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.
19
At the time, people had felt sorry for the lonely barrelmaker. 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 cafe. In this neighborhood, the cafes were
particularly lively. They gave off that herd warmth which is the last refuge against the terrors of solitude
and its vague aspirations. The taciturn creature took up his residence in them. Mer-sault saw him in one or
another every night. Thanks to the cafes, he postponed the moment of his return as long as possible. In
them he regained his place among men. But tonight, no doubt, the cafes 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 that 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 a tool box. In the corners of the ceiling, festoons of cobwebs. Mer-
sault, who had never been in this room since his own mother’s death, measured the distance this man had
traveled 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 deck 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 photograph 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 spigot. 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, flatten-
ing 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 ringers, he closed his eyes on the despair that 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 else was misery and submission. The street that had been so
animated under his windows the day before still swelled with life. From the gardens beyond the courtyard
rose a smell of grass. Mersault offered Cardona a cigarette, and both men smoked without speaking. The
last streetcars passed and with them the still-vivid 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
20
tremendous effort, he stood up, walked over to the rear window and stood there: out of the night’s heart sounds and silences mounted toward him. At the
limits of this 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 awakened in a fever.
That evening, still in bed, he sent for the neighborhood doctor, who told him he had grippe. 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: an article 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 Marseilles. He told everyone he was
going to France for a rest. From Lyons, Marthe received a letter of farewell from which only her pride
suffered. In the same letter Mersault said he had been offered an exceptional job in central Europe.
Marthe wrote him at a general-delivery address about how much she was suffering. Her letter never
reached Mersault, who had a violent attack of fever the day after he reached Lyons, and took the first train
for Prague. As it happened, Martha told him that, after several days in the morgue, Zagreus had been
buried and that it had taken a lot of pillows to wedge his body into the coffin.
Part Two
Conscious Death
1
“I’d like a room,” the man said in German.
The clerk was sitting in front of a board covered with keys and was separated from the lobby by a broad
table. He stared at the man who had just come in, a gray raincoat over his shoulders, and who spoke with
his head turned away. “Certainly, sir. For one night?”
“No, I don’t know.”
“We have rooms at eighteen, twenty-five, and thirty crowns.”
Mersault looked through the glass door of the hotel out into the little Prague street, his hands in his
pockets, his hair rumpled. Not far away, he could hear the streetcars screeching down the Avenue
Wenceslas.
“Which room would you like, sir?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Mersault said, still staring through the glass door. The clerk took a key off the rack and handed it to Mersault.
“Room number twelve,” he said.
Mersault seemed to wake up. “How much is this room?”
“Thirty crowns.”
“That’s too much. Give me a room for eighteen.”
Without a word, the man took another key off the rack and indicated the brass star attached to it: “Room number thirty-four.”
21
Sitting in his room, Mersault took off his jacket, loosened his tie, and mechanically rolled up his shirtsleeves. He walked over to the mirror above the sink, meeting a drawn face slightly tanned where it
was not darkened by several days’ growth of beard. His hair fell in a tangle over his forehead, down to the
two deep creases between his eyebrows, which gave him a grave, tender expression, he realized. Only
then did he think of looking around this miserable room which was all the comfort he had and beyond
which he envisioned nothing at all. On a sickening carpet—huge yellow flowers against a gray
background—a whole geography of filth suggested a grimy universe of wretchedness. Behind the huge
radiator, clots of dust; the regulator was broken, and the brass contact points were exposed. Over the
sagging bed dangled a flyspecked wire, at its end a sticky lightbulb. Mersault inspected the sheets, which