"A Camus - The Stranger" - читать интересную книгу автора (Camus Albert)

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 wasnТt a trace of shadow anywhere, and every object, each curve or angle, seemed to score its outline on oneТs eyes. The old people, MotherТs 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 couldnТt 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. IТd 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 couldnТt 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 couldnТt 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 couldnТt 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 didnТt 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 didnТt 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 couldnТt 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.
УShe was devoted to your mother. She says your mother was her only friend in the world, and now sheТs all alone.Ф
I had nothing to say, and the silence lasted quite a while. Presently the womanТs sighs and sobs became less frequent, and, after blowing her nose and snuffling for some minutes, she, too, fell silent.
IТd 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 didnТt 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 canТt 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 hadnТt 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 УwhiteФ 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 hadnТt been in the country for ages, and I caught myself thinking what an agreeable walk I could have had, if it hadnТt 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 wasnТt sleepy any more. Then I thought of the other fellows in the office. At this hour theyТd 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.
УThe undertakerТs 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?Ф
УNo,Ф I said.
He spoke into the receiver, lowering his voice. УThatТs all right, Figeac. Tell the men to go there now.Ф
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 shouldnТt attend funerals, though there was no objection to letting some of them sit up beside the coffin, the night before.
УItТs for their own sakes,Ф he explained, Уto spare their feelings. But in this particular instance IТve given permission to an old friend of your mother to come with us. His name is Thomas Pщrez.Ф The warden smiled. УItТs a rather touching little story in its way. He and your mother had become almost inseparable. The other old people used to tease Pщrez about having a fiancщe. СWhen are you going to marry her?Т theyТd ask. HeТd turn it with a laugh. It was a standing joke, in fact. So, as you can guess, he feels very badly about your motherТs death. I thought I couldnТt decently refuse him permission to attend the funeral. But, on our medical officerТs advice, I forbade him to sit up beside the body last night.Ф
For some time we sat there without speaking. Then the warden got up and went to the window. Presently he said:
УAh, thereТs the padre from Marengo. HeТs a bit ahead of time.Ф
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, УMy son.Ф 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 hadnТt seen before was standing by the door. УThis is Monsieur Meursault,Ф the warden said to her. I didnТt 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. Pщrez, my motherТs special friend. He wore a soft felt hat with a pudding-basin crown and a very wide brimЧhe whisked it off the moment the coffin emerged from the doorwayЧtrousers that concertinaТd 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 undertakerТs 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 Pщrez 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 couldnТt imagine why we waited so long for getting under way. Old Pщrez, 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 Pщrez 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 lightЧand I could understand MotherТs 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 Pщrez 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 undertakerТs man turned to me and said something that I didnТt 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 heТd said. He pointed upward.
УSunТs pretty bad today, ainТt it?Ф
УYes,Ф I said.
After a while he asked: УIs it your mother weТre burying?Ф
УYes,Ф I said again.
УWhat was her age?Ф
УWell, she was getting on.Ф As a matter of fact, I didnТt know exactly how old she was.
After that he kept silent. Looking back, I saw Pщrez limping along some fifty yards behind. He was swinging his big felt hat at armТs 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 didnТt 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 oneТs feet squelched at each step, leaving bright black gashes. In front, the coachmanТs 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 menТs 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 nightТs sleep, I found my eyes and thoughts growing blurred.
I looked back again. Pщrez 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 Pщrez, 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 didnТt match her face at all; it was musical and slightly tremulous. What she said was: УIf you go too slowly thereТs the risk of a heatstroke. But, if you go too fast, you perspire, and the cold air in the church gives you a chill.Ф I saw her point; either way one was in for it.
Some other memories of the funeral have stuck in my mind. The old boyТs 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 couldnТt 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, PщrezТs fainting fitЧhe crumpled up like a rag dollЧthe tawny-red earth pattering on MotherТs coffin, the bits of white roots mixed up with it; then more people, voices, the wait outside a cafщ 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.


II
ON WAKING I understood why my employer had looked rather cross when I asked for my two days off; itТs a Saturday today. I hadnТt 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 daysТ holiday straight off, and one couldnТt expect him to like that. Still, for one thing, it wasnТt my fault if Mother was buried yesterday and not today; and then, again, IТd have had my Saturday and Sunday off in any case. But naturally this didnТt prevent me from seeing my employerТs point.
Getting up was an effort, as IТd been really exhausted by the previous dayТs 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 Cardona, 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 didnТt 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 MarieТs 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: УIТm browner than you.Ф I asked her if sheТd come to the movies with me that evening. She laughed again and said, УYes,Ф if IТd 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. УWhen?Ф she asked, and I said, УYesterday.Ф She made no remark, though I thought she shrank away a little. I was just going to explain to her that it wasnТt 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 canТt 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.