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Maman died today. Or yesterday maybe, I don't know.
I got a telegram from the home: "Mother deceased .
Funeral tomorrow. Faithfully yours." That doesn't mean
anything. Maybe it was yesterday.
The old people's home is at Marengo, about eighty kilometers from Algiers, I'll take the two o'clock bus and
get there in the afternoon. That way I can be there for the
vigil and come back tomorrow night. I asked my boss for
two days off and there was no way he was going to re
fuse me with an excuse like that. But he wasn't too
happy about it. I even said, "It's not my fault." He didn't
say anything. Then I thought I shouldn't have said that.
After all, I didn't have anything to apologize for. He's
the one who should have offered his condolences. But he
probably will day after tomorrow, when he sees I'm in
mourning. For now, it's almost as if Maman weren't dead.
After the funeral, though, the case will be closed, and
everything will have a more official feel to it.
I caught the two o'clock bus. It was very hot. I ate
at the restaurant, at Celeste's, as usual. Everybody felt
very sorry for me, and Celeste said, "You only have one
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mother." When I left, they walked me to the door. I
was a little distracted because I still had to go up to
Emmanuel's place to borrow a black tie and an arm band.
He lost his uncle a few months back.
I ran so as not to miss the bus. It was probably be
cause of all the rushing around, and on top of that the
bumpy ride, the smell of gasoline, and the glare of the
sky and the road, that I dozed off. I slept almost
the whole way. And when I woke up, I was slumped
against a soldier who smiled at me and asked if I'd been
traveling long. I said, "Yes," just so I wouldn't have to
say anything else.
The home is two kilometers from the village. I walked
them. I wanted to see Maman right away. But the care
taker told me I had to see the director first. He was busy,
so I waited awhile. The caretaker talked the whole time
and then I saw the director. I was shown into his office.
He was a little old man with the ribbon of the Legion
of Honor in his lapel. He looked at me with his clear
eyes. Then he shook my hand and held it so long I
didn't know how to get it loose. He thumbed through
a file and said, "Madame Meursault came to us three
years ago. You were her sole support." I thought he was
criticizing me for something and I started to explain.
But he cut me off. "You don't have to justify yourself,
my dear boy. I've read your mother's file. You weren't
able to provide for her properly. She needed someone to
look after her. You earn only a modest salary. And the
truth of the matter is, she was happier here." I said,
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"Yes, sir." He added, "You see, she had friends here,
people her own age. She was able to share things from
the old days with them. You're young, and it must have
been hard for her with you."
I t was true. When she was at home with me, Maman
used to spend her time following me with her eyes, not
saying a thing. For the first few days she was at the home
she cried a lot. But that was because she wasn't used to
it. A few months later and she would have cried if she'd
been taken out. She was used to it. That's partly why I
didn't go there much this past year. And also because it
took up my Sunday-not to mention the trouble of
getting to the bus, buying tickets, and spending two hours
traveling.
The director spoke to me again. But I wasn't really
listening anymore. Then he said, "I suppose you'd like
to see your mother." I got up without saying anything
and he led the way to the door. On the way downstairs, he
explained, "We've moved her to our little mortuary. So
as not to upset the others. Whenever one of the residents
dies, the others are a bit on edge for the next two or
three days. And that makes it difficult to care for them."
We crossed a courtyard where there were lots of old
people chatting in little groups. As we went by, the talk
ing would stop . And then the conversation would start
up again behind us. The sound was like the muffied
jabber of parakeets. The director stopped at the door of
a small building. ''I'll leave you now, Monsieur Meur
sault. If you need me for anything, I'll be in my office.
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As is usually the case, the funeral is set for ten o'clock in
the morning. This way you'll be able to keep vigil over
the departed. One last thing : it seems your mother
often expressed to her friends her desire for a religious
burial. I've taken the liberty of making the necessary
arrangements. But I wanted to let you know." I thanked
him. While not an atheist, Maman had never in her life
given a thought to religion.
I went in. It was a very bright, whitewashed room
with a skylight for a roof. The furniture consisted of
some chairs and some cross-shaped sawhorses. Two of
them, in the middle of the room, were supporting a
closed casket. All you could see were some shiny screws,
not screwed down all the way, standing out against the
walnut-stained planks. Near the casket was an Arab
nurse in a white smock, with a brightly colored scarf on
her head.
Just then the caretaker came in behind me. He must
have been running. He stuttered a little. "We put the
cover on, but I'm supposed to unscrew the casket so you
can see her." He was moving toward the casket when I
stopped him. He said, "You don't want to?" I answered, "No." He was quiet, and I was embarrassed because I
felt I shouldn't have said that. He looked at me and then
asked, "Why not?" but without criticizing, as if he just
wanted to know. I said, "I don't know." He started twirl
ing his moustache, and then without looking at me, again
he said, "I understand." He had nice pale blue eyes and
a reddish complexion. He offered me a chair and then
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sat down right behind me. The nurse stood up and went
toward the door. At that point the caretaker said to me,
"She's got an abscess." I didn't understand , so I looked
over at the nurse and saw that she had a bandage
wrapped around her head just below the eyes. Where
her nose should have been, the bandage was Bat. All
you could see of her face was the whiteness of the ban
dage.
When she'd gone, the caretaker said, ''I'll leave you
alone." I don't know what kind of gesture I made, but
he stayed where he was, behind me. Having this presence
breathing down my neck was starting to annoy me. The
room was filled with beautiful late-afternoon sunlight.
Two hornets were buzzing against the glass roof. I
could feel myself getting sleepy. Without turning around,
I said to the caretaker, "Have you been here long?"
Right away he answered, "Five years"-as if he'd been
waiting all along for me to ask.
After that he did a lot of talking. He would have been
very surprised if anyone had told him he would end up
caretaker at the M arengo home. He was sixty-four and
came from Paris. At that point I interrupted him. "Oh,
you're not from around here?" Then I remembered that
before taking me to the director's office, he had talked
to me about Maman. He'd told me that they had to
bury her quickly, because it gets hot in the plains, espe
cially in this part of the country. That was when he told
me he had lived in Paris and that he had found it hard
to forget it. In Paris they keep vigil over the body for
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three, sometimes four days. But here you barely have
time to get used to the idea before you have to start
running after the hearse. Then his wife had said to him,
"Hush now, that's not the sort of thing to be telling the
gentleman." The old man had blushed and apologized.
I'd stepped in and said, "No, not at all." I thought what
he'd been saying was interesting and made sense.
In the little mortuary he told me that he'd come to
the horne because he was destitute. He was in good
health, so he'd offered to take on the job of caretaker. I
pointed out that even so he was still a resident. He said
no, he wasn't. I'd already been struck by the way he
had of saying "they" or "the others" and, less often, "the
old people," talking about the patients, when some of
them weren't any older than he was. But of course it
wasn't the same. He was the caretaker, and to a certain
extent he had authority over them.
Just then the nurse carne in. Night had fallen sud
denly. Darkness had gathered, quickly, above the sky
light. The caretaker turned the switch and I was blinded
by the sudden Bash of light. He suggested I go to the
dining hall for dinner. But I wasn't hungry. Then he
offered to bring me a cup of coffee with milk. I like milk
in my coffee, so I said yes, and he carne back a few
minutes later with a tray. I drank the coffee. Then I felt
like having a smoke. But I hesitated, because I didn't
know if I could do it with Marnan right there. I thought
about it; it didn't matter. I offered the caretaker a ciga
rette and we smoked.
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At one point he said, "You know, your mother's
friends will be coming to keep vigil too. It's customary.
I have to go get some chairs and some black coffee." I
asked him if he could tum off one of the lights. The
glare on the white walls was making me drowsy. He said
he couldn't. That was how they'd been wired : it was all
or nothing. I didn't pay too much attention to him after
that. He left, came back, set up some chairs. On one of
them he stacked some cups around a coffee pot. Then
he sat down across from me, on the other side of Maman.
The nurse was on that side of the room too, but with'
her back to me. I couldn't see what she was doing. But
the way her arms were moving made me think she was
knitting. It was pleasant; the coffee had warmed me
up, and the smell of Rowers on the night air was coming
through the open door. I think I dozed off for a while.
It was a rustling sound that woke me up. Because
I'd had my eyes closed, the whiteness of the room seemed
even brighter than before. There wasn't a shadow any
where in front of me, and every object, every angle and
curve stood out so sharply it made my eyes hurt. That's
when Maman's friends came in. There were about ten
in all, and they Boated into the blinding light without a
sound. They sat down without a single chair creaking. I
saw them more clearly than I had ever seen anyone, and
not one detail of their faces or their clothes escaped me.
But I couldn't hear them, and it was hard for me to be
lieve they really existed. Almost all the women were
wearing aprons, and the strings, which were tied tight
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around their waists, made their bulging stomachs stick
out even more. I'd never noticed what huge stomachs
old women can have. Almost all the men were skinny
and carried canes. What struck me most about their
faces was that I couldn't see their eyes, just a faint
glimmer in a nest of wrinkles. When they'd sat down,
most of them looked at me and nodded awkwardly, their
lips sucked in by their toothless mouths, so that I couldn't
tell if they were greeting me or if it was just a nervous
tic. I think they were greeting me. It was then that I
realized they were all sitting across from me, nodding
their heads, grouped around the caretaker. For a second
I had the ridiculous feeling that they were there to judge
me.
Soon one of the women started crying. She was in
the second row, hidden behind one of her companions,
and I couldn't see her very well. She was crying softly,
steadily, in little sobs. I thought she'd never stop. The
others seemed not to hear her. They sat there hunched
up, gloomy and silent. They would look at the casket,
their canes, or whatever else, but that was all theyor
would look at. The woman kept on crying. It surprised
me, because I didn't know who she was. I wished I
didn't have to listen to her anymore. But I didn't dare
say anything. The caretaker leaned over and said some
thing to her, but she shook her head, mumbled some
thing, and went on crying as much as before. Then the
caretaker came around to my side. He sat down next to
me. After a long pause he explained, without looking at
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me, "She was very close to your mother. She says your
mother was her only friend and now she hasn't got any-
" one.
We just sat there like that for quite a while. The
woman's sighs and sobs were quieting down. She sniffled
a lot. Then finally she shut up. I didn't feel drowsy
anymore, but I was tired and my back was hurting me.
Now it was all these people not making a sound that
was getting on my nerves. Except that every now and
then I'd hear a strange noise and I couldn't figure out
what it was. Finally I realized that some of the old
people were sucking at the insides of their cheeks and
making these weird smacking noises. They were so lost
in their thoughts that they weren't even aware of it. I
even had the impression that the dead woman lying in
front of them didn't mean anything to them. But I think
now that that was a false impression.
We all had some coffee, served by the caretaker.
After that I don't know any more. The night passed. I
remember opening my eyes at one point and seeing that
all the old people were slumped over asleep, except for one
old man, with his chin resting on the back of his hands
wrapped around his cane, who was staring at me as if he
were just waiting for me to wake up. Then I dozed off
again. I woke up because my back was hurting more
and more. Dawn was creeping up over the skylight. Soon
afterwards, one of the old men woke up and coughed a
lot. He kept hacking into a large checkered handker
chief, and every cough was like a convulsion. He woke
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the others up, and the caretaker told them that they
ought to be going. They got up. The uncomfortable
vigil had left their faces ashen looking. On their way
out, and much to my surprise, they all shook my hand
as if that night during which we hadn't exchanged as
much as a single word had somehow brought us closer
together.
I was tired. The caretaker took me to his room and
I was able to clean up a little. I had some more coffee
and milk, which was very good. When I went outside,
the sun was up. Above the hills that separate Marengo
from the sea , the sky was streaked with red. And the
wind coming over the hills brought the smell of salt
with it. It was going to be a beautiful day. It had been
a long time since I'd been out in the country, and I
could feel how much I'd enjoy going for a walk if it
hadn't been for Maman.
But I waited in the courtyard, under a plane tree. I
breathed in the smell of fresh earth and I wasn't sleepy
anymore. I thought of the other guys at the office. They'd
be getting up to go to work about this time : for me that
was always the most difficult time of day. I thought about
those things a little more, but I was distracted by the
sound of a bell ringing inside the buildings. There was
some commotion behind the windows, then everything
quieted down again. The sun was now a little higher in
the sky : it was starting to warm my feet. The caretaker
came across the courtyard and told me that the director
was asking for me. I went to his office. He had me sign
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a number of documents. I noticed that he was dressed
in black with pin-striped trousers. He picked up the
telephone and turned to me. "The undertaker's men
arrived a few minutes ago. I'm going to ask them to seal
the casket. Before I do, would you like to see your
mother one last time?" I said no. He gave the order into
the telephone, lowering his voice: "Figeac, tell the men
they can go ahead."
After that he told me he would be attending the
funeral and I thanked him. He sat down behind his desk
and crossed his short legs. He informed me that he and
I would be the only ones there, apart from the nurse on
duty. The residents usually weren't allowed to attend
funerals. He only let them keep the vigil. "It's more
humane that way," he remarked. But in this case he'd
given one of mother's old friends-Thomas Perez
permission to join the funeral procession . At that the
director smiled. He said, "I'm sure you understand. It's
a rather childish sentiment. But he and your mother were
almost inseparable. The others used to tease them and
say, 'Perez has a fiancee.' He'd laugh. They enjoyed it.
And the truth is he's taking Madame Meursault's death
very hard. I didn't think I could rightfully refuse him
permission. But on the advice of our visiting physician,
I did not allow him to keep the vigil last night."
We didn't say anything for quite a long time. The
director stood up and looked out the window of his office.
A moment later he said, "Here's the priest from Marengo
already. He's early." He warned me that it would take at
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least three-quarters of an hour to walk to the church,
which is in the village itself. We went downstairs. Out
in front of the building stood the priest and two altar
boys. One of them was holding a censer, and the priest
was leaning toward him, adjusting the length of its silver
chain . As we approached, the priest straightened up . He
called me "my son" and said a few words to me. He went
inside; I followed.
I noticed right away that the screws on the casket
had been tightened and that there were four men wear
ing black in the room. The director \vas telling me that the
hearse was waiting out in the road and at the same time
I could hear the priest beginning his prayers. From then
on everything happened very quickly. The men moved
toward the casket with a pall. The priest, his acolytes, the
director and I all went outside. A woman I didn't know
was standing by the door. "Monsieur Meursault," the
director said. I didn't catch the woman's name; I just
understood that she was the nurse assigned by the home.
Without smiling she lowered her long, gaunt face. Then
we stepped aside to make way for the body. We fol
lowed the pall bearers and left the horne. Outside the
gate stood the hearse. Varnished, glossy, and oblong, it
reminded me of a pencil box. Next to it was the funeral
director, a little man in a ridiculous getup, and an awk
ward, embarrassed-looking old man . I realized that it was
Monsieur Perez. He was wearing a soft felt hat with a
round crown and a wide brim (he took it off as the
casket was coming through the gate), a suit with trousers
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that were corkscrewed down around his ankles, and a
black tie with a knot that was too small for the big white
collar of his shirt. His lips were trembling below a nose
dotted with blackheads. Strange, floppy, thick-rimmed
ears stuck out through his fine, white hair, and I was
struck by their blood-red color next to the pallor of his
face. The funeral director assigned us our places. First
came the priest, then the hearse. Flanking it, the four
men . Behind it, the director and myself and, bringing up
the rear, the nurse and Monsieur Perez.
The sky was already filled with light. The sun was
beginning to bear down on the earth and it was getting
hotter by the minute. I don't know why we waited so
long before getting under way. I was hot in my dark
clothes. The li ttle old man, who had put his hat back on,
took it off again . I turned a little in his direction and
was looking at him when the director started talking to
me about him. He told me that my mother and Monsieur
Perez often used to walk down to the village together in
the evenings, accompanied by a nurse. I was looking at
the countryside around me. Seeing the rows of cypress
trees leading up to the hills next to the sky, and the
houses standing out here and there against that red
and green earth, I was able to understand Maman better.
Evenings in that part of the coun try must have been a
kind of sad relief. But today, with the sun bearing down,
making the whole landscape shimmer with heat, it was in
human and oppressive.
We got under way. It was then that I noticed that
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Perez had a slight limp. Little by little, the hearse was
picking up speed and the old man was losing ground.
One of the men Banking the hearse had also dropped
back and was now even with me. I was surprised at
how fast the sun was climbing in the sky. I noticed that
for quite some time the countryside had been buzzing
with the sound of insects and the crackling of grass. The
sweat was pouring down my face. I wasn't wearing a
hat, so I fanned myself with my handkerchief. The man
from the undertaker's said something to me then which
I missed. He was lifting the edge of his cap with his
right hand and wiping his head with a handkerchief
with his left at the same time. I said, "What?" He pointed
up at the sky and repeated, "Pretty hot." I said, "Yes."
A minute later he asked, "Is that your mother in there?"
Again I said, "Yes." "Was she old?" I answered, "Fairly,"
because I didn't know the exact number. After that he
was quiet. I turned around and saw old Perez about fifty
meters behind us. He was going as fast as he could, swing
ing his felt hat at the end of his arm. I looked at the
director, too. He was walking with great dignity, without
a single wasted motion. A few beads of sweat were form
ing on his forehead, but he didn't wipe them off.
The procession seemed to me to be moving a little
faster. All around me there was still the same glowing
countryside Hooded with sunlight. The glare from the
sky was unbearable. At one point, we went over a section
of the road that had just been repaved. The tar had
burst open in the sun. Our feet sank into it, leaving its
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shiny pulp exposed. Sticking up above the top of the
hearse, the coachman's hard leather hat looked as if it
had been molded out of the same black mud. I felt a
little lost between the blue and white of the sky and the
monotony of the colors around me-the sticky black of
the tar, the dull black of all the clothes, and the shiny
black of the hearse. All of it-the sun, the smell of leather
and horse dung from the hearse, the smell of varnish and
incense, and my fatigue after a night without sleep-was
making it hard for me to see or think straight. I turned
around again : Perez seemed to be way back there, fading
in the shimmering heat. Then I lost sight of him alto
gether. I looked around and saw that he'd left the road
and cut out across the fields. I also noticed there was a
bend in the road up ahead . I realized that Perez, who
knew the country, was taking a short cut in order to catch
up with us. By the time we rounded the bend, he was
back with us. Then we lost him again . He set off cross
country once more, and so it went on. I could feel the
blood pounding in my temples.
After that, everything seemed to happen so fast, so
deliberately, so naturally that I don't remember any of
it anymore. Except for one thing : as we entered the
village, the nurse spoke to me. She had a remarkable
voice which didn't go with her face at all, a melodious,
quavering voice. She said, "If you go slowly, you risk
getting sunstroke . But if you go too fast, you work up
a sweat and then catch a chill inside the church ." She
was right. There was no way out. Several other images
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from that day have stuck in my mind : for instance,
Perez's face when he caught up with us for the last time,
j ust outside the village. Big tears of frustration and ex
haustion were streaming down his cheeks. But because
all the wrinkles, they weren't dripping off. Theyof
spread out and ran together again, leaving a watery film
over his ruined face. Then there was the church and
the villagers on the sidewalks, the red geraniums on the
graves in the cemetery, Perez fainting (he crumpled like
a rag doll), the blood-red earth spilling over Maman's
casket, the white flesh of the roots mixed in with it, more
people, voices, the village, waiting in front of a cafe, the
incessant drone of the motor, and my joy when the bus
entered the nest of lights that was Algiers and I knew I
was going to go to bed and sleep for twelve hours.
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