swim—a conscious hygiene. He drove very fast, resolved to take advantage of his discovery in
order to establish himself in a routine which would henceforth require no further effort, to harmonize his
own breathing with the deepest rhythm of time, of life itself.
The next morning he got up early and walked down to the sea. The sky was already brilliant, and the
morning full of rustling wings and crying birds. But the sun was only touching the horizon’s curve, and
when Mersault stepped into the still-lusterless water, he seemed to be swimming in an indeterminate
darkness until, as the sun climbed higher, he thrust his arms into streaks of icy red and gold. Then he
swam back to land and walked up to his house. His body felt alert and ready for whatever the day might
bring. Every morning, now, he came downstairs just before sunrise, and this first action controlled the rest
of his day. Moreover, these swims exhausted him, but at the same time, because of the fatigue and the
energy they afforded, they gave his entire day a flavor of abandonment and joyful lassitude. Yet the hours
still seemed long to him—he had not yet detached time from a carcass of habits which still littered the
past. He had nothing to do, and his time stretched out, measureless, before him. Each minute recovered its
miraculous value, but he did not yet recognize it for what it was. Just as the days of a journey seem
interminable whereas in an office the trajectory from Monday occurs in a flash, so Mersault, stripped of
all his props, still tried to locate them in a life which had
nothing but itself to consider. Sometimes he picked up his watch and stared as the minute hand shifted
from one number to the next, marveling that five minutes should seem so interminable. Doubtless that
watch opened the way—a painful and tormenting way—which leads to the supreme art of doing nothing.
He learned to walk; sometimes in the afternoon he would walk along the beach as far as the ruins of
Tipasa; then he would lie down among the wormwood bushes, and with his hands on the warm stone
would open his eyes and his heart to the intolerable grandeur of that seething sky. He matched the
pounding of his blood with the violent pulsation of the sun at two o’clock, and deep in the fierce
fragrance, deafened by the invisible insects, he watched the sky turn from white to deep-blue, then pale to
green, pouring down its sweetness upon the still-warm ruins. He would walk home early then, and go to
bed. In this passage from sun to sun, his days were organized according to a rhythm whose deliberation
and strangeness became as necessary to him as had been his office, his restaurant, and his sleep in his
mother’s room. In both cases, he was virtually unconscious of it. But now, in his hours of lucidity, he felt
that time was his own, that in the brief interval which finds the sea red and leaves it green, something
eternal was represented for him in each second. Beyond the curve of the days he glimpsed neither
superhuman happiness nor eternity—hap-piness was human, eternity ordinary. What mat-]
42
tered was to humble himself, to organize his heart to match the rhythm of the days instead of submitting their rhythm to the curve of human hopes.
Just as there is a moment when the artist must stop, when the sculpture must be left as it is, the painting
untouched—just as a determination not to know serves the maker more than all the resources of
clairvoyance—so there must be a minimum of ignorance in order to perfect a life in happiness. Those
who lack such a thing must set about acquiring it: unintelligence must be earned.
On Sundays, Mersault played pool with Perez. The old fisherman, one arm a stump cut off above the
elbow, played pool in a peculiar fashion, puffing out his chest and leaning his stump on the cue. When
they went out fishing in the morning, Perez rowed with the same skill, and Mersault admired the way he
would stand in the boat pushing one oar with his chest, the other with his good hand. The two men got
along well. After the morning’s fishing, Perez cooked cuttlefish in a hot sauce, stewing them in their own
ink, and soaking up the black juice left in the pan with pieces of bread. As they sat in the fisherman’s
kitchen over the sooty stove, Perez never spoke, and Mersault was grateful to him for this gift of silence.
Sometimes, after his morning swim, he would see the old man putting his boat in the sea, and he would
join him. “Shall I come with you, Perez?”
“Get in.”
They put the oars in the locks and rowed to gether, Mersault being careful not to catch his feet in the
trawling hooks. Then they would fish, and Mersault would watch the lines, gleaming to the water’s
surface, black and wavering underneath. The sun broke into a thousand fragments on the sea, and
Mersault breathed the heavy stifling smell that rose from it like fumes. Sometimes Perez pulled in a little
fish he would throw back, saying: “Go home to your mother.” At eleven they rowed home and Mersault, his hands glistening with scales and his face swollen with sun, waited in his cool, dark house while Perez
prepared a pan of fish they would eat together in the evening. Day after day, Mersault let himself sink into
his life as if he were sliding into water. And just as the swimmer advances by the complicity of his arms
and the water which bears him up, helps him on, it was enough to make a few essential gestures—to rest
one hand on a tree-trunk, to take a run on the beach—in order to keep himself intact and conscious. Thus
he became one with a life in its pure state, he rediscovered a paradise given only to the most private or the most intelligent animals. At the point where the mind denies the mind, he touched his truth and with it his
extreme glory, his extreme love.
Thanks to Bernard, he also mingled with the life of the village. He had been obliged to send for Bernard
to treat some minor indisposition, and since then they had seen each other repeatedly, with plea-
sure. Bernard was a silent man, but he had a kind of bitter wit that cast a gleam in his horn-rimmed
glasses. He had practiced medicine a long time in Indochina, and at forty had retired to his corner of
Algeria, where for several years he had led a tranquil life with his wife, an almost mute Indochinese who
wore Western clothes and arranged her hair in a bun. Bernard’s capacity for indulgence enabled him to
adapt himself to any milieu. He liked the whole village, and was liked in return. He took Mer-sault on his
rounds. Mersault already knew the owner of the cafe, a former tenor who would sing behind his bar and
between two beats of Tosca threaten his wife with a beating. Patrice was asked to serve with Bernard on the holiday committee, and on July 14 they walked through the streets in tricolor armbands or argued with
the other committee members sitting around a zinc table sticky with aperitifs as to whether the bandstand should be decorated with ferns or palms. There was even an attempt to lure him into an electoral contest,
but Mersault had had time to know the mayor, who had “presided over the destiny of his commune” (as he said) for the last decade, and this semi-permanent position inclined him to regard himself as Napoleon
Bonaparte. A wealthy grapegrower, he had had a Greek-style house built for himself, and proudly showed
it to Mersault. It consisted of a ground floor and a second floor around a courtyard, but the mayor had
spared no expense and installed an ele-
43
vator, which he insisted that Mersault and Bernard ride in. And Bernard commented placidly: “Very smooth.” The visit had inspired Mersault with a profound admiration for the mayor, and he and Bernard
wielded all their influence to keep him in the office he deserved on so many counts.
In springtime, the little village with its close-set red roofs between the mountain and the sea overflowed
with flowers—roses, hyacinths, bougainvilleas—and hummed with insects. Afternoons, Mersault would
walk out onto his terrace and watch the village dozing under the torrent of light. Local history consisted
of a rivalry between Morales and Bingues, two rich Spanish landowners whom a series of speculations
had transformed into millionaires, in the grip of a terrible rivalry. When one bought a car, he chose the
most expensive make; but the other, who would buy the same make, would add silver door handles.
Morales was a genius at such tactics. He was known in the village as the King of Spain, for on each