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camus-stranger-1942.txt
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THE STRANGER
Part One
MOTHER died today. Or, maybe, yesterday; I can't be sure. The telegram from the
Home says: YOUR MOTHER PASSED AWAY. FUNERAL TOMORROW. DEEP
SYMPATHY. Which leaves the matter doubtful; it could have been yesterday.
The Home for Aged Persons is at Marengo, some fifty miles from Algiers. With
the two o'clock bus I should get there well before nightfall. Then I can spend the
night there, keeping the usual vigil beside the body, and be back here by tomorrow
evening. I have fixed up with my employer for two days' leave; obviously, under the
circumstances, he couldn't refuse. Still, I had an idea he looked annoyed, and I said,
without thinking: "Sorry, sir, but it's not my fault, you know."
Afterwards it struck me I needn't have said that. I had no reason to excuse myself;
it was up to him to express his sympathy and so forth. Probably he will do so the day
after tomorrow, when he sees me in black. For the present, it's almost as if Mother
weren't really dead. The funeral will bring it home to me, put an official seal on it, so
to speak. ...
I took the two-o'clock bus. It was a blazing hot afternoon. I'd lunched, as usual, at
Celeste's restaurant. Everyone was most kind, and Celeste said to me, "There's no
one like a mother." When I left they came with me to the door. It was something of a
rush, getting away, as at the last moment I had to call in at Emmanuel's place to
borrow his black tie and mourning band. He lost his uncle a few months ago.
I had to run to catch the bus. I suppose it was my hurrying like that, what with the
glare off the road and from the sky, the reek of gasoline, and the jolts, that made me
feel so drowsy. Anyhow, I slept most of the way. When I woke I was leaning against
a soldier; he grinned and asked me if I'd come from a long way off, and I just
nodded, to cut things short. I wasn't in a mood for talking.
The Home is a little over a mile from the village. I went there on foot. I asked to
be allowed to see Mother at once, but the doorkeeper told me I must see the warden
first. He wasn't free, and I had to wait a bit. The doorkeeper chatted with me while I
waited; then he led me to the office. The warden was a very small man, with gray
hair, and a Legion of Honor rosette in his buttonhole. He gave me a long look with
his watery blue eyes. Then we shook hands, and he held mine so long that I began to
feel embarrassed. After that he consulted a register on his table, and said:
"Madame Meursault entered the Home three years ago. She had no private means
and depended entirely on you."
I had a feeling he was blaming me for something, and started to explain. But he
cut me short.
"There's no need to excuse yourself, my boy. I've looked up the record and
obviously you weren't in a position to see that she was properly cared for. She
needed someone to be with her all the time, and young men in jobs like yours don't
get too much pay. In any case, she was much happier in the Home."
I said, "Yes, sir; I'm sure of that."
Then he added: "She had good friends here, you know, old folks like herself, and
one gets on better with people of one's own generation. You're much too young; you
couldn't have been much of a companion to her."
That was so. When we lived together, Mother was always watching me, but we
hardly ever talked. During her first few weeks at the Home she used to cry a good
deal. But that was only because she hadn't settled down. After a month or two she'd
have cried if she'd been told to leave the Home. Because this, too, would have been a
wrench. That was why, during the last year, I seldom went to see her. Also, it would
have meant losing my Sunday — not to mention the trouble of going to the bus,
getting my ticket, and spending two hours on the journey each way.
The warden went on talking, but I didn't pay much attention. Finally he said:
"Now, I suppose you'd like to see your mother?"
I rose without replying, and he led the way to the door. As we were going down
the stairs he explained:
"I've had the body moved to our little mortuary — so as not to upset the other old
people, you understand. Every time there's a death here, they're in a nervous state for
two or three days. Which means, of course, extra work and worry for our staff."
We crossed a courtyard where there were a number of old men, talking amongst
themselves in little groups. They fell silent as we came up with them. Then, behind
our backs, the chattering began again. Their voices reminded me of parakeets in a
cage, only the sound wasn't quite so shrill. The warden stopped outside the entrance
of a small, low building.
"So here I leave you, Monsieur Meursault. If you want me for anything, you'll
find me in my office. We propose to have the funeral tomorrow morning. That will
enable you to spend the night beside your mother's coffin, as no doubt you would
wish to do. Just one more thing; I gathered from your mother's friends that she
wished to be buried with the rites of the Church. I've made arrangements for this; but
I thought I should let you know."
I thanked him. So far as I knew, my mother, though not a professed atheist, had
never given a thought to religion in her life.
I entered the mortuary. It was a bright, spotlessly clean room, with whitewashed
walls and a big skylight. The furniture consisted of some chairs and trestles. Two of
the latter stood open in the center of the room and the coffin rested on them. The lid
was in place, but the screws had been given only a few turns and their nickeled heads
stuck out above the wood, which was stained dark walnut. An Arab woman — a
nurse, I supposed — was sitting beside the bier; she was wearing a blue smock and
had a rather gaudy scarf wound round her hair.
Just then the keeper came up behind me. He'd evidently been running, as he was a
little out of breath.
"We put the lid on, but I was told to unscrew it when you came, so that you could
see her."
While he was going up to the coffin I told him not to trouble.
"Eh? What's that?" he exclaimed. "You don't want me to ...?"
"No," I said.
He put back the screwdriver in his pocket and stared at me. I realized then that I
shouldn't have said, "No," and it made me rather embarrassed. After eying me for
some moments he asked:
"Why not?" But he didn't sound reproachful; he simply wanted to know.
"Well, really I couldn't say," I answered.
He began twiddling his white mustache; then, without looking at me, said gently:
"I understand."
He was a pleasant-looking man, with blue eyes and ruddy cheeks. He drew up a
chair for me near the coffin, and seated himself just behind. The nurse got up and
moved toward the door. As she was going by, the keeper whispered in my ear:
"It's a tumor she has, poor thing."
I looked at her more carefully and I noticed that she had a bandage round her head,
just below her eyes. It lay quite flat across the bridge of her nose, and one saw hardly
anything of her face except that strip of whiteness.
As soon as she had gone, the keeper rose.
"Now I'll leave you to yourself."
I don't know whether I made some gesture, but instead of going he halted behind
my chair. The sensation of someone posted at my back made me uncomfortable. The
sun was getting low and the whole room was flooded with a pleasant, mellow light.
Two hornets were buzzing overhead, against the skylight. I was so sleepy I could
hardly keep my eyes open. Without looking round, I asked the keeper how long he'd
been at the Home. "Five years." The answer came so pat that one could have thought
he'd been expecting my question.
That started him off, and he became quite chatty. If anyone had told him ten years
ago that he'd end his days as doorkeeper at a home at Marengo, he'd never have
believed it. He was sixty-four, he said, and hailed from Paris.
When he said that, I broke in. "Ah, you don't come from here?"
I remembered then that, before taking me to the warden, he'd told me something
about Mother. He had said she'd have to be buried mighty quickly because of the
heat in these parts, especially down in the plain. "At Paris they keep the body for
three days, sometimes four." After that he had mentioned that he'd spent the best part
of his life in Paris, and could never manage to forget it. "Here," he had said, "things
have to go with a rush, like. You've hardly time to get used to the idea that
someone's dead, before you're hauled off to the funeral." "That's enough," his wife
had put in. "You didn't ought to say such things to the poor young gentleman." The
old fellow had blushed and begun to apologize. I told him it was quite all right. As a
matter of fact, I found it rather interesting, what he'd been telling me; I hadn't
thought of that before.
Now he went on to say that he'd entered the Home as an ordinary inmate. But he
was still quite hale and hearty, and when the keeper's job fell vacant, he offered to
take it on.
I pointed out that, even so, he was really an inmate like the others, but he wouldn't
hear of it. He was "an official, like." I'd been struck before by his habit of saying
"they" or, less often, "them old folks," when referring to inmates no older than
himself. Still, I could see his point of view. As doorkeeper he had a certain standing,
and some authority over the rest of them.
Just then the nurse returned. Night had fallen very quickly; all of a sudden, it
seemed, the sky went black above the skylight. The keeper switched on the lamps,
and I was almost blinded by the blaze of light.
He suggested I should go to the refectory for dinner, but I wasn't hungry. Then he
proposed bringing me a mug of cafe au lait. As I am very partial to cafe au lait I
said, "Thanks," and a few minutes later he came back with a tray. I drank the coffee,
and then I wanted a cigarette. But I wasn't sure if I should smoke, under the
circumstances — in Mother's presence. I thought it over; really, it didn't seem to
matter, so I offered the keeper a cigarette, and we both smoked.
After a while he started talking again.
"You know, your mother's friends will be coming soon, to keep vigil with you
beside the body. We always have a 'vigil' here, when anyone dies. I'd better go and
get some chairs and a pot of black coffee."
The glare off the white walls was making my eyes smart, and I asked him if he
couldn't turn off one of the lamps. "Nothing doing," he said. They'd arranged the
lights like that; either one had them all on or none at all. After that I didn't pay much
more attention to him. He went out, brought some chairs, and set them out round the
coffin. On one he placed a coffeepot and ten or a dozen cups. Then he sat down
facing me, on the far side of Mother. The nurse was at the other end of the room,
with her back to me. I couldn't see what she was doing, but by the way her arms
moved I guessed that she was knitting. I was feeling very comfortable; the coffee had
warmed me up, and through the open door came scents of flowers and breaths of
cool night air. I think I dozed off for a while.
I was wakened by an odd rustling in my ears. After having had my eyes closed, I
had a feeling that the light had grown even stronger than before. There wasn't a trace
of shadow anywhere, and every object, each curve or angle, seemed to score its
outline on one's eyes. The old people, Mother's friends, were coming in. I counted
ten in all, gliding almost soundlessly through the bleak white glare. None of the
chairs creaked when they sat down. Never in my life had I seen anyone so clearly as
I saw these people; not a detail of their clothes or features escaped me. And yet I
couldn't hear them, and it was hard to believe they really existed.
Nearly all the women wore aprons, and the strings drawn tight round their waists
made their big stomachs bulge still more. I'd never yet noticed what big paunches
old women usually have. Most of the men, however, were as thin as rakes, and they
all carried sticks. What struck me most about their faces was that one couldn't see
their eyes, only a dull glow in a sort of nest of wrinkles.
On sitting down, they looked at me, and wagged their heads awkwardly, their lips
sucked in between their toothless gums. I couldn't decide if they were greeting me
and trying to say something, or if it was due to some infirmity of age. I inclined to
think that they were greeting me, after their fashion, but it had a queer effect, seeing
all those old fellows grouped round the keeper, solemnly eying me and dandling their
heads from side to side. For a moment I had an absurd impression that they had come
to sit in judgment on me.
A few minutes later one of the women started weeping. She was in the second row
and I couldn't see her face because of another woman in front. At regular intervals
she emitted a little choking sob; one had a feeling she would never stop. The others
didn't seem to notice. They sat in silence, slumped in their chairs, staring at the
coffin or at their walking sticks or any object just in front of them, and never took
their eyes off it. And still the woman sobbed. I was rather surprised, as I didn't know
who she was. I wanted her to stop crying, but dared not speak to her. After a while
the keeper bent toward her and whispered in her ear; but she merely shook her head,
mumbled something I couldn't catch, and went on sobbing as steadily as before.
The keeper got up and moved his chair beside mine. At first he kept silent; then,
without looking at me, he explained.
"She was devoted to your mother. She says your mother was her only friend in the
world, and now she's all alone."
I had nothing to say, and the silence lasted quite a while. Presently the woman's
sighs and sobs became less frequent, and, after blowing her nose and snuffling for
some minutes, she, too, fell silent.
I'd ceased feeling sleepy, but I was very tired and my legs were aching badly. And
now I realized that the silence of these people was telling on my nerves. The only
sound was a rather queer one; it came only now and then, and at first I was puzzled
by it. However, after listening attentively, I guessed what it was; the old men were
sucking at the insides of their cheeks, and this caused the odd, wheezing noises that
had mystified me. They were so much absorbed in their thoughts that they didn't
know what they were up to. I even had an impression that the dead body in their
midst meant nothing at all to them. But now I suspect that I was mistaken about this.
We all drank the coffee, which the keeper handed round. After that, I can't
remember much; somehow the night went by. I can recall only one moment; I had
opened my eyes and I saw the old men sleeping hunched up on their chairs, with one
exception. Resting his chin on his hands clasped round his stick, he was staring hard
at me, as if he had been waiting for me to wake. Then I fell asleep again. I woke up
after a bit, because the ache in my legs had developed into a sort of cramp.
There was a glimmer of dawn above the skylight. A minute or two later one of the
old men woke up and coughed repeatedly. He spat into a big check handkerchief, and
each time he spat it sounded as if he were retching. This woke the others, and the
keeper told them it was time to make a move. They all got up at once. Their faces
were ashen gray after the long, uneasy vigil. To my surprise each of them shook
hands with me, as though this night together, in which we hadn't exchanged a word,
had created a kind of intimacy between us.
I was quite done in. The keeper took me to his room, and I tidied myself up a bit.
He gave me some more "white" coffee, and it seemed to do me good. When I went
out, the sun was up and the sky mottled red above the hills between Marengo and the
sea. A morning breeze was blowing and it had a pleasant salty tang. There was the
promise of a very fine day. I hadn't been in the country for ages, and I caught myself
thinking what an agreeable walk I could have had, if it hadn't been for Mother.
As it was, I waited in the courtyard, under a plane tree. I sniffed the smells of the
cool earth and found I wasn't sleepy any more. Then I thought of the other fellows in
the office. At this hour they'd be getting up, preparing to go to work; for me this was
always the worst hour of the day. I went on thinking, like this, for ten minutes or so;
then the sound of a bell inside the building attracted my attention. I could see
movements behind the windows; then all was calm again. The sun had risen a little
higher and was beginning to warm my feet. The keeper came across the yard and
said the warden wished to see me. I went to his office and he got me to sign some
document. I noticed that he was in black, with pin-stripe trousers. He picked up the
telephone receiver and looked at me.
"The undertaker's men arrived some moments ago, and they will be going to the
mortuary to screw down the coffin. Shall I tell them to wait, for you to have a last
glimpse of your mother?"
"No," I said.
He spoke into the receiver, lowering his voice. "That's all right, Figeac. Tell the
men to go there now."
He then informed me that he was going to attend the funeral, and I thanked him.
Sitting down behind his desk, he crossed his short legs and leaned back. Besides the
nurse on duty, he told me, he and I would be the only mourners at the funeral. It was
a rule of the Home that inmates shouldn't attend funerals, though there was no
objection to letting some of them sit up beside the coffin, the night before.
"It's for their own sakes," he explained, "to spare their feelings. But in this
particular instance I've given permission to an old friend of your mother to come
with us. His name is Thomas Perez." The warden smiled. "It's a rather touching little
story in its way. He and your mother had become almost inseparable. The other old
people used to tease Perez about having a fiancee. 'When are you going to marry
her?' they'd ask. He'd turn it with a laugh. It was a standing joke, in fact. So, as you
can guess, he feels very badly about your mother's death. I thought I couldn't
decently refuse him permission to attend the funeral. But, on our medical officer's
advice, I forbade him to sit up beside the body last night."
For some time we sat there without speaking. Then the warden got up and went to
the window. Presently he said:
"Ah, there's the padre from Marengo. He's a bit ahead of time."
He warned me that it would take us a good three quarters of an hour, walking to
the church, which was in the village. Then we went downstairs.
The priest was waiting just outside the mortuary door. With him were two
acolytes, one of whom had a censer. The priest was stooping over him, adjusting the
length of the silver chain on which it hung. When he saw us he straightened up and
said a few words to me, addressing me as, "My son." Then he led the way into the
mortuary.
I noticed at once that four men in black were standing behind the coffin and the
screws in the lid had now been driven home. At the same moment I heard the warden
remark that the hearse had arrived, and the priest starting his prayers. Then
everybody made a move. Holding a strip of black cloth, the four men approached the
coffin, while the priest, the boys, and myself filed out. A lady I hadn't seen before
was standing by the door. "This is Monsieur Meursault," the warden said to her. I
didn't catch her name, but I gathered she was a nursing sister attached to the Home.
When I was introduced, she bowed, without the trace of a smile on her long, gaunt
face. We stood aside from the doorway to let the coffin by; then, following the
bearers down a corridor, we came to the front entrance, where a hearse was waiting.
Oblong, glossy, varnished black all over, it vaguely reminded me of the pen trays in
the office.
Beside the hearse stood a quaintly dressed little -man, whose duty it was, I
understood, to supervise the funeral, as a sort of master of ceremonies. Near him,
looking constrained, almost bashful, was old M. Perez, my mother's special friend.
He wore a soft felt hat with a pudding-basin crown and a very wide brim — he
whisked it off the moment the coffin emerged from the doorway — trousers that
concertina'd on his shoes, a black tie much too small for his high white double collar.
Under a bulbous, pimply nose, his lips were trembling. But what caught my attention
most was his ears; pendulous, scarlet ears that showed up like blobs of sealing wax
on the pallor of his cheeks and were framed in wisps of silky white hair.
The undertaker's factotum shepherded us to our places, with the priest in front of
the hearse, and the four men in black on each side of it. The warden and myself came
next, and, bringing up the rear, old Perez and the nurse.
The sky was already a blaze of light, and the air stoking up rapidly. I felt the first
waves of heat lapping my back, and my dark suit made things worse. I couldn't
imagine why we waited so long for getting under way. Old Perez, who had put on his
hat, took it off again. I had turned slightly in his direction and was looking at him
when the warden started telling me more about him. I remember his saying that old
Perez and my mother used often to have a longish stroll together in the cool of the
evening; sometimes they went as far as the village, accompanied by a nurse, of
course.
I looked at the countryside, at the long lines of cypresses sloping up toward the
skyline and the hills, the hot red soil dappled with vivid green, and here and there a
lonely house sharply outlined against the light — and I could understand Mother's
feelings. Evenings in these parts must be a sort of mournful solace. Now, in the full
glare of the morning sun, with everything shimmering in the heat haze, there was
something inhuman, discouraging, about this landscape.
At last we made a move. Only then I noticed that Perez had a slight limp. The old
chap steadily lost ground as the hearse gained speed. One of the men beside it, too,
fell back and drew level with me. I was surprised to see how quickly the sun was
climbing up the sky, and just then it struck me that for quite a while the air had been
throbbing with the hum of insects and the rustle of grass warming up. Sweat was
running down my face. As I had no hat I tried to fan myself with my handkerchief.
The undertaker's man turned to me and said something that I didn't catch. At that
same time he wiped the crown of his head with a handkerchief that he held in his left
hand, while with his right he tilted up his hat. I asked him what he'd said. He pointed
upward.
"Sun's pretty bad today, ain't it?"
"Yes," I said.
After a while he asked: "Is it your mother we're burying?"
"Yes," I said again.
"What was her age?"
"Well, she was getting on." As a matter of fact, I didn't know exactly how old she
was.
After that he kept silent. Looking back, I saw Perez limping along some fifty yards
behind. He was swinging his big felt hat at arm's length, trying to make the pace. I
also had a look at the warden. He was walking with carefully measured steps,
economizing every gesture. Beads of perspiration glistened on his forehead, but he
didn't wipe them off.
I had an impression that our little procession was moving slightly faster. Wherever
I looked I saw the same sun-drenched countryside, and the sky was so dazzling that I
dared not raise my eyes. Presently we struck a patch of freshly tarred road. A
shimmer of heat played over it and one's feet squelched at each step, leaving bright
black gashes. In front, the coachman's glossy black hat looked like a lump of the
same sticky substance, poised above the hearse. It gave one a queer, dreamlike
impression, that blue- white glare overhead and all this blackness round one: the sleek
black of the hearse, the dull black of the men's clothes, and the silvery-black gashes
in the road. And then there were the smells, smells of hot leather and horse dung
from the hearse, veined with whiffs of incense smoke. What with these and the
hangover from a poor night's sleep, I found my eyes and thoughts growing blurred.
I looked back again. Perez seemed very far away now, almost hidden by the heat
haze; then, abruptly, he disappeared altogether. After puzzling over it for a bit, I
guessed that he had turned off the road into the fields. Then I noticed that there was a
bend of the road a little way ahead. Obviously Perez, who knew the district well, had
taken a short cut, so as to catch up with us. He rejoined us soon after we were round
the bend; then began to lose ground again. He took another short cut and met us
again farther on; in fact, this happened several times during the next half-hour. But
soon I lost interest in his movements; my temples were throbbing and I could hardly
drag myself along.
After that everything went with a rush; and also with such precision and matter-of-
factness that I remember hardly any details. Except that when we were on the
outskirts of the village the nurse said something to me. Her voice took me by
surprise; it didn't match her face at all; it was musical and slightly tremulous. What
she said 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.
And I can remember the look of the church, the villagers in the street, the red
geraniums on the graves, Perez'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 cafe 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.
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 Car dona, 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.
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 Celeste'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 Sunday-
afternoon 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 cafe,
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 passers-
by. 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.
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.
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 Celeste's restaurant we were dripping with sweat. Celeste
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 out-
of-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,
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
very thin, and he has reddish blotches on his face. And the dog has developed
something of its master's queer hunched-up gait; it always has its muzzle stretched
far forward and its nose to the ground. But, oddly enough, though so much alike,
they detest each other.
Twice a day, at eleven and six, the old fellow takes his dog for a walk, and for
eight years that walk has never varied. You can see them in the rue de Lyon, the dog
pulling his master along as hard as he can, till finally the old chap misses a step and
nearly falls. Then he beats his dog and calls it names. The dog cowers and lags
behind, and it's his master's turn to drag him along. Presently the dog forgets, starts
tugging at the leash again, gets another hiding and more abuse. Then they halt on the
pavement, the pair of them, and glare at each other; the dog with terror and the man
with hatred in his eyes. Every time they're out, this happens. When the dog wants to
stop at a lamppost, the old boy won't let him, and drags him on, and the wretched
spaniel leaves behind him a trail of little drops. But, if he does it in the room, it
means another hiding.
It's been going on like this for eight years, and Celeste always says it's a "crying
shame," and something should be done about it; but really one can't be sure. When I
met him in the hall, Salamano was bawling at his dog, calling him a bastard, a lousy
mongrel, and so forth, and the dog was whining. I said, "Good evening," but the old
fellow took no notice and went on cursing. So I thought I'd ask him what the dog had
done. Again, he didn't answer, but went on shouting, "You bloody cur!" and the rest
of it. I couldn't see very clearly, but he seemed to be fixing something on the dog's
collar. I raised my voice a little. Without looking round, he mumbled in a sort of
suppressed fury: "He's always in the way, blast him!" Then he started up the stairs,
but the dog tried to resist and flattened itself out on the floor, so he had to haul it up
on the leash, step by step.
Just then another man who lives on my floor came in from the street. The general
idea hereabouts is that he's a pimp. But if you ask him what his job is, he says he's a
warehouseman. One thing's sure: he isn't popular in our street. Still, he often has a
word for me, and drops in sometimes for a short talk in my room, because I listen to
him. As a matter of fact, I find what he says quite interesting. So, really I've no
reason for freezing him off. His name is Sintes; Raymond Sintes. He's short and
thick-set, has a nose like a boxer's, and always dresses very sprucely. He, too, once
said to me, referring to Salamano, that it was "a damned shame," and asked me if I
wasn't disgusted by the way the old man served his dog. I answered: "No."
We went up the stairs together, Sintes and I, and when I was turning in at my door,
he said:
"Look here! How about having some grub with me? I've a black pudding and
some wine."
It struck me that this would save my having to cook my dinner, so I said, "Thanks
very much."
He, too, has only one room, and a little kitchen without a window. I saw a pink-
and-white plaster angel above his bed, and some photos of sporting champions and
naked girls pinned to the opposite wall. The bed hadn't been made and the room was
dirty. He began by lighting a paraffin lamp; then fumbled in his pocket and produced
a rather grimy bandage, which he wrapped round his right hand. I asked him what the
trouble was. He told me he'd been having a roughhouse with a fellow who'd
annoyed him.
"I'm not one who looks for trouble," he explained, "only I'm a bit short-tempered.
That fellow said to me, challenging-like, 'Come down off that streetcar, if you're a
man.' I says, 'You keep quiet, I ain't done nothing to you.' Then he said I hadn't any
guts. Well, that settled it. I got down off the streetcar and I said to him, 'You better
keep your mouth shut, or I'll shut it for you.' 'I'd like to see you try! ' says he. Then I
gave him one across the face, and laid him out good and proper. After a bit I started
to help him get up, but all he did was to kick at me from where he lay. So I gave him
one with my knee and a couple more swipes. He was bleeding like a pig when I'd
done with him. I asked him if he'd had enough, and he said, 'Yes.' "
Sintes was busy fixing his bandage while he talked, and I was sitting on the bed.
"So you see," he said, "it wasn't my fault; he was asking for it, wasn't he?"
I nodded, and he added:
"As a matter of fact, I rather want to ask your advice about something; it's
connected with this business. You've knocked about the world a bit, and I daresay
you can help me. And then I'll be your pal for life; I never forget anyone who does
me a good turn."
When I made no comment, he asked me if I'd like us to be pals. I replied that I had
no objection, and that appeared to satisfy him. He got out the black pudding, cooked
it in a frying pan, then laid the table, putting out two bottles of wine. While he was
doing this he didn't speak.
We started dinner, and then he began telling me the whole story, hesitating a bit at
first.
"There's a girl behind it — as usual. We slept together pretty regular. I was keeping
her, as a matter of fact, and she cost me a tidy sum. That fellow I knocked down is
her brother."
Noticing that I said nothing, he added that he knew what the neighbors said about
him, but it was a filthy lie. He had his principles like everybody else, and a job in a
warehouse.
"Well," he said, "to go on with my story ... I found out one day that she was letting
me down." He gave her enough money to keep her going, without extravagance,
though; he paid the rent of her room and twenty francs a day for food. "Three
hundred francs for rent, and six hundred for her grub, with a little present thrown in
now and then, a pair of stockings or whatnot. Say, a thousand francs a month. But
that wasn't enough for my fine lady; she was always grumbling that she couldn't
make both ends meet with what I gave her. So one day I says to her, 'Look here, why
not get a job for a few hours a day? That'd make things easier for me, too. I bought
you a new dress this month, I pay your rent and give you twenty francs a day. But
you go and waste your money at the cafe with a pack of girls. You give them coffee
and sugar. And, of course, the money comes out of my pocket. I treat you on the
square, and that's how you pay me back.' But she wouldn't hear of working, though
she kept on saying she couldn't make do with what I gave her. And then one day I
found out she was doing me dirt."
He went on to explain that he'd found a lottery ticket in her bag, and, when he
asked where the money 'd come from to buy it, she wouldn't tell him. Then, another
time, he'd found a pawn ticket for two bracelets that he'd never set eyes on.
"So I knew there was dirty work going on, and I told her I'd have nothing more to
do with her. But, first, I gave her a good hiding, and I told her some home truths. I
said that there was only one thing interested her and that was getting into bed with
men whenever she'd the chance. And I warned her straight, 'You'll be sorry one day,
my girl, and wish you'd got me back. All the girls in the street, they're jealous of
your luck in having me to keep you.' "
He'd beaten her till the blood came. Before that he'd never beaten her. "Well, not
hard, anyhow; only affectionately-like. She'd howl a bit, and I had to shut the
window. Then, of course, it ended as per usual. But this time I'm done with her.
Only, to my mind, I ain't punished her enough. See what I mean?"
He explained that it was about this he wanted my advice. The lamp was smoking,
and he stopped pacing up and down the room, to lower the wick. I just listened,
without speaking. I'd had a whole bottle of wine to myself and my head was buzzing.
As I'd used up my cigarettes I was smoking Raymond's. Some late streetcars passed,
and the last noises of the street died off with them. Raymond went on talking. What
bored him was that he had "a sort of lech on her" as he called it. But he was quite
determined to teach her a lesson.
His first idea, he said, had been to take her to a hotel, and then call in the special
police. He'd persuade them to put her on the register as a "common prostitute," and
that would make her wild. Then he'd looked up some friends of his in the
underworld, fellows who kept tarts for what they could make out of them, but they
had practically nothing to suggest. Still, as he pointed out, that sort of thing should
have been right up their street; what's the good of being in that line if you don't
know how to treat a girl who's let you down? When he told them that, they suggested
he should "brand" her. But that wasn't what he wanted, either. It would need a lot of
thinking out. ... But, first, he'd like to ask me something. Before he asked it, though,
he'd like to have my opinion of the story he'd been telling, in a general way.
I said I hadn't any, but I'd found it interesting.
Did I think she really had done him dirt?
I had to admit it looked like that. Then he asked me if I didn't think she should be
punished and what I'd do if I were in his shoes. I told him one could never be quite
sure how to act in such cases, but I quite understood his wanting her to suffer for it.
I drank some more wine, while Raymond lit another cigarette and began
explaining what he proposed to do. He wanted to write her a letter, "a real stinker,
that'll get her on the raw," and at the same time make her repent of what she'd done.
Then, when she came back, he'd go to bed with her and, just when she was "properly
primed up," he'd spit in her face and throw her out of the room. I agreed it wasn't a
bad plan; it would punish her, all right.
But, Raymond told me, he didn't feel up to writing the kind of letter that was
needed, and that was where I could help. When I didn't say anything, he asked me if
I'd mind doing it right away, and I said, "No," I'd have a shot at it.
He drank off a glass of wine and stood up. Then he pushed aside the plates and the
bit of cold pudding that was left, to make room on the table. After carefully wiping
the oilcloth, he got a sheet of squared paper from the drawer of his bedside table;
after that, an envelope, a small red wooden penholder, and a square inkpot with
purple ink in it. The moment he mentioned the girl's name I knew she was a Moor.
I wrote the letter. I didn't take much trouble over it, but I wanted to satisfy
Raymond, as I'd no reason not to satisfy him. Then I read out what I'd written.
Puffing at his cigarette, he listened, nodding now and then. "Read it again, please,"
he said. He seemed delighted. "That's the stuff," he chuckled. "I could tell you was a
brainy sort, old boy, and you know what's what."
At first I hardly noticed that "old boy." It came back to me when he slapped me on
the shoulder and said, "So now we're pals, ain't we?" I kept silence and he said it
again. I didn't care one way or the other, but as he seemed so set on it, I nodded and
said, "Yes."
He put the letter into the envelope and we finished off the wine. Then both of us
smoked for some minutes, without speaking. The street was quite quiet, except when
now and again a car passed. Finally, I remarked that it was getting late, and
Raymond agreed. "Time's gone mighty fast this evening," he added, and in a way
that was true. I wanted to be in bed, only it was such an effort making a move. I must
have looked tired, for Raymond said to me, "You mustn't let things get you down."
At first I didn't catch his meaning. Then he explained that he had heard of my
mother's death; anyhow, he said, that was something bound to happen one day or
another. I appreciated that, and told him so.
When I rose, Raymond shook hands very warmly, remarking that men always
understood each other. After closing the door behind me I lingered for some
moments on the landing. The whole building was as quiet as the grave, a dank, dark
smell rising from the well hole of the stairs. I could hear nothing but the blood
throbbing in my ears, and for a while I stood still, listening to it. Then the dog began
to moan in old Salamano's room, and through the sleep-bound house the little
plaintive sound rose slowly, like a flower growing out of the silence and the
darkness.
IV
I HAD a busy time in the office throughout the week. Raymond dropped in once to
tell me he'd sent off the letter. I went to the pictures twice with Emmanuel, who
doesn't always understand what's happening on the screen and asks me to explain it.
Yesterday was Saturday, and Marie came as we'd arranged. She had a very pretty
dress, with red and white stripes, and leather sandals, and I couldn't take my eyes off
her. One could see the outline of her firm little breasts, and her sun-tanned face was
like a velvety brown flower. We took the bus and went to a beach I know, some
miles out of Algiers. It's just a strip of sand between two rocky spurs, with a line of
rushes at the back, along the tide line. At four o'clock the sun wasn't too hot, but the
water was pleasantly tepid, and small, languid ripples were creeping up the sand.
Marie taught me a new game. The idea was, while one swam, to suck in the spray
off the waves and, when one's mouth was full of foam, to lie on one's back and spout
it out against the sky. It made a sort of frothy haze that melted into the air or fell back
in a warm shower on one's cheeks. But very soon my mouth was smarting with all
the salt I'd drawn in; then Marie came up and hugged me in the water, and pressed
her mouth to mine. Her tongue cooled my lips, and we let the waves roll us about for
a minute or two before swimming back to the beach.
When we had finished dressing, Marie looked hard at me. Her eyes were
sparkling. I kissed her; after that neither of us spoke for quite a while. I pressed her to
my side as we scrambled up the foreshore. Both of us were in a hurry to catch the
bus, get back to my place, and tumble on to the bed. I'd left my window open, and it
was pleasant to feel the cool night air flowing over our sunburned bodies.
Marie said she was free next morning, so I proposed she should have luncheon
with me. She agreed, and I went down to buy some meat. On my way back I heard a
woman's voice in Raymond's room. A little later old Salamano started grumbling at
his dog and presently there was a sound of boots and paws on the wooden stairs;
then, "Filthy brute! Get on, you cur!" and the two of them went out into the street. I
told Marie about the old man's habits, and it made her laugh. She was wearing one of
my pajama suits, and had the sleeves rolled up. When she laughed I wanted her
again. A moment later she asked me if I loved her. I said that sort of question had no
meaning, really; but I supposed I didn't. She looked sad for a bit, but when we were
getting our lunch ready she brightened up and started laughing, and when she laughs
I always want to kiss her. It was just then that the row started in Raymond's room.
First we heard a woman saying something in a high-pitched voice; then Raymond
bawling at her, "You let me down, you bitch! I'll learn you to let me down!" There
came some thuds, then a piercing scream — it made one's blood run cold — and in a
moment there was a crowd of people on the landing. Marie and I went out to see. The
woman was still screaming and Raymond still knocking her about. Marie said,
wasn't it horrible! I didn't answer anything. Then she asked me to go and fetch a
policeman, but I told her I didn't like policemen. However, one turned up presently;
the lodger on the second floor, a plumber, came up, with him. When he banged on
the door the noise stopped inside the room. He knocked again, and, after a moment,
the woman started crying, and Raymond opened the door. He had a cigarette
dangling from his underlip and a rather sickly smile.
"Your name?" Raymond gave his name. "Take that cigarette out of your mouth
when you're talking to me," the policeman said gruffly. Raymond hesitated, glanced
at me, and kept the cigarette in his mouth. The policeman promptly swung his arm
and gave him a good hard smack on the left cheek. The cigarette shot from his lips
and dropped a yard away. Raymond made a wry face, but said nothing for a moment.
Then in a humble tone he asked if he mightn't pick up his cigarette.
The officer said, "Yes," and added: "But don't you forget next time that we don't
stand for any nonsense, not from guys like you."
Meanwhile the girl went on sobbing and repeating: "He hit me, the coward. He's a
pimp."
"Excuse me, officer," Raymond put in, "but is that in order, calling a man a pimp
in the presence of witnesses?"
The policeman told him to shut his trap.
Raymond then turned to the girl. "Don't you worry, my pet. We'll meet again."
"That's enough," the policeman said, and told the girl to go away. Raymond was
to stay in his room till summoned to the police station. "You ought to be ashamed of
yourself," the policeman added, "getting so tight you can't stand steady. Why, you're
shaking all over!"
"I'm not tight," Raymond explained. "Only when I see you standing there and
looking at me, I can't help trembling. That's only natural."
Then he closed his door, and we all went away. Marie and I finished getting our
lunch ready. But she hadn't any appetite, and I ate nearly all. She left at one, and then
I had a nap.
Toward three there was a knock at my door and Raymond came in. He sat down
on the edge of my bed and for a minute or two said nothing. I asked him how it had
gone off. He said it had all gone quite smoothly at first, as per program; only then
she'd slapped his face and he'd seen red, and started thrashing her. As for what
happened after that, he needn't tell me, as I was there.
"Well," I said, "you taught her a lesson, all right, and that's what you wanted, isn't
it?"
He agreed, and pointed out that whatever the police did, that wouldn't change the
fact she'd had her punishment. As for the police, he knew exactly how to handle
them. But he'd like to know if I'd expected him to return the blow when the
policeman hit him.
I told him I hadn't expected anything whatsoever and, anyhow, I had no use for
the police. Raymond seemed pleased and asked if I'd like to come out for a stroll
with him. I got up from the bed and started brushing my hair. Then Raymond said
that what he really wanted was for me to act as his witness. I told him I had no
objection; only I didn't know what he expected me to say.
"It's quite simple," he replied. "You've only got to tell them that the girl had let
me down."
So I agreed to be his witness.
We went out together, and Raymond stood me a brandy in a cafe. Then we had a
game of billiards; it was a close game and I lost by only a few points. After that he
proposed going to a brothel, but I refused; I didn't feel like it. As we were walking
slowly back he told me how pleased he was at having paid out his mistress so
satisfactorily. He made himself extremely amiable to me, and I quite enjoyed our
walk.
When we were nearly home I saw old Salamano on the doorstep; he seemed very
excited. I noticed that his dog wasn't with him. He was turning like a teetotum,
looking in all directions, and sometimes peering into the darkness of the hall with his
little bloodshot eyes. Then he'd mutter something to himself and start gazing up and
down the street again.
Raymond asked him what was wrong, but he didn't answer at once. Then I heard
him grunt, "The bastard! The filthy cur!" When I asked him where his dog was, he
scowled at me and snapped out, "Gone!" A moment later, all of a sudden, he
launched out into it.
"I'd taken him to the Parade Ground as usual. There was a fair on, and you could
hardly move for the crowd. I stopped at one of the booths to look at the Handcuff
King. When I turned to go, the dog was gone. I'd been meaning to get a smaller
collar, but I never thought the brute could slip it and get away like that."
Raymond assured him the dog would find its way home, and told him stories of
dogs that had traveled miles and miles to get back to their masters. But this seemed
to make the old fellow even more worried than before.
"Don't you understand, they'll do away with him; the police, I mean. It's not
likely anyone will take him in and look after him; with all those scabs he puts
everybody off."
I told him that there was a pound at the police station, where stray dogs are taken.
His dog was certain to be there and he could get it back on payment of a small
charge. He asked me how much the charge was, but there I couldn't help him. Then
he flew into a rage again.
"Is it likely I'd give money for a mutt like that? No damned fear! They can kill
him, for all I care." And he went on calling his dog the usual names.
Raymond gave a laugh and turned into the hall. I followed him upstairs, and we
parted on the landing. A minute or two later I heard Salamano's footsteps and a
knock on my door.