Chapter Five
IN January, the
almond trees bloomed. In March, the
pears, peaches and apple-trees were covered with blossoms. The next month, the streams gradually
swelled, then returned to a normal flow.
Early in May, the hay was cut, and the oats and barley at the month's end. Already the apricots were ripening. In June, the early pears appeared with the
major crops. The streams began to dry
up, and the heat grew more intense. But
the earth's blood, shrinking here on the coast, made the cotton bloom farther
inland and sweetened the first grapes. A
great hot wind arose, parching the land and spreading brushfires
everywhere. And then, suddenly, the year
changed direction: hurriedly, the grape-harvests were brought to an end. The downpours of September and October
drenched the land. No sooner was the
summer's work done than the first sowing began, while the streams and springs
suddenly swelled to torrents with the rain.
At the year's end, the wheat was already sprouting in some fields, while
in others ploughing had only just been finished. A little later, the almond trees were once
again while against the ice-blue sky.
The new year had begun in the earth, in the sky. Tobacco was planted, vines cultivated and
fertilized, trees grafted. In the same
month, the medlars ripened. Again, the haymaking, the harvesting, the
summer ploughing. Half-way through the
year, the ripe fruits, juicy and sticky, were served on every table: between
one threshing and the next grape-harvest, the sky grew overcast. Out of the north, silent flocks of black
starlings and thrushes passed over - for them the olives were already
ripe. Soon after they had flown away,
the olives were gathered. The wheat
sprouted a second time from the viscous soil.
Huge clouds, also from the north, passed over the sea, then the land,
brushing the water with foam and leaving it smooth and icy under a crystal
sky. For several days there were
distant, silent flashes in the sky. The
first cold spells set in.
During this
period, Mersault took to his bed for the first
time. Bouts of pleurisy confined him to
his room for a month. When he got up,
the foothills of the Chenoua were covered with
flowering trees, all the way to the sea's edge.
Never had spring touched him so deeply.
The first night of his convalescence, he walked across the fields for a
long time - as far as the hill where the ruins of Tipasa
slept. In a silence violated only by the
silky sounds of the sky, the night lay like milk upon the world. Mersault walked
along the cliff, sharing the night's deep concentration. Below him the sea whispered gently. It was covered with velvety moonlight, smooth
and undulating, like the pelt of some animal.
At this hour, Mersault's life seemed so remote
to him, he felt so solitary and indifferent to everything and to himself as
well, that it seemed to him he had at last attained what he was seeking, that
the peace which filled him now was born of that patient self-abandonment he had
pursued and achieved with the help of this warm world so willing to deny him
without anger. He walked lightly, and the
sound of his own footsteps seemed alien to him, familiar too, no doubt, but
familiar in the way the rustling of animals in the mastic-bushes was familiar,
or the breaking waves, or the rhythm of the night itself in the sky
overhead. And he could feel his own body
too, but with the same external consciousness as the warm breath of this spring
night and the smell of salt and decay that rose from the beach. His actions in the world, his thirst for
happiness, Zagreus' terrible wound baring brain and
bone, the sweet, uncommitted hours in the House above the World, his wife, his
hopes and his gods - all this lay before him, but no more than one story chosen
among so many others without any valid reason, at once alien and secretly
familiar, a favourite book which flatters and justifies the heart at its core,
but a book someone else has written. For
the first time, Mersault was aware of no other
reality in himself than that of a passion for adventure, a desire for power, a
warm and intelligent instinct for a relationship with the world - without anger,
without hatred, without regret. Sitting
on a rock he let his fingers explore its crannies as he watched the sea swell
in silence under the moon. He thought of
Lucienne's face he had caressed, and of the warmth of
her lips. The moon poured its long, straying
smiles like oil on the water's smooth surface - the sea would be warm as a
mouth, and as soft, ready to yield beneath a man's weight. Motionless now, Mersault
felt how close happiness is to tears, caught up in that silent exaltation which
weaves together the hopes and despairs of human life. Conscious yet alien, devoured by passion yet
disinterested, Mersault realized that his life and
his fate were completed here and that henceforth all his efforts would be to
submit to this happiness and to confront the terrible truth.
Now he must
sink into the warm sea, lose himself in order to find himself again, swim in
that warm moonlight in order to silence what remained of the past, to bring to
birth the deep song of his happiness. He
undressed, clambered down a few rocks and entered the sea. It was as warm as a body, another ineffable
yet omnipresent embrace. Mersault swam steadily now, feeling the muscles of his back
shift with each stroke. Whenever he
raised an arm, he cast sheaves of silver drops upon the sea, sowing under this
mute and vivid sky the splendid harvest of happiness; then his arm thrust back
into the water, and like a vigorous ploughshare tilled the waves, dividing them
in order to gain a new support, a firmer hope.
Behind him, his feet churned the water into seething foam, producing a
strangely distinct hissing noise in the night's silence and solitude. Conscious of this cadence, this vigour, an
exaltation seized Mersault, he swam faster and soon
realized he was far from land, alone in the heart of the night, of the
world. Suddenly he thought of the depths
which lay beneath him and stopped moving.
Everything that was below attracted him like an unknown world, the
extension of this darkness which restored him to himself, the salty centre of a
life still unexplored. A temptation
flashed through his mind, but he immediately rejected it in the great joy of
his body - he swam harder, farther.
Gloriously tired, he turned back towards the shore. At that moment he suddenly entered an icy current
and was forced to stop swimming, his teeth chattered, his movements lost their
harmony. This surprise of the sea left
him bewildered; the chill penetrated his limbs, blasted his body like the love
of some god of impassioned exaltation whose embrace left him powerless. Laboriously he returned to the beach where he
dressed facing the sky and the sea, shivering and laughing with happiness.
On his way
home, he began to feel faint. From the
path sloping up towards the house he could make out the rocky promontory across
the bay, the smooth shafts of the columns among the ruins. Then suddenly the landscape tilted and he
found himself leaning against a rock, half-supported by a mastic bush, the
fragrance of its crushed leaves strong in the nostrils. He dragged himself back to the house. His body, which had just now carried him to
the limits of joy, plunged him into a suffering that gripped his bowels, making
him close his eyes. He decided tea would
help, but he used a dirty pan to boil the water in, and the tea was so greasy
it made him retch. He drank it, though,
before he went to bed. As he was pulling
off his shoes he noticed how pink his nails were, long and curving over the
fingertips of his bloodless hands. His
nails had never been like that, and they gave his hands a twisted, unhealthy
look. His chest felt as though it were
caught in a vice. He coughed and spat
several times - only phlegm, though the taste of blood lingered on his
tongue. In bed, his body was seized by
long spasms of shivering. He could feel
the chill rising from the very extremity of his body, meeting in his shoulders
like a confluence of icy streams, while his teeth chattered and the sheets felt
as if they had been soaked. The house
seemed enormous, the usual noises swelled to infinity, as if they encountered
no wall to put an end to their echoes.
He heard the sea, the pebbles rolling under the receding wave, the night
throbbing behind his windows, the dogs howling on distant farms. He was hot now, threw back the blankets, then
cold again, and drew them up. As he
wavered between one suffering and another, between somnolence and anxiety, he
suddenly realized he was ill, and anguish overwhelmed him at the thought that
he might die in this unconsciousness, without being able to see clearly. The village steeple chimed, but he could not
keep count of the strokes. He did not
want to die like a sick man. He did not
want his illness to be what it is so often, an attenuation, a transition to
death. What he really wanted was the
encounter between his life - a life filled with blood and health - and
death. He stood up, dragged a chair over
to the window and sat down in it, huddling in his blankets. Through the thin curtains, in the places
where the material did not fall in folds, he saw the stars. He breathed heavily for a long time, and
gripped the arms of his chair to control his trembling hands. He would reconquer
his lucidity if he could. 'I might die
now,' he was thinking. And he was
thinking, too, that the gas was still on in the kitchen. 'I might die now,' he thought again. Lucidity, too, was a long patience. Everything could be won, earned, acquired. He struck his fist on the arm of the
chair. A man is not born strong, weak,
or decisive. He becomes strong, he becomes
lucid. Fate is not in man but around
him. Then he realized he was
crying. A strange weakness, a kind of
cowardice born of his illness gave way to tears, to childishness. His hands were cold, his heart filled with an
immense disgust. He thought of his
nails, and under his collarbone he pressed tumours that seemed enormous. Outside, all that beauty was spread upon the
face of the world. He did not want to
abandon his thirst for life, his jealousy of life. He thought of those evenings above Algiers,
when the sound of sirens rises in the green sky and men leave their
factories. The fragrance of wormwood,
the wild flowers among the ruins, and the solitude of the cypresses in the Sahel generated an image of life where beauty and happiness
took on an aspect without the need of hope, a countenance in which Patrice
found a kind of fugitive eternity. That
was what he did not want to leave - he did not want that image to persist
without him. Filled with rebellion and
pity, he saw Zagreus' face turned towards the
window. Then he coughed for a long
time. It was hard to breathe. He was smothering under his blankets. He was cold.
He was hot. He was burning with a
great confusing rage, his fists clenched, his blood throbbing heavily under his
skull; eyes blank, he waited for a new spasm which would plunge him back into
the blind fever. The chill came,
restoring him to a moist, sealed world in which he silenced the animal
rebellion, eyes closed, jealous of his thirst and his hunger. But before losing consciousness, he had time
to see the night turn pale behind the curtains and to head, with the dawn of
the world's awakening, a kind of tremendous chord of tenderness and hope which
doubtless dissolved his fear of death, though at the same time it assured him
he would find a reason for dying in what had been the whole reason for living.
When he
awakened, the morning had already begun, and all the birds and insects were
singing in the warmth of the sun. He
remembered Lucienne was coming today. Exhausted, he crawled back to his bed. His mouth tasted of fever, and he could feel
the onset of that fragility which makes every effort arduous and other people
so irritating in the eyes of the sick.
He sent for Bernard, who came at once, quiet and businesslike as always. He listened to Mersault's
chest, then took off his glasses and wiped the lenses. 'Bad,' was all he would say. He gave Mersault
two injections. During the second, Mersault fainted, though ordinarily he was not
squeamish. When he came to, Bernard was
holding his wrist in one hand and his watch in the other, watching the jerky
advance of the second hand. 'That lasted
fifteen minutes,' Bernard said. 'Your
heart's failing. The next time, you
might not come out of it.'
Mersault closed his eyes.
He was exhausted, his lips white and dry, his breathing a hoarse
whistle. 'Bernard,' he said.
'Yes.'
'I don't
want to die in a coma. I want to see
what's happening - do you understand me?'
'Yes,'
Bernard said, and gave him several ampoules.
'If you feel weak, break this open and swallow it. It's adrenalin.' As he was leaving, Bernard met Lucienne on her way in.
'As charming as ever.'
'Is Patrice
ill?'
'Yes.'
'Is it
serious?'
'No, he's
all right,' Bernard said. And just
before he was out the door: 'One piece of advice, though - try to leave him
alone as much as you can.'
'Oh,' Lucienne said, 'then it can't be anything.'
All day
long, Mersault coughed and choked. Twice he felt the cold, stubborn chill which
would draw him into another coma, and twice the adrenalin rescued him from that
dark immersion. And all day long his dim
eyes stared at the magnificent landscape.
At about four, a big red rowing boat appeared on the sea, gradually
growing larger, glistening with sunlight, brine and fish-scales. Perez, standing, rowed on steadily. Mersault closed his
eyes and smiled for the first time since the day before, though he did not
unclench his teeth. Lucienne,
who had been fussing around the room, vaguely uneasy, threw herself on the bed
and kissed him. 'Sit down,' Mersault said, 'you can stay.'
'Don't
talk, you'll tire yourself out.'
Bernard
came, gave injections, left. Huge red
clouds moved slowly across the sky.
'When I was
a child,' Mersault said laboriously, leaning back on
the pillow, his eyes fixed on the sky, 'my mother told me that was the souls of
the dead going to paradise. I was amazed
they had red souls. Now I know it means
a storm is coming. But it's still amazing.'
Night was
beginning to fall. Images came. Huge fantastic animals which nodded over
desert landscapes. Mersault
gently swept them away, despite his fever.
He let only Zagreus' face appear, a sign of
blood-brotherhood. He who had inflicted
death was going to die. And then, as for
Zagreus, the lucid gaze he cast upon his life was a
man's gaze. Until now he had lived. Now he could talk of his life. Of that great ravaging energy which had borne
him on, of that fugitive and generating poetry of life, nothing was left now
but the transparent truth which is the opposite of poetry. Of all the men he had carried inside himself,
as every man does at the beginning of this life, of all those various rootless,
mingling beings who had created his life with consciousness, with courage. That was his whole happiness in living and
dying. He realized now that to be afraid
of this death he was staring at with animal terror meant to be afraid of
life. Fear of dying justified a
limitless attachment to what is alive in man.
And all those who had not made the gestures necessary to live their
lives, all those who feared and exalted impotence - they were afraid of death
because of the sanction it gave to a life in which they had not been
involved. They had not lived enough,
never having lived at all. And death was
a kind of gesture, forever withholding water from the traveller vainly seeking
to slake his thirst. But for the others,
it was the fatal and tender gesture which erases and denies, smiling at
gratitude as at rebellion. He spent a
day and a night sitting on his bed, his arms on the bedside table and his head
on his arms. He could not breathe lying
down. Lucienne
sat beside him and watched him without speaking a word. Sometimes Mersault
looked at her. He realized that after he
was gone, the first man who put his arms around her would make her soften,
submit. She would be offered - her body,
her breasts - as she had been offered to him, and the world would continue in
the warmth of her parted lips. Sometimes
he raised his head and stared out of the window. He had not shaved, his red-rimmed, hollowed
eyes had lost their dark lustre, and his pale sunken cheeks under the bluish
stubble transformed him completely.
His gaze
came to rest on the panes. He sighed and
turned towards Lucienne. Then he smiled. And in his face that was collapsing, even
vanishing, the hard lucid smile wakened a new strength, a cheerful gravity.
'Better?' Lucienne asked in a whisper.
'Yes.' Then he returned to darkness between his
arms. At the limit of his strength and
his resistance, he joined Roland Zagreus for the
first time, whose smile had so exasperated him in the beginning. His short, gasping breath left a moist cloud
on the marble of the night-table. And in
that sickly warmth rising towards him from the stone, he felt even more
distinctly the icy tips of his fingers and toes. Even that revealed life, though, and in this
journey from cold to warm, he discovered the exaltation which had seized Zagreus, thanking life 'for allowing him to go on
burning'. He was overcome by a violent
and fraternal love for this man from whom he had felt so far, and he realized
that by killing him he had consummated a union which bound them together forever. That heavy approach of tears, a mingled taste
of life and death, was shared by them both, he realized now. And in Zagreus'
very immobility confronting death, he encountered the secret image of his own
life. Fever helped him here, and with it
an exultant certainty of sustaining consciousness to the end, of dying with his
eyes open. Zagreus,
too, had had his eyes open that day, and tears had fallen from them. But that was the last weakness of a man who
had not had his share of life. Patrice
was not afraid of such weakness. In the
pounding of his feverish blood, though it failed to reach the limits of his
body, he understood that such weakness would not be his. For he had played his part, fashioned his
role, perfected man's one duty, which is only to be happy. Not for long, no doubt. He had destroyed the obstacle, and this inner
brother he had engendered in himself - what did it matter if he existed for two
or for twenty years? Happiness was the
fact that he had existed.
The blanket
slipped from Mersault's shoulders, and when Lucienne stood up to cover him, he shuddered at her
touch. Since the day he had sneezed in
the little square near Zagreus' villa to this moment,
his body had served him faithfully, had opened him to the world. But at the same time, it lived a life of its
own, detached from the man it represented.
For these few years it had passed through a slow decomposition; now it
had completed its trajectory, and was ready to leave Mersault,
to restore him to the world. In that
sudden shudder of which Mersault was conscious, his
body indicated once more a complicity which had already won so many joys for
them both. Solely for this reason, Mersault took pleasure in that shudder. Conscious, he must be conscious with
deception, without cowardice - alone, face to face - at grips with his body -
eyes open upon death. It was a man's
business. Not love, not landscape,
nothing but an infinite waste of solitude and happiness in which Mersault was playing his last cards. He felt his breathing weaken. He gasped for air, and in that movement his
ruined lungs wheezed. His wrists were
cold now, and there was no feeling in his hands at all. Day was breaking.
The new day
was cool, filled with the sound of birds.
The sun rose quickly, and in a single leap was above the horizon. The earth was covered with gold, with
warmth. In the morning, sky and sea were
spattered with dancing patches of blue and yellow light. A light breeze had risen, and through the window
a breath of salt air cooled Mersault's arms. At noon the wind dropped, the day split open
like ripe fruit and trickled down the face of the world, a warm and choking
juice in a sudden concert of cicadas.
The sea was covered with this golden juice, a sheet of oil upon the
water, and gave back to the sun-crushed earth a warm, softening breath which
released odours of wormwood, rosemary, and hot stone. From his bed, Mersault
received that impact, that offering, and he opened his eyes on the huge,
curved, glistening sea irradiated with the smiles of his gods. Suddenly he realized he was sitting on his
bed, and that Lucienne's face was very close to
his. Slowly, as though it came from his
stomach, there rose inside him a stone which approached his throat. He breathed faster and faster, taking advantage
of the respites granted each time it moved.
It rose steadily, higher and higher.
He looked at Lucienne. He smiled without wincing, and this smile too
came from inside himself. He threw
himself back on the bed, and felt the slow ascent within him. He looked at Lucienne's
swollen lips and, behind her, the smile of the earth. He looked at them with the same eyes, the
same desire.
'In a
minute, in a second,' he thought. The
ascent stopped. And stone among the
stones, he returned to the joy of his heart, to the truth of the motionless
worlds.