Chapter
Five
AS he walked home that Sunday evening, Mersault
couldn't stop thinking about Zagreus. But as he walked up the stairs to his room,
he heard groans coming from the barrel-maker Cardona's flat. He knocked.
No-one answered, but the groans continued, and Mersault
walked straight in. The barrel-maker was
huddled on his bed, sobbing like a child.
At his feet was the photograph of an old woman. 'She's dead,' Cardona gasped. It was true, but it had happened a long time
ago.
Cardona
was deaf, half-dumb, a mean and violent man.
Until recently he had lived with his sister, but his tyranny had at last
exhausted the woman, and she had taken refuge with her children. And he had remained alone, as helpless as a
man can be who must cook and clean for himself for the first time in his
life. His sister had described their
quarrels to Mersault, one day when he had met him in
the street. Cardona was thirty, short,
rather handsome. Since childhood he had
lived with his mother, the only human being ever to inspire him with fear -
superstitious rather than justified, moreover.
He had loved her with all his uncouth heart, which is to say both
harshly and eagerly, and the best proof of his affection was the way of teasing
the old woman by mouthing, with difficulty, the worst abuse of priests and the
Church. If he had lived so long with his
mother, it was also because he had never induced any other woman to care for
him. Infrequent episodes in a brothel
authorized him, however, to call himself a man.
The
mother died. From then on, he had lived
with his sister. Mersault
rented them the room they occupied. Each
quite solitary, they struggled through a long, dark, dirty life. They found it hard to speak to one another, they went for days without a word. But now she had left. He was too proud to complain, to ask her to
come back: he lived alone. In the
mornings he ate in the restaurant downstairs, in the evenings up in his room,
bringing the food from a charcuterie.
He washed his own sheets, his overalls.
But he left his room utterly filth.
Sometimes, though - soon after the sister had left him - he would start
his Sundays by taking a rag and trying to clean up the place. But his man's clumsiness - a casserole on the
mantelpiece that had once been decorated with vases and figurines - showed in
the neglect in which everything was left.
What he called 'putting things in order' consisted of hiding the
disorder, pushing dirty clothes behind cushions or arranging the most disparate
objects on the sideboard. Finally he
tired of making the effort, no longer bothered to make his bed, and slept with
his dog on the fetid blankets. His
sister had said to Mersault: 'He carries on in the
café, but the woman in the laundry told me she saw him crying when he had to
wash his own sheets.' And it was a fact
that, hardened as he was, a terror seized this man at certain times and forced
him to acknowledge the extent of his desolation. Of course the sister had lived with him out
of pity, she had told Mersault. But Cardona kept her from seeing the man she
loved. At their age, though, it didn't
matter much any more. Her boyfriend was
a married man. He brought her flowers he
had picked in the suburban hedgerows, oranges, and tiny bottles of liqueur he
had won at shooting-galleries. Not that
he was handsome or anything - but you can't eat good looks for dinner, and he
was so decent. She valued him, and he
valued her - wasn't that love? She did
his laundry for him and tried to keep things nice. He used to wear a handkerchief folded in a
triangle and knotted round his neck: she made his handkerchiefs very white, and
that was one of his pleasures.
But
her brother wouldn't let him come to the house.
She had to see him on the sly.
Once she had let him come, and her brother had
caught them, and there had been a terrible brawl. The handkerchief folded in a triangle had
been left behind, in a filthy corner of the room, and she had taken refuge with
her son. Mersault
thought of that handkerchief as he stared around the sordid room.
At
the time, people had felt sorry for the lonely barrel-maker. He had mentioned a possible marriage to Mersault. An older
woman, who had doubtless been tempted by the prospect of young, vigorous
caresses ... She had them before the wedding.
After a while her suitor abandoned the plan, declaring she was too old
for him. And he was alone in this little
room. Gradually the filth encircled him,
besieged him, took over his bed, then submerged
everything irretrievably. The place was
too ugly, and for a man who doesn't like his own room, there is a more accessible
one, comfortable, bright and always welcoming: the café. In this neighbourhood the cafés were
particularly lively. They gave off that
heard warmth which is the last refuge against the terror of solitude and its
vague aspirations. The taciturn creature
took up his residence in them. Mersault saw him in one or another every night. Thanks to the cafés, he postponed the moment
of his return as long as possible. In
them he regained his place among men.
But tonight, no doubt, the cafés had not been enough. And on his way home he must have taken out
that photograph which wakened the echoes of a dead past. He rediscovered the woman he had loved and
teased so long. In the hideous room,
alone with the futility of his life, mustering his last forces, he had become
conscious of the past which had once been his happiness. Or so he must have thought, at least, since
at the contact of that past and his wretched present, a spark of the divine had
touched him and he had begun to weep.
Now,
as whenever he found himself confronting a brutal manifestation of life, Mersault was powerless, filled with respect for that animal
pain. He sat down on the dirty, rumpled
blankets and laid one hand on Cardona's shoulder. In front of him, on the oilcloth covering the
table, was an oil-lamp, a bottle of wine, crusts of
bread, a piece of cheese and toolbox. In
the corners of the ceiling, festoons of cobwebs. Mersault, who had
never been in this room since his own mother's death, measured the distance
this man had travelled by the desolation around him. The window overlooking the courtyard was
closed. The other window was open only a
crack. The oil-lamp, in a fixture
surrounded by a tiny pack of china cards, cast its calm circle of light on the
table, on Mersault's and Cardona's feet, and on a
chair facing them. Meanwhile Cardona had
picked up the photographs and was staring at it, kissing it, mumbling: 'Poor Maman.' But
it was himself he was pitying. She was buried in the hideous cemetery Mersault knew well, on the other side of town.
He
wanted to leave. Speaking slowly to make
himself understood, he said: 'You-can't-stay-here-like-this.'
'No
more work,' Cardona gasped, and holding out the photograph, he stammered: 'I
loved her, I loved her,' and Mersault translated:
'She loved me.' 'She's dead,' and Mersault understood: 'I'm alone.' 'I made her that for her last birthday.' On the mantelpiece was a tiny wooden barrel
with brass hoops and a shiny tap. Mersault let go of Cardona's shoulder, and he collapsed on the
dirty pillows. From under the bed came a
deep sigh and a sickening smell. The dog
dragged itself out, flattening its rump, and rested its head on Mersault's lap, its long ears pricked up, its golden eyes staring into his own. Mersault looked at
the little barrel. In the miserable room
where there was scarcely enough air to breathe, with the dog's warmth under his
fingers, he closed his eyes on the despair which rose within him like a tide
for the first time in a long while.
Today, in the face of abjection and solitude, his heart said: 'No.' And in the
great distress that washed over him, Mersault
realized that his rebellion was the only authentic thing in him, and that
everything elsewhere was misery and submission.
The street that had been so animated under his windows the day before
was still lively. From the gardens
beyond the courtyard rose a smell of grass.
Mersault offered Cardona a cigarette, and both
men smoked without speaking. The last
trams passed and with them the still-livid memories of men and lights. Cardona fell asleep and soon began snoring,
his nose stuffed with tears. The dog,
curling up at Mersault's feet, stirred occasionally
and moaned in its dreams. Each time it
moved, its smell reached Mersault, who was leaning
against the wall, trying to choke down the rebellion in his heart. The lamp smoked, charred, and finally went
out with a stink of oil. Mersault dozed off and awakened with his eyes fixed on the
bottle of wine. Making a tremendous
effort, he stood up, walked over to the rear window and stood there: out of the
night's heart sounds and silences mounted towards him. At the sleeping world, a long blast from a
ship summoned men to depart, to begin again.
The
next morning Mersault killed Zagreus,
came home and slept all afternoon. He
awoke in a fever. That evening, still in
bed, he sent for the local doctor, who told him he had flu. A man from his office who had come to find
out what was the matter took Mersault's resignation
to Monsieur Langlois.
A few days later, everything was settled: a report in the newspaper, an
investigation. There was every motive
for Zagreus' action.
Marthe came to see Mersault
and said with a sigh: 'Sometimes there are days when you'd like to change
places with him. But sometimes it takes
more courage to live than to shoot yourself.' A week later, Mersault
boarded a ship for