There was no point in hanging about here. I, too, looked back. They were exactly as before, gazing in the same vague way at the spot where we had been. When we were in the bus, Raymond, who now seemed quite at ease, kept making jokes to amuse Marie. I could see he was attracted by her, but she had hardly a word for him. Now and again she would catch my eye and smile.
We alighted just outside Algiers. The beach is not far from the bus stop; one has only to cross a patch of highland, a sort of plateau, which overlooks the sea and shelves down steeply to the sands. The ground here was covered with yellowish pebbles and wild lilies that showed snow-white against the blue of the sky, which had already the hard, metallic glint it gets on very hot days.
Marie amused herself swishing her bag against the flowers and sending the petals showering in all directions. Then we walked between two rows of little houses with wooden balconies and green or white palings.
Some of them were half hidden in clumps of tamarisks; others rose naked from the stony plateau. Before we came to the end of it, the sea was in full view; it lay smooth as a mirror, and in the distance a big headland jutted out over its black reflection.
Through the still air came the faint buzz of a motor engine and we saw a fishing boat very far out, gliding almost imperceptibly across the dazzling smoothness. Marie picked some rock irises. Going down the steep path leading to the sea, we saw some bathers already on the sands.
Its back rested against the cliffside, while the front stood on piles, which the water was already lapping. Raymond introduced us to his friend, whose name was Masson. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and thick-set; his wife was a plump, cheerful little woman who spoke with a Paris accent. Masson promptly told us to make ourselves at home. He had gone out fishing, he said, first thing in the morning, and there would be fried fish for lunch.
I congratulated him on his little bungalow, and he said he always spent his week ends and holidays here. I glanced at her, and noticed that she and Marie seemed to be getting on well together; laughing and chattering away.
Masson wanted to have a swim at once, but his wife and Raymond were disinclined to move. So only the three of us, Marie, Masson, and myself, went down to the beach. Marie promptly plunged in, but Masson and I waited for a bit. The sand was beginning to stoke up underfoot and, though I was eager for a dip, I postponed it for a minute or two more. Masson walked in gingerly and only began to swim when he was out of his depth.
He swam hand over hand and made slow headway, so I left him behind and caught up with Marie. The water was cold and I felt all the better for it. We swam a long way out, Marie and I, side by side, and it was pleasant feeling how our movements matched, hers and mine, and how we were both in the same mood, enjoying every moment.
Once we were out in the open, we lay on our backs and, as I gazed up at the sky, I could feel the sun drawing up the film of salt water on my lips and cheeks.
We saw Masson swim back to the beach and slump down on the sand under the sun. In the distance he looked enormous, like a stranded whale. Then Marie proposed that we should swim tandem. She went ahead and I put my arms round her waist, from behind, and while she drew me forward with her arm strokes, I kicked out behind to help us on.
So I let go of Marie and swam back at an easy pace, taking long, deep breaths. When I made the beach I stretched myself belly downward beside Masson, resting my face on the sand. Presently Marie came back.
I raised my head to watch her approach. She was glistening with brine and holding her hair back. Then she lay down beside me, and what with the combined warmth of our bodies and the sun, I felt myself dropping off to sleep.
After a while Marie tugged my arm. Then we swam a few strokes, and when we were almost out of our depth she flung her arms round me and hugged me. I felt her legs twining round mine, and my senses tingled. When we got back, Masson was on the steps of his bungalow, shouting to us to come. The bread was excellent, and I had my full share of the fish. Then came some steak and potato chips.
None of us spoke while eating. Masson drank a lot of wine and kept refilling my glass the moment it was empty. By the time coffee was handed round I was feeling slightly muzzy, and I started smoking one cigarette after another. Masson, Raymond, and I discussed a plan of spending the whole of August on the beach together, sharing expenses. Do you know the time?
Mme Masson smiled and said that, in that case, the first thing was to get the men out of the way. So we went out together, the three of us. The beach was quite deserted now. One could hear a faint tinkle of knives and forks and crockery in the shacks and bungalows lining the foreshore. Heat was welling up from the rocks, and one could hardly breathe. But at the same moment I noticed two Arabs in blue dungarees a long way down the beach, coming in our direction.
Though the Arabs walked quite slowly, they were much nearer already. And you, Meursault, stand by to help if another one comes up, and lay him out. The sand was as hot as fire, and I could have sworn it was glowing red. The distance between us and the Arabs was steadily decreasing. When we were only a few steps away the Arabs halted.
Masson and I slowed down, while Raymond went straight up to his man. Raymond lashed out promptly and shouted to Masson to come. Masson went up to the man he had been marking and struck him twice with all his might. The fellow fell flat into the water and stayed there some seconds with bubbles coming up to the surface round his head. Meanwhile Raymond had been slogging the other man, whose face was streaming with blood.
Masson sprang forward. The other Arab got up from the water and placed himself behind the fellow with the knife. The two natives backed away slowly, keeping us at bay with the knife and never taking their eyes off us. When they were at a safe distance they swung round and took to their heels. We stood stock-still, with the sunlight beating down on us.
We each gave him an arm and helped him back to the bungalow. Marie had gone quite pale, and Mme Masson was in tears. Raymond came back at about half-past one, accompanied by Masson. He had his arm bandaged and a strip of sticking plaster on the corner of his mouth. The doctor had assured him it was nothing serious, but he was looking very glum.
Masson tried to make him laugh, but without success. Presently Raymond said he was going for a stroll on the beach. However, when he went out, I followed him. It was like a furnace outside, with the sunlight splintering into flakes of fire on the sand and sea. We walked for quite a while, and I had an idea that Raymond had a definite idea where he was going; but probably I was mistaken about this. At the end of the beach we came to a small stream that had cut a channel in the sand, after coming out from behind a biggish rock.
There we found our two Arabs again, lying on the sand in their blue dungarees. The man who had slashed Raymond stared at him without speaking. The other man was blowing down a little reed and extracting from it three notes of the scale, which he played over and over again, while he watched us from the corner of an eye.
For a while nobody moved; it was all sunlight and silence except for the tinkle of the stream and those three little lonely sounds. I noticed the man playing on the reed had his big toes splayed out almost at right angles to his feet.
So I said the first thing that came into my head. It would be a lowdown trick to shoot him like that, in cold blood. The Arab with the reed went on playing, and both of them watched all our movements. We could only watch each other, never lowering our eyes; the whole world seemed to have come to a standstill on this little strip of sand between the sunlight and the sea, the twofold silence of the reed and stream. And just then it crossed my mind that one might fire, or not fire—and it would come to absolutely the same thing.
So Raymond and I turned and walked back. He seemed happier, and began talking about the bus to catch for our return. When we reached the bungalow Raymond promptly went up the wooden steps, but I halted on the bottom one. But the heat was so great that it was just as bad staying where I was, under that flood of blinding light falling from the sky.
To stay, or to make a move—it came to much the same. After a moment I returned to the beach, and started walking. There was the same red glare as far as eye could reach, and small waves were lapping the hot sand in little, flurried gasps. As I slowly walked toward the boulders at the end of the beach I could feel my temples swelling under the impact of the light. It pressed itself on me, trying to check my progress. Whenever a blade of vivid light shot upward from a bit of shell or broken glass lying on the sand, my jaws set hard.
The small black hump of rock came into view far down the beach. It was rimmed by a dazzling sheen of light and feathery spray, but I was thinking of the cold, clear stream behind it, and longing to hear again the tinkle of running water.
Anything to be rid of the glare, the sight of women in tears, the strain and effort—and to retrieve the pool of shadow by the rock and its cool silence! He was by himself this time, lying on his back, his hands behind his head, his face shaded by the rock while the sun beat on the rest of his body.
One could see his dungarees steaming in the heat. On seeing me, the Arab raised himself a little, and his hand went to his pocket. Then the Arab let himself sink back again, but without taking his hand from his pocket. I was some distance off, at least ten yards, and most of the time I saw him as a blurred dark form wobbling in the heat haze. Sometimes, however, I had glimpses of his eyes glowing between the half-closed lids. The sound of the waves was even lazier, feebler, than at noon.
For two hours the sun seemed to have made no progress; becalmed in a sea of molten steel. Far out on the horizon a steamer was passing; I could just make out from the corner of an eye the small black moving patch, while I kept my gaze fixed on the Arab. It struck me that all I had to do was to turn, walk away, and think no more about it. But the whole beach, pulsing with heat, was pressing on my back. I took some steps toward the stream. After all, there was still some distance between us.
Perhaps because of the shadow on his face, he seemed to be grinning at me. I waited. The heat was beginning to scorch my cheeks; beads of sweat were gathering in my eyebrows. But I took that step, just one step, forward.
And then the Arab drew his knife and held it up toward me, athwart the sunlight. A shaft of light shot upward from the steel, and I felt as if a long, thin blade transfixed my forehead. At the same moment all the sweat that had accumulated in my eyebrows splashed down on my eyelids, covering them with a warm film of moisture.
Beneath a veil of brine and tears my eyes were blinded; I was conscious only of the cymbals of the sun clashing on my skull, and, less distinctly, of the keen blade of light flashing up from the knife, scarring my eyelashes, and gouging into my eyeballs. Then everything began to reel before my eyes, a fiery gust came from the sea, while the sky cracked in two, from end to end, and a great sheet of flame poured down through the rift.
Every nerve in my body was a steel spring, and my grip closed on the revolver. The trigger gave, and the smooth underbelly of the butt jogged my palm. And so, with that crisp, whipcrack sound, it all began. I shook off my sweat and the clinging veil of light. But I fired four shots more into the inert body, on which they left no visible trace. And each successive shot was another loud, fateful rap on the door of my undoing.
Part Two. I was questioned several times immediately after my arrest. But they were all formal examinations, as to my identity and so forth. At the first of these, which took place at the police station, nobody seemed to have much interest in the case.
However, when I was brought before the examining magistrate a week later, I noticed that he eyed me with distinct curiosity. Like the others, he began by asking my name, address, and occupation, the date and place of my birth. Then he inquired if I had chosen a lawyer to defend me. I replied that I regarded my case as very simple. He smiled. He nodded, and agreed that the Code was all that could be desired. The room in which he interviewed me was much like an ordinary sitting room, with curtained windows, and a single lamp standing on the desk.
I had read descriptions of such scenes in books, and at first it all seemed like a game. After our conversation, however, I had a good look at him. He was a tall man with clean-cut features, deep-set blue eyes, a big gray mustache, and abundant, almost snow-white hair, and he gave me the impression of being highly intelligent and, on the whole, likable enough.
There was only one thing that put one off: his mouth had now and then a rather ugly twist; but it seemed to be only a sort of nervous tic.
In spite of the heat—I was in my shirt sleeves—he was wearing a dark suit, stiff collar, and a rather showy tie, with broad black and white stripes. His opinion was that it would need cautious handling, but there was every prospect of my getting off, provided I followed his advice. They had learned that my mother died recently in a home. And that is where you, and only you, can help me. All normal people, I added as on afterthought, had more or less desired the death of those they loved, at some time or another.
Here the lawyer interrupted me, looking greatly perturbed. So, really, I hardly took stock of what was happening. The lawyer, however, looked displeased. After considering for a bit he asked me if he could say that on that day I had kept my feelings under control. Soon after this he left, looking quite vexed. I wished he had stayed longer and I could have explained that I desired his sympathy, not for him to make a better job of my defense, but, if I might put it so, spontaneously.
Once or twice I had a mind to assure him that I was just like everybody else; quite an ordinary person. But really that would have served no great purpose, and I let it go—out of laziness as much as anything else. It was two in the afternoon and, this time, the room was flooded with light— there was only a thin curtain on the window—and extremely hot. I should be quite entitled, he added, to reserve my answers to his questions until my lawyer could attend.
To this I replied that I could answer for myself. He pressed a bell push on his desk and a young clerk came in and seated himself just behind me. Then we—I and the magistrate—settled back in our chairs and the examination began.
So, naturally I keep my mouth shut. I feel sure that you will help me to understand them. But I went over it all again, and after each phrase he nodded. But, first, he must put a few more questions.
Next, without any apparent logical connection, the magistrate sprang another question. I fired one at first, and the other four after a short interval. During the silence that followed, the magistrate kept fidgeting, running his fingers through his hair, half rising, then sitting down again. Finally, planting his elbows on the desk, he bent toward me with a queer expression.
Suddenly he rose, walked to a file cabinet standing against the opposite wall, pulled a drawer open, and took from it a silver crucifix, which he was waving as he came back to the desk.
That seemed to start him off; he began speaking at a great pace. He told me he believed in God, and that even the worst of sinners could obtain forgiveness of Him. But first he must repent, and become like a little child, with a simple, trustful heart, open to conviction. He was leaning right across the table, brandishing his crucifix before my eyes. As a matter of fact, I had great difficulty in following his remarks, as, for one thing, the office was so stiflingly hot and big flies were buzzing round and settling on my cheeks; also because he rather alarmed me.
Of course, I realized it was absurd to feel like this, considering that, after all, it was I who was the criminal. All the rest was, so to speak, quite in order; but that completely baffled him. I started to tell him that he was wrong in insisting on this; the point was of quite minor importance.
But, before I could get the words out, he had drawn himself up to his full height and was asking me very earnestly if I believed in God. That was unthinkable, he said; all men believe in God, even those who reject Him. Of this he was absolutely sure; if ever he came to doubt it, his life would lose all meaning. And I pray Him to forgive you for your sins. My poor young man, how can you not believe that He suffered for your sake? The room was growing steadily hotter. As I usually do when I want to get rid of someone whose conversation bores me, I pretended to agree.
At which, rather to my surprise, his face lit up. You see! For some moments there was a silence during which the typewriter, which had been clicking away all the time we talked, caught up with the last remark. Then he looked at me intently and rather sadly. But then I realized that I, too, came under that description. Somehow it was an idea to which I never could get reconciled. To indicate, presumably, that the interview was over, the magistrate stood up.
In the same weary tone he asked me a last question: Did I regret what I had done? I came before the magistrate many times more, but on these occasions my lawyer always accompanied me.
The examinations were confined to asking me to amplify my previous statements. Or else the magistrate and my lawyer discussed technicalities.
At such times they took very little notice of me, and, in any case, the tone of the examinations changed as time went on. The magistrate seemed to have lost interest in me, and to have come to some sort- of decision about my case. He never mentioned God again or displayed any of the religious fervor I had found so embarrassing at our first interview.
The result was that our relations became more cordial. After a few questions, followed by an exchange of remarks with the lawyer, the magistrate closed the interview. Sometimes, too, the conversation was of a general order, and the magistrate and lawyer encouraged me to join in it. I began to breathe more freely. However, as time went by, I came to feel that this aversion had no real substance. In point of fact, during those early days, I was hardly conscious of being in prison; I had always a vague hope that something would turn up, some agreeable surprise.
On the day of my arrest they put me in a biggish room with several other prisoners, mostly Arabs. But presently night began to fall, and one of them explained to me how to lay out my sleeping mat.
By rolling up one end one makes a sort of bolster. All night I felt bugs crawling over my face. Some days later I was put by myself in a cell, where I slept on a plank bed hinged to the wall.
The only other furniture was a latrine bucket and a tin basin. The prison stands on rising ground, and through my little window I had glimpses of the sea. One day when I was hanging on the bars, straining my eyes toward the sunlight playing on the waves, a jailer entered and said I had a visitor.
I thought it must be Marie, and so it was. It was a very large room, lit by a big bow window, and divided into three compartments by high iron grilles running transversally. I was led to a point exactly opposite Marie, who was wearing her striped dress. On my side of the rails were about a dozen other prisoners, Arabs for the most part. She was wedged between a small old woman with tight-set lips and a fat matron, without a hat, who was talking shrilly and gesticulated all the time.
Because of the distance between the visitors and prisoners I found I, too, had to raise my voice. When I came into the room the babel of voices echoing on the bare walls, and the sunlight streaming in, flooding everything in a harsh white glare, made me feel quite dizzy.
After the relative darkness and the silence of my cell it took me some moments to get used to these conditions. After a bit, however, I came to see each face quite clearly, lit up as if a spotlight played on it. The native prisoners and their relations on the other side were squatting opposite each other. This murmur of voices coming from below made a sort of accompaniment to the conversations going on above their heads.
I took stock of all this very quickly and moved a step forward toward Marie. She was pressing her brown, sun-tanned face to the bars and smiling as hard as she could. Are you all right, have you everything you want? The fat woman was bawling at the prisoner beside me, her husband presumably, a tall, fair, pleasant-looking man.
I should say he is! The picture of health. His eyes, I noticed, were fixed on the little old woman opposite him, and she returned his gaze with a sort of hungry passion. My gaze fell on her shoulders, and I had a sudden longing to squeeze them, through the thin dress. She started talking very fast in the same high-pitched voice. The youngster on my other side and his mother were still gazing mournfully at each other, and the murmur of the Arabs droned on below us.
The light outside seemed to be surging up against the window, seeping through, and smearing the faces of the people facing it with a coat of yellow oil. I began to feel slightly squeamish, and wished I could leave. The strident voice beside me was jarring on my ears. Then, one by one, the Arabs were led away; almost everyone fell silent when the first one left. No sooner was she gone than a man, hat in hand, took her place. A prisoner was led up to the empty place beside me, and the two started a brisk exchange of remarks—not loud, however, as the room had become relatively quiet.
Marie threw me a kiss. I looked back as I walked away. Soon after this I had a letter from her. Still, there was one thing in those early days that was really irksome: my habit of thinking like a free man. For instance, I would suddenly be seized with a desire to go down to the beach for a swim. And merely to have imagined the sound of ripples at my feet, the smooth feel of the water on my body as I struck out, and the wonderful sensation of relief it gave brought home still more cruelly the narrowness of my cell.
Still, that phase lasted a few months only. I waited for the daily walk in the courtyard or a visit from my lawyer. As for the rest of the time, I managed quite well, really. There were others in the world worse off than I. Those first months were trying, of course; but the very effort I had to make helped me through them. For instance, I was plagued by the desire for a woman—which was natural enough, considering my age.
I never thought of Marie especially. That unsettled me, no doubt; but, at least, it served to kill time. I gradually became quite friendly with the chief jailer, who went the rounds with the kitchen hands at mealtimes. It was he who brought up the subject of women. I said I felt like that myself. Still, those fellows find a way out; they do it by themselves. Next day I did like the others. The lack of cigarettes, too, was a trial.
When I was brought to the prison, they took away my belt, my shoelaces, and the contents of my pockets, including my cigarettes.
Once I had been given a cell to myself I asked to be given back, anyhow, the cigarettes. Smoking was forbidden, they informed me. That, perhaps, was what got me down the most; in fact, I suffered really badly during the first few days. I even tore off splinters from my plank bed and sucked them. All day long I felt faint and bilious.
Later on, I understood the idea behind it; this privation, too, was part of my punishment. Yet again, the whole problem was: how to kill time. Sometimes I would exercise my memory on my bedroom and, starting from a corner, make the round, noting every object I saw on the way. At first it was over in a minute or two. But each time I repeated the experience, it took a little longer.
I made a point of visualizing every piece of furniture, and each article upon or in it, and then every detail of each article, and finally the details of the details, so to speak: a tiny dent or incrustation, or a chipped edge, and the exact grain and color of the woodwork. At the same time I forced myself to keep my inventory in mind from start to finish, in the right order and omitting no item.
With the result that, after a few weeks, I could spend hours merely in listing the objects in my bedroom. I found that the more I thought, the more details, half-forgotten or malobserved, floated up from my memory. There seemed no end to them. Obviously, in one way, this was a compensation. Then there was sleep. To begin with, I slept badly at night and never in the day.
But gradually my nights became better, and I managed to doze off in the daytime as well. In fact, during the last months, I must have slept sixteen or eighteen hours out of the twenty-four. So there remained only six hours to fill —with meals, relieving nature, my memories One day, when inspecting my straw mattress, I found a bit of newspaper stuck to its underside.
The paper was yellow with age, almost transparent, but I could still make out the letter print. It was the story of a crime. The first part was missing, but I gathered that its scene was some village in Czechoslovakia. One of the villagers had left his home to try his luck abroad. After twenty-five years, having made a fortune, he returned to his country with his wife and child.
Meanwhile his mother and sister had been running a small hotel in the village where he was born. His mother and sister completely failed to recognize him. At dinner that evening he showed them a large sum of money he had on him, and in the course of the night they slaughtered him with a hammer. After taking the money they flung the body into the river. His mother hanged herself. His sister threw herself into a well. I must have read that story thousands of times.
In one way it sounded most unlikely; in another, it was plausible enough. So, what with long bouts of sleep, my memories, readings of that scrap of newspaper, the tides of light and darkness, the days slipped by. But this had never meant anything definite to me. Long, no doubt, as periods to live through, but so distended that they ended up by overlapping on each other. After the jailer left me I shined up my tin pannikin and studied my face in it.
My expression was terribly serious, I thought, even when I tried to smile. I held the pannikin at different angles, but always my face had the same mournful, tense expression. I went to the barred window and in the last rays looked once again at my reflected face. It was the sound of a voice; my own voice, there was no mistaking it. And I recognized it as the voice that for many a day of late had been sounding in my ears.
No, there was no way out, and no one can imagine what the evenings are like in prison. And I knew that with the first really hot days something new was in store for me. My case was down for the last sessions of the Assize Court, and those sessions were due to end some time in June. The day on which my trial started was one of brilliant sunshine. My lawyer assured me the case would take only two or three days.
The two policemen led me into a small room that smelled of darkness. After a bit he asked me if I was feeling nervous.
There was a great crowd in the courtroom. Though the Venetian blinds were down, light was filtering through the chinks, and the air stiflingly hot already. The windows had been kept shut. I sat down, and the police officers took their stand on each side of my chair. It was then that I noticed a row of faces opposite me. These people were staring hard at me, and I guessed they were the jury.
What with the crowd and the stuffiness of the air I was feeling a bit dizzy. At first I could hardly believe that all these people had come on my account. It was such a new experience, being a focus of interest; in the ordinary way no one ever paid much attention to me. He pointed to a group of men at a table just below the jury box. The journalist was an elderly man with a rather grim expression, but his manner was quite pleasant.
That, no doubt, explained the odd impression I had of being de trop here, a sort of gate-crasher. However, the journalist addressed me quite amiably, and said he hoped all would go well for me. With a friendly wave of his hand he left us, and for some minutes nothing happened. Then, accompanied by some colleagues, my lawyer bustled in, in his gown. He went up to the press table and shook hands with the journalists.
They remained laughing and chatting together, all seemingly very much at home here, until a bell rang shrilly and everyone went to his place. My lawyer came up to me, shook hands, and advised me to answer all the questions as briefly as possible, not to volunteer information, and to rely on him to see me through.
I heard a chair scrape on my left, and a tall, thin man wearing pince-nez settled the folds of his red gown as he took his seat. The Public Prosecutor, I gathered.
A clerk of the court announced that Their Honors were entering, and at the same moment two big electric fans started buzzing overhead. Three judges, two in black and the third in scarlet, with brief cases under their arms, entered and walked briskly to the bench, which was several feet above the level of the courtroom floor.
The man in scarlet took the central, high-backed chair, placed his cap of office on the table, ran a handkerchief over his small bald crown, and announced that the hearing would now begin. The journalists had their fountain pens ready; they all wore the same expression of slightly ironical indifference, with the exception of one, a much younger man than his colleagues, in gray flannels with a blue tie, who, leaving his pen on the table, was gazing hard at me.
He had a plain, rather chunky face; what held my attention were his eyes, very pale, clear eyes, riveted on me, though not betraying any definite emotion. For a moment I had an odd impression, as if I were being scrutinized by myself. Next, the Judge announced that the court would call over the witness list. Some of the names read out by the clerk rather surprised me. As he rose, I noticed beside him the quaint little woman with a mannish coat and brisk, decided air, who had shared my table at the restaurant.
She had her eyes fixed on me, I noticed. He said that the trial proper was about to begin, and he need hardly say that he expected the public to refrain from any demonstration whatsoever. He explained that he was there to supervise the proceedings, as a sort of umpire, and he would take a scrupulously impartial view of the case. The verdict of the jury would be interpreted by him in a spirit of justice. Finally, at the least sign of a disturbance he would have the court cleared.
The day was stoking up. Some of the public were fanning themselves with newspapers, and there was a constant rustle of crumpled paper. On a sign from the presiding judge the clerk of the court brought three fans of plaited straw, which the three judges promptly put in action.
My examination began at once. The Judge questioned me quite calmly and even, I thought, with a hint of cordiality. For the nth time I was asked to give particulars of my identity and, though heartily sick of this formality, I realized that it was natural enough; after all, it would be a shocking thing for the court to be trying the wrong man.
It was a long business, as the Judge lingered on each detail. Meanwhile the journalists scribbled busily away. But I was sometimes conscious of the eyes of the youngest fixed on me; also those of the queer little robot woman. The jurymen, however, were all gazing at the red-robed judge, and I was again reminded of the row of passengers on one side of a tram.
Presently he gave a slight cough, turned some pages of his file, and, still fanning his face, addressed me gravely. He now proposed, he said, to trench on certain matters which, on a superficial view, might seem foreign to the case, but actually were highly relevant. I guessed that he was going to talk about Mother, and at the same moment realized how odious I would find this. His first question was: Why had I sent my mother to an institution?
I explained that neither Mother nor I expected much of one another—or, for that matter, of anybody else; so both of us had got used to the new conditions easily enough. I said it was a matter of pure chance. That will be all for the present. Anyhow, after some palavering among the bench, the Prosecutor, and my counsel, the presiding judge announced that the court would now rise; there was an adjournment till the afternoon, when evidence would be taken. Almost before I knew what was happening I was rushed out to the prison van, which drove me back, and I was given my midday meal.
After a short time, just enough for me to realize how tired I was feeling, they came for me. I was back in the same room, confronting the same faces, and the whole thing started again. But the heat had meanwhile much increased, and by some miracle fans had been procured for everyone: the jury, my lawyer, the Prosecutor, and some of the journalists, too. The young man and the robot woman were still at their places. But they were not fanning themselves and, as before, they never took their eyes off me.
I wiped the sweat from my face, but I was barely conscious of where or who I was until I heard the warden of the Home called to the witness box. To another question he replied that on the day of the funeral he was somewhat surprised by my calmness. Another thing had surprised him.
I am bound to put it. I have all I want. I had a foolish desire to burst into tears. On stepping into the box the man threw a glance at me, then looked away. It was then I felt a sort of wave of indignation spreading through the courtroom, and for the first time I understood that I was guilty.
They got the doorkeeper to repeat what he had said about the coffee and my smoking. The Prosecutor turned to me again, with a gloating look in his eyes.
But the Prosecutor took strong exception to this. Or does my friend think that by aspersing a witness for the prosecution he will shake the evidence, the abundant and cogent evidence, against his client? The old fellow fidgeted a bit. My lawyer was exultant. And they will draw the conclusion that, though a third party might inadvertently offer him a cup of coffee, the prisoner, in common decency, should have refused it, if only out of respect for the dead body of the poor woman who had brought him into the world.
Far too much upset to notice things. My grief sort of blinded me, I think. No attempt is being made to elicit the true facts. There was a break of five minutes, during which my lawyer told me the case was going very well indeed. He was announced as a witness for the defense. The defense meant me.
He was in his best suit, the one he wore when sometimes of a Sunday he went with me to the races. But the bills were just details-like, between him and me. He placed his hands on the rail of the box and one could see he had a speech all ready. And a thing like that takes you off your guard.
They told him to continue, but to make it brief. You can stand down. His eyes were moist and his lips trembling. During the rest of the hearing he remained there, leaning forward, elbows on knees and his Panama between his hands, not missing a word of the proceedings. She had a hat on and still looked quite pretty, though I much preferred her with her hair free. From where I was I had glimpses of the soft curve of her breasts, and her underlip had the little pout that always fascinated me.
She appeared very nervous. The first question was: How long had she known me? Since the time when she was in our office, she replied. Then the Judge asked her what were the relations between us, and she said she was my girl friend.
Answering another question, she admitted promising to marry me. She gave the date. He then informed the court that, as a result of certain statements made by Marie at the proceedings before the magistrate, he had studied the movie programs of that date, and turning to Marie asked her to name the film that we had gone to see.
In a very low voice she said it was a picture with Fernandel in it. By the time she had finished, the courtroom was so still you could have heard a pin drop. That is all I wish to say. Then all of a sudden Marie burst into tears. At a sign from the presiding judge, one of the court officers led her away, and the hearing continued. Hardly anyone seemed to listen to Masson, the next witness. He was told to stand down. Raymond was the next, and last, witness.
He gave me a little wave of his hand and led off by saying I was innocent. The Judge rebuked him. The judge asked him if the deceased had no reason to dislike me, too. Raymond told him that my presence on the beach that morning was a pure coincidence. In conclusion he asked Raymond to state what were his means of livelihood.
On his describing himself as a warehouseman, the Prosecutor informed the jury it was common knowledge that the witness lived on the immoral earnings of women. And what made it even more odious was the personality of the prisoner, an inhuman monster wholly without a moral sense.
Raymond began to expostulate, and my lawyer, too, protested. They were told that the Prosecutor must be allowed to finish his remarks. We were the best of pals, as they say. I looked hard at Raymond, and he did not turn away. The Prosecutor turned toward the jury. He killed a man cold- bloodedly, in pursuance of some sordid vendetta in the underworld of prostitutes and pimps.
That, gentlemen of the jury, is the type of man the prisoner is. There were some titters in court. They hung together psychologically, if he might put it so. My lawyer merely shrugged his shoulders and wiped the sweat from his forehead. Soon after this incident the court rose. As I was being taken from the courthouse to the prison van, I was conscious for a few brief moments of the once familiar feel of a summer evening out-of-doors.
Yes, this was the evening hour when—how long ago it seemed! Then, what awaited me was a night of easy, dreamless sleep. This was the same hour, but with a difference; I was returning to a cell, and what awaited me was a night haunted by forebodings of the coming day. And so I learned that familiar paths traced in the dusk of summer evenings may lead as well to prisons as to innocent, untroubled sleep.
And certainly in the speeches of my lawyer and the prosecuting counsel a great deal was said about me; more, in fact, about me personally than about my crime.
Counsel for the defense raised his arms to heaven and pleaded guilty, but with extenuating circumstances. The Prosecutor made similar gestures; he agreed that I was guilty, but denied extenuating circumstances. One thing about this phase of the trial was rather irksome. Quite often, interested as I was in what they had to say, I was tempted to put in a word, myself.
But my lawyer had advised me not to. In any case, I must admit that hearing oneself talked about loses its interest very soon. The only things that really caught my attention were occasional phrases, his gestures, and some elaborate tirades—but these were isolated patches. What he was aiming at, I gathered, was to show that my crime was premeditated.
First, you have the facts of the crime; which are as clear as daylight. And then you have what I may call the night side of this case, the dark workings of a criminal mentality. It seemed to me that his way of treating the facts showed a certain shrewdness. All he said sounded quite plausible.
After the first shot I waited. I emphasize this point. We are not concerned with an act of homicide committed on a sudden impulse which might serve as extenuation. I ask you to note, gentlemen of the jury, that the prisoner is an educated man.
You will have observed the way in which he answered my questions; he is intelligent and he knows the value of words. And I repeat that it is quite impossible to assume that, when he committed the crime, he was unaware what he was doing. Not one word, gentlemen. Not once in the course of these proceedings did this man show the least contrition. Of course, in the position into which I had been forced, there was no question of my speaking to anyone in that tone.
We cannot blame a man for lacking what it was never in his power to acquire. But in a criminal court the wholly passive ideal of tolerance must give place to a sterner, loftier ideal, that of justice.
Especially when this lack of every decent instinct is such as that of the man before you, a menace to society. But he spoke at much greater length of my crime—at such length, indeed, that I lost the thread and was conscious only of the steadily increasing heat. But, he ventured to hope, justice would be meted out without paltering. And yet, he made bold to say, the horror that even the crime of parricide inspired in him paled beside the loathing inspired by my callousness.
And, indeed, the one crime led on to the other; the first of these two criminals, the man in the dock, set a precedent, if I may put it so, and authorized the second crime. And I look to you for a verdict accordingly. He then explained that his duty was a painful one, but he would do it without flinching. Nor, heartless as he is, has he any claim to mercy.
I ask you to impose the extreme penalty of the law; and I ask it without a qualm. In demanding a verdict of murder without extenuating circumstances, I am following not only the dictates of my conscience and a sacred obligation, but also those of the natural and righteous indignation I feel at the sight of a criminal devoid of the least spark of human feeling.
Personally I was quite overcome by the heat and my amazement at what I had been hearing. The presiding judge gave a short cough, and asked me in a very low tone if I had anything to say. The Judge replied that this statement would be taken into consideration by the court. Meanwhile he would be glad to hear, before my counsel addressed the court, what were the motives of my crime. I tried to explain that it was because of the sun, but I spoke too quickly and ran my words into each other.
I was only too conscious that it sounded nonsensical, and, in fact, I heard people tittering. My lawyer shrugged his shoulders. Then he was directed to address the court, in his turn. But all he did was to point out the lateness of the hour and to ask for an adjournment till the following afternoon. To this the judge agreed. When I was brought back next day, the electric fans were still churning up the heavy air and the jurymen plying their gaudy little fans in a sort of steady rhythm.
The speech for the defense seemed to me interminable. It seemed so queer that I bent toward the policeman on my right and asked him to explain. He hurried through his plea of provocation, and then he, too, started in about my soul. But I had an impression that he had much less talent than the Prosecutor. According to him I was a dutiful son, who had supported his mother as long as he was able. Surely if proof be needed of the excellence of such institutions, we need only remember that they are promoted and financed by a government department.
Only one incident stands out; toward the end, while my counsel rambled on, I heard the tin trumpet of an ice-cream vendor in the street, a small, shrill sound cutting across the flow of words. The futility of what was happening here seemed to take me by the throat, I felt like vomiting, and I had only one idea: to get it over, to go back to my cell, and sleep I will definitely recommend this book to classics, fiction lovers.
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