in. But his real
trouble was old age, and there’s no curing that.”
Just then I yawned, and the old man said he’d better make a move. I told him he
could stay, and that I was sorry about what had happened to his dog. He thanked me,
and mentioned that my mother had been very fond of his dog. He referred to her as
“your poor mother,” and was afraid I must be feeling her death terribly. When I said
nothing he added hastily and with a rather embarrassed air that some of the people in
the street said nasty things about me because I’d sent my mother to the Home. But he,
of course, knew better; he knew how devoted to my mother I had always been.
I answered— why, I still don’t know— that it surprised me to learn I’d produced
such a bad impression. As I couldn’t afford to keep her here, it seemed the obvious
thing to do, to send her to a home. “In any case,” I added, “for years she’d never had
a word to say to me, and I could see she was moping, with no one to talk to.”
“Yes,” he said, “and at a home one makes friends, anyhow.”
He got up, saying it was high time for him to be in bed, and added that life was
going to be a bit of a problem for him, under the new conditions. For the first time
since I’d known him he held out his hand to me— rather shyly, I thought— and I
could feel the scales on his skin. Just as he was going out of the door, he turned and,
smiling a little, said:
“Let’s hope the dogs won’t bark again tonight. I always think it’s mine I hear. ...”
Albert Camus v THE STRANGER
32
VI
IT was an effort waking up that Sunday morning; Marie had to jog my shoulders and
shout my name. As we wanted to get into the water early, we didn’t trouble about
breakfast. My head was aching slightly and my first cigarette had a bitter taste. Marie
told me I looked like a mourner at a funeral, and I certainly did feel very limp. She
was wearing a white dress and had her hair loose. I told her she looked quite
ravishing like that, and she laughed happily.
On our way out we banged on Raymond’s door, and he shouted that he’d be with
us in a jiffy. We went down to the street and, because of my being rather under the
weather and our having kept the blind down in my room, the glare of the morning
sun hit me in the eyes like a clenched fist.
Marie, however, was almost dancing with delight, and kept repeating, “What a
heavenly day!” After a few minutes I was feeling better, and noticed that I was
hungry. I mentioned this to Marie, but she paid no attention. She was carrying an
oilcloth bag in which she had stowed our bathing kit and a towel. Presently we heard
Raymond shutting his door. He was wearing blue trousers, a short-sleeved white shirt,
and a straw hat. I noticed that his forearms were rather hairy, but the skin was very
white beneath. The straw hat made Marie giggle. Personally, I was rather put off by
his getup. He seemed in high spirits and was whistling as he came down the stairs.
He greeted me with, “Hello, old boy!” and addressed Marie as “Mademoiselle.”
On the previous evening we had visited the police station, where I gave evidence
for Raymond— about the girl’s having been false to him. So they let him off with a
warning. They didn’t check my statement.
After some talk on the doorstep we decided to take the bus. The beach was within
easy walking distance, but the sooner we got there the better. Just as we were starting
for the bus stop, Raymond plucked my sleeve and told me to look across the street. I
saw some Arabs lounging against the tobacconist’s window. They were staring at us
silently, in the special way these people have— as if we were blocks of stone or dead
trees. Raymond whispered that the second Arab from the left was “his man,” and I
thought he looked rather worried However, he assured me that all that was ancient
history. Marie, who hadn’t followed his remarks, asked, “What is it?”
I explained that those Arabs across the way had a grudge against Raymond. She
insisted on our going at once. Then Raymond laughed, and squared his shoulders.
The young lady was quite right, he said. There was no point in hanging about here.
Halfway to the bus stop he glanced back over his shoulder and said the Arabs
weren’t following. I, too, looked back. They were exactly as before, gazing in the
same vague way at the spot where we had been.
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33
When we were in the bus, Raymond, who now seemed quite at ease, kept making
jokes to amuse Marie. I could see he was attracted by her, but she had hardly a word
for him. Now and again she would catch my eye and smile.
We alighted just outside Algiers. The beach is not far from the bus stop; one has
only to cross a patch of highland, a sort of plateau, which overlooks the sea and
shelves down steeply to the sands. The ground here was covered with yellowish
pebbles and wild lilies that showed snow-white against the blue of the sky, which
had already the hard, metallic glint it gets on very hot days. Marie amused herself
swishing her bag against the flowers and sending the petals showering in all
directions. Then we walked between two rows of little houses with wooden balconies
and green or white palings. Some of them were half hidden in clumps of tamarisks;
others rose naked from the stony plateau. Before we came to the end of it, the sea
was in full view; it lay smooth as a mirror, and in the distance a big headland jutted
out over its black reflection. Through the still air came the faint buzz of a motor
engine and we saw a fishing boat very far out, gliding almost imperceptibly across
the dazzling smoothness.
Marie picked some rock irises. Going down the steep path leading to the sea, we
saw some bathers already on the sands.
Raymond’s friend owned a small wooden bungalow at the near end of the beach.
Its back rested against the cliffside, while the front stood on piles, which the water
was already lapping. Raymond introduced us to his friend, whose name was Masson.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, and thick-set; his wife was a plump, cheerful little
woman who spoke with a Paris accent.
Masson promptly told us to make ourselves at home. He had gone out fishing, he
said, first thing in the morning, and there would be fried fish for lunch. I
congratulated him on his little bungalow, and he said he always spent his week ends
and holidays here. “With the missus, needless to say,” he added. I glanced at her, and
noticed that she and Marie seemed to be getting on well together; laughing and
chattering away. For the first time, perhaps, I seriously considered the possibility of
my marrying her.
Masson wanted to have a swim at once, but his wife and Raymond were
disinclined to move. So only the three of us, Marie, Masson, and myself, went down
to the beach. Marie promptly plunged in, but Masson and I waited for a bit. He was
rather slow of speech and had, I noticed, a habit of saying “and what’s more”
between his phrases— even when the second added nothing really to the first. Talking
of Marie, he said: “She’s an awfully pretty girl, and what’s more, charming.”
But I soon ceased paying attention to this trick of his; I was basking in the sunlight,
which, I noticed, was making me feel much better. The sand was beginning to stoke
up underfoot and, though I was eager for a dip, I postponed it for a minute or two
more. At last I said to Masson: “Shall we go in now?” and plunged. Masson walked
Albert Camus v THE STRANGER
34
in gingerly and only began to swim when he was out of his depth. He swam hand
over hand and made slow headway, so I left him behind and caught up with Marie.
The water was cold and I felt all the better for it. We swam a long way out, Marie
and I, side by side, and it was pleasant feeling how our movements matched, hers
and mine, and how we were both in the same mood, enjoying every moment.
Once we were out in the open, we lay on our backs and, as I gazed up at the sky, I
could feel the sun drawing up the film of salt water on my lips and cheeks. We saw
Masson swim back to the beach and slump down on the sand under the sun. In the
distance he looked enormous, like a stranded whale. Then Marie proposed that we
should swim tandem. She went ahead and I put my arms round her waist, from
behind, and while she drew me forward with her arm strokes, I kicked out behind to
help us on.
That sound of little splashes had been in my ears for so long that I began to feel I’d
had enough of it. So I let go of Marie and swam back at an easy pace, taking long,
deep breaths. When I made the beach I stretched myself belly downward beside
Masson, resting my face on the sand. I told him “it was fine” here, and he agreed.
Presently Marie came back. I raised my head to watch her approach. She was
glistening with brine and holding her hair back. Then she lay down beside me, and
what with the combined warmth of our bodies and the sun, I felt myself dropping off
to sleep.
After a while Marie tugged my arm. and said Masson had gone to his place; it
must be nearly lunchtime. I rose at once, as I was feeling hungry, but Marie told me I
hadn’t kissed her once since the early morning. That was so— though I’d wanted to,
several times. “Let’s go into the water again,” she said, and we ran into the sea and
lay flat amongst the ripples for a moment. Then we swam a few strokes, and when
we were almost out of our depth she flung her arms round me and hugged me. I felt
her legs twining round mine, and my senses tingled.
When we got back, Masson was on the steps of his bungalow, shouting to us to
come. I told him I was ravenously hungry, and he promptly turned to his wife and
said he’d taken quite a fancy to me. The bread was excellent, and I had my full share
of the fish. Then came some steak and potato chips. None of us spoke while eating.
Masson drank a lot of wine and kept refilling my glass the moment it was empty. By
the time coffee was handed round I was feeling slightly muzzy, and I started smoking
one cigarette after another. Masson, Raymond, and I discussed a plan of spending the
whole of August on the beach together, sharing expenses.
Suddenly Marie exclaimed: “I say! Do you know the time? It’s only half-past
eleven!”
We were all surprised at that, and Masson remarked that we’d had a very early
lunch, but really lunch was a movable feast, you had it when you felt like it.
This set Marie laughing, I don’t know why. I suspect she’d drunk a bit too much.
Albert Camus v THE STRANGER
35
Then Masson asked if I’d like to come with him for a stroll on the beach.
“My wife always has a nap after lunch,” he said. “Personally I find it doesn’t agree
with me; what I need is a short walk. I’m always telling her it’s much better for the
health. But, of course, she’s entitled to her own opinion.”
Marie proposed to stay and help with the washing up. Mme Masson smiled and
said that, in that case, the first thing was to get the men out of the way. So we went
out together, the three of us.
The light was almost vertical and the glare from the water seared one’s eyes. The
beach was quite deserted now. One could hear a faint tinkle of knives and forks and
crockery in the shacks and bungalows lining the foreshore. Heat was welling up from
the rocks, and one could hardly breathe.
At first Raymond and Masson talked of things and people I didn’t know. I
gathered that they’d been acquainted for some time and had even lived together for a
while. We went down to the water’s edge and walked along it; now and then a longer
