3
But I can honestly say that the time from summer to
summer went very quickly. And I knew as soon as the
weather turned hot that something new was in store for
me. My case was set down for the last session of the
Court of Assizes, and that session was due to end some
time in June. The trial opened with the sun glaring out
side. My lawyer had assured me that it wouldn't last more
than two or three days. "Besides," he had added, "the
court will be pressed for time. Yours isn't the most im
portant case of the session. Right after you, there's a
parricide corning up."
They carne for me at seven-thirty in the morning and
I was driven to the courthouse in the prison van. The
two policemen took me into a small room that smelled
of darkness. We waited, seated near a door through
which we could hear voices, shouts, chairs being dragged
across the Roor, and a lot of commotion which made me
think of those neighborhood fetes when the hall is
cleared for dancing after the concert. The policemen
told me we had to wait for the judges and one of them
offered me a cigarette, which I turned down. Shortly
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after that he asked me if I had the "jitters." I said no
and that, in a way, I was even interested in seeing a trial.
I'd never had the chance before. "Yeah," said the other
policeman, "but it gets a little boring after a while."
A short time later a small bell rang in the room.
Then they took my handcuffs off. They opened the door
and led me into the dock. The room was packed.
Despite the blinds, the sun filtered through in places
and the air was already stifling. They hadn't opened the
windows. I sat down with the policemen standing on
either side of me. It was then that I noticed a row of
faces in front of me. They were all looking at me : I
realized that they were the jury. But I can't say what
distinguished one from another. I had just one im
pression : I was sitting across from a row of seats on a
streetcar and all these anonymous passengers were look
ing over the new arrival to see if they could find some
thing funny about him. I knew it was a silly idea since it
wasn't anything funny they were after but a crime.
There isn't much difference, though-in any case that
was the idea that came to me.
I was feeling a little dizzy too, with all those people
in that stuffy room. I looked around the courtroom again
but I couldn't make out a single face. I think that at
first I hadn't realized that all those people were crowding
in to see me. Usually people didn't pay much attention
to me. It took some doing on my part to understand that
I was the cause of all the excitement. I said to the police
man, "Some crowd!" He told me it was because of the
� T H E S T R A N G E R �
press and he pointed to a group of men at a table just
below the jury box. He said, "That's them." I asked,
"Who?" and he repeated, "The press." He knew one of
the reporters, who just then spotted him and was making
his way toward us. He was an older, friendly man with
a twisted little grin on his face. He gave the policeman a
warm handshake. I noticed then that everyone was
waving and exchanging greetings and talking, as if they
were in a club where people are glad to find themselves
among others from the same world. That is how I ex
plained to myself the strange impression I had of being
odd man out, a kind of intruder. Yet the reporter turned
and spoke to me with a smile. He told me that he hoped
everything would go well for me. I thanked him and
he added, "You know, we've blown your case up a little.
Summer is the slow season for the news. And your story
and the parricide were the only ones worth bothering
about." Then he pointed in the direction of the group
he had just left, at a little man who looked like a
fattened-up weasel. He told me that the man was a
special correspondent for a Paris paper. "Actually, he
didn't come because of you. But since they assigned him
to cover the parricide trial, they asked him to send a dis
patch about your case at the same time." And again I
almost thanked him . But I thought that that would be
ridiculous. He waved cordially, shyly, and left us. We
waited a few more minutes.
My lawyer arrived, in his gown, surrounded by lots
of colleagues. He walked over to the reporters and shook
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some hands. They joked and laughed and looked com
pletely at ease, until the moment when the bell in the
court rang. Everyone went back to his place. My lawyer
walked over to me, shook my hand, and advised me to
respond brieRy to the questions that would be put to me,
not to volunteer anything, and to leave the rest to him.
To my left I heard the sound of a chair being pulled
out and I saw a tall, thin man dressed in red and wear
ing a pince-nez who was carefully folding his robe as he
sat down. That was the prosecutor. A bailiff said, "All
rise." At the same time two large fans started to whir.
Three judges, two in black, the third in red, entered with
files in hand and walked briskly to the rostrum which
dominated the room. The man in the red gown sat on
the chair in the middle, set his cap down in front of him,
wiped his bald little head with a handkerchief, and an
nounced that the court was now in session.
The reporters already had their pens in hand. They
all had the same indifferent and somewhat snide look on
their faces. One of them, however, much younger than
the others, wearing gray flannels and a blue tie, had left
his pen lying in front of him and was looking at me. All
I could see in his slightly lopsided face were his two
very bright eyes, which were examining me closely
without betraying any definable emotion. And I had the
odd impression of being watched by myself. Maybe it
was for that reason , and also because I wasn't familiar
with all the procedures, that I didn't quite understand
everything that happened next : the drawing of lots for
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the jury; the questions put by the presiding judge to my
lawyer, the prosecutor, and the jury (each time, the
jurors' heads would all turn toward the bench at the
same time); the quick reading of the indictment, in
which I recognized names of people and places; and
some more questions to my lawyer.
Anyway, the presiding judge said he was going to
proceed with the calling of witnesses. The bailiff read off
some names that caught my attention. In the middle of
what until then had been a shapeless mass of spectators,
I saw them stand up one by one, only to disappear
again through a side door : the director and the caretaker
from the home, old Thomas Perez, Raymond, Masson,
Salamano, and Marie. She waved to me, anxiously. I
was still feeling surprised that I hadn't seen them before
when Celeste, the last to be called, stood up. I recog
nized next to him the little woman from the restaurant,
with her jacket and her stiff and determined manner.
She was staring right at me. But I didn't have time to
think about them, because the presiding judge started
speaking. He said that the formal proceedings were
about to begin and that he didn't think he needed to
remind the public to remain silent. According to him,
he was there to conduct in an impartial manner the pro
ceedings of a case which he would consider objectively.
The verdict returned by the jury would be taken in a
spirit of justice, and, in any event, he would have the
courtroom cleared at the slightest disturbance.
It was getting hotter, and I could see the people in
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the courtroom fanning themselves with newspapers,
which made a continuous low rustling sound. The
presiding judge gave a signal and the bailiff brought
over three fans made of woven straw which the three
judges started waving immediately.
My examination began right away. The presiding
judge questioned me calmly and even, it seemed to me,
with a hint of cordiality. Once again he had me state
my name, age, date and place of birth, and although it
irritated me, I realized it was only natural, because it
would be a very serious thing to try the wrong man. Then
he reread the narrative of what I'd done, turning to me
every few sentences to ask "Is that correct?" Each time
answered "Yes, Your Honor," as my lawyer had inI
structed me to do. It took a long time because the
judge went into minute detail in his narrative. The
reporters were writing the whole time. I was conscious
of being watched by the youngest of them and by
the little robot woman. Everyone on the row of streetcar
seats was turned directly toward the judge, who coughed ,
leafed through his file, and turned toward me, fanning
himself.
He told me that he now had to turn to some ques
tions that might seem irrelevant to my case but might in
fact have a significant bearing on it. I knew right away
he was going to talk about Maman again, and at the
same time I could feel how much it irritated me. He
asked me wh) I had put Maman in the home. I answered
that it was because I didn't have the money to have her
o T H E S T R A N G E R 0
looked after and cared for. He asked me if it had been
hard on me, and I answered that Marnan and I didn't
expect anything from each other anymore, or from any
one else either, and that we had both gotten used to our
new lives. The judge then said that he didn't want to
dwell on this point, and he asked the prosecutor if he had
any further questions.
The prosecutor had his back half-turned to me, and
without looking at me he stated that, with the court's
permission, he would like to know whether I had gone
back to the spring by myself intending to kill the Arab.
"No," I said. Well, then, why was I armed and why
did I return to precisely that spot? I said it just happened
that way. And the prosecutor noted in a nasty voice,
"That will be all for now." After that things got a little
confused, at least for me. But after some conferring, the
judge announced that the hearing was adjourned until
the afternoon, at which time the witnesses would be
heard.
I didn't even have time to think. I was taken out,
put into the van, and driven to the prison, where I had
something to eat. After a very short time, just long
enough for me to realize I was tired, they carne back
for me; the whole thing started again, and I found
myself in the same courtroom, in front of the same
faces. Only it was much hotter, and as if by some
miracle each member of the jury, the prosecutor, my
lawyer, and some of the reporters, too, had been pro
vided with straw fans. The young reporter and the little
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robot woman were still there. They weren't fanning
themselves, but they were still watching me without
saying a word.
I wiped away the sweat covering my face, and I had
barely become aware of where I was and what I was
doing when I heard the director of the home being
called. He was asked whether Marnan ever complained
about me, and he said yes but that some of it was just a
way the residents all had of complaining about their
relatives. The judge had him clarify whether she used
to reproach me for having put her in the horne, and the
director again said yes. But this time he didn't add any
thing else. To another question he replied that he had
been surprised by my calm the day of the funeral. He
was asked what he meant by "calm." The director then
looked down at the tips of his shoes and said that I
hadn't wanted to see Marnan, that I hadn't cried once, · and that I had left right after the funeral without pay
ing my last respects at her grave. And one other thing
had surprised him : one of the men who worked for the
undertaker had told him I didn't know how old Marnan
was. There was a brief silence, and then the j udge
asked him if he was sure I was the man he had just been
speaking of. The director didn't understand the question,
so the judge told him, "It's a formality." He then asked
the prosecutor if he had any questions to put to the
witness, and the prosecutor exclaimed, "Oh no, that is
quite sufficient!" with such glee and with such a tri
umphant look in my direction that for the first time in
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years I had this stupid urge to cry, because I could feel
how much all these people hated me.
After asking the jury and my lawyer if they had any
questions, the judge called the caretaker. The same
ritual was repeated for him as for all the others. As he
took the stand the caretaker glanced at me and then
looked away. He answered the questions put to him. He
said I hadn't wanted to see Maman, that I had smoked
and slept some, and that I had had some coffee. It was
then I felt a stirring go through the room and for the
first time I realized that I was guilty. The caretaker was
asked to repeat the part about the coffee and the cigarette.
The prosecutor looked at me with an ironic gleam in his
eye. At that point my lawyer asked the caretaker if it
wasn't true that he had smoked a cigarette with me. But
the prosecutor objected vehemently to this question .
"Who is on trial here and what kind of tactics are these,
trying to taint the witnesses for the prosecution in an
effort to detract from testimony that remains nonethe
less overwhelming!" In spite of all that, the judge directed
the caretaker to answer the question . The old man
looked embarrassed and said, "I know I was wrong to do
it. But I couldn't refuse the cigarette when monsieur
offered it to me." Lastly, I was asked if I had anything to
add. "Nothing," I said, "except that the witness is right.
It's true, I did offer him a cigarette." The caretaker gave
me a surprised and somehow grateful look. He hesitated
and then he said that he was the one who offered me
the coffee. My lawyer was exultant and stated loudly that
0 T H E S T R A N G E R 0
the jury would take note of the fact. But the prosecutor
shouted over our heads and said, "Indeed, the gentlemen
of the jury will take note of the fact. And they will
conclude that a stranger may offer a cup of coffee, but
that beside the body of the one who brought him into the
world, a son should have refused it." The caretaker went
back to his bench.
When Thomas Perez's turn came, a bailiff had to
hold him up and help him get to the witness stand.
Perez said it was really my mother he had known and
that he had seen me only once, on the day of the funeral.
He was asked how I had acted that day and he replied,
"You understand, I was too sad. So I didn't see anything.
My sadness made it impossible to see anything. Be
cause for me it was a very great sadness. And I even
fainted. So I wasn't able to see monsieur." The prosecu
tor asked him if he had at least seen me cry. Perez
answered no. The prosecutor in turn said, "The gentle
men of the jury will take note." But my lawyer got
angry. He asked Perez in what seemed to be an exag
gerated tone of voice if he had seen me not cry. Perez
said, "No." The spectators laughed. And my lawyer,
rolling up one of his sleeves, said with finality, "Here
we have a perfect reflection of this entire trial : everything
is true and nothing is true! " The prosecutor had a blank
expression on his face, and with a pencil he was poking
holes in the title page of his case file.
After a five-minute recess, during which my lawyer
told me that everything was working out for the best, we
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heard the testimony of Celeste, who was called by the
defense. "The defense" meant me. Every now and then
Celeste would glance over in my direction and rotate
his panama hat in his hands. He was wearing the new
suit he used to put on to go with me to the races some
times on Sundays. But I think he must not have been
able to get his collar on, because he only had a brass
stud keeping his shirt fastened. He was asked if I was
a customer of his and he said, "Yes, but he was also a
friend"; what he thought of me, and he answered that I
was a man; what he meant by that, and he stated that
everybody knew what that meant; if he had noticed that
I was ever withdrawn, and all he would admit was that
I didn't speak unless I had something to say. The prosecu
tor asked him if I kept up with my bill. Celeste laughed
and said, "Between us those were just details." He was
again asked what he thought about my crime. He put his
hands on the edge of the box, and you could tell he had
something prepared. He said, "The way I see it, it's bad
luck. Everybody knows what bad luck is. It leaves you
defenseless. And there it is! The way I see it, it's bad
luck." He was about to go on, but the judge told him
that that would be all and thanked him. Celeste was a
little taken aback. But he stated that he had more to say.
He was asked to be brief. He again repeated that it was
bad luck. And the judge said, "Yes, fine. But we are here
to judge just this sort of bad luck. Thank you." And
as if he had reached the end of both his knowledge and
his goodwill, Celeste then turned toward me. It looked
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to me as if his eyes were glistening and his lips were
trembling. He seemed to be asking me what else he
could do. I said nothing; I made no gesture of any kind,
but it was the first time in my life I ever wanted to kiss
a man. The judge again instructed him to step down.
Celeste went and sat among the spectators. He sat there
throughout the entire trial, leaning forward, his elbows on
his knees, the panama hat in his hands, listening to
everything that was said.
Marie entered. She had put on a hat and she was still
beautiful. But I liked her better with her hair loose.
From where I was sitting, I could just make out the
slight fullness of her breasts, and I recognized the little
pout of her lower lip. She seemed very nervous. Right
away she was asked how long she had known me. She
said since the time she worked in our office. The judge
wanted to know what her relation to me was. She said
she was my friend. To another question she answered
yes, it was true that she was supposed to marry me. Flip
ping through a file, the prosecutor asked her bluntly
when our "liaison" had begun. She indicated the date.
The prosecutor remarked indifferently that if he was
not mistaken, that was the day after Maman died. Then
in a slightly ironic tone he said that he didn't mean to
dwell on such a delicate matter, and that he fully ap
preciated M arie's misgivings, but (and here his tone
grew firmer) that he was duty bound to go beyond
propriety. So he asked Marie to describe briefly that day
when I had first known her. Marie didn't want to, but
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at the prosecutor's insistence, she went over our swim,
the movies, and going back to my place. The prosecutor
said that after Marie had given her statements to the
examining magistrate, he had consulted the movie list
ings for that day. He added that Marie herself would tell
the court what film was showing. In an almost expression
less voice she did in fact tell the court that it was a
Fernandel film. By the time she had finished there was
complete silence in the courtroom. The prosecutor then
rose and, very gravely and with what struck me as real
emotion in his voice, his finger pointing at me, said
slowly and distinctly, "Gentlemen of the jury, the day
after his mother's death, this man was out swimming,
starting up a dubious liaison, and going to the movies, a
comedy, for laughs. I have nothing further to say." He
sat down in the still-silent courtroom. But all of a
sudden Marie began to sob, saying it wasn't like that,
there was more to it, and that she was being made to say
the opposite of what she was thinking, that she knew me
and I hadn't done anything wrong. But at a signal from
the judge, the bailiff ushered her out and the trial pro
ceeded.
Hardly anyone listened after that when Masson testi
fied that I was an honest man "and I'd even say a
decent one." Hardly anyone listened to Salamano either,
when he recalled how I had been good to his dog and
when he answered a question about my mother and me
by saying that I had run out of things to say to Maman
and that was why I'd put her in the home. "You must
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understand," Salamano kept saying, "you must under
stand." But no one seemed to understand. He was
ushered out.
Next came Raymond, who was the last witness. He
waved to me and all of a sudden , he blurted out that I was
innocent. But the judge advised him that he was being
asked not for judgments but for facts. He was instructed
to wait for the questions before responding. He was
directed to state precisely what his relations with the
victim were. Raymond took this opportunity to say that
he was the one the victim hated ever since he had hit
the guy's sister. Nevertheless, the judge asked him
whether the victim hadn't also had reason to hate me.
Raymond said that my being at the beach was just
chance. The prosecutor then asked him how it was that
the letter that set the whole drama in motion had been
written by me. Raymond responded that it was just
chance. The prosecutor retorted that chance already had
a lot of misdeeds on its conscience in this case. H e
wanted t o know i f it was just b y chance that I hadn't
intervened when Raymond had beaten up his girlfriend,
just by chance that I had acted as a witness at the police
station, and again just by chance that my statements on
that occasion had proved to be so convenient. Finishing
up, he asked Raymond how he made his living, and
when Raymond replied "warehouse guard ," the prosecu
tor informed the jury that it was common knowledge that
the witness practiced the profession of procurer. I was
his friend and accomplice. They had before them the
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basest of crimes, a crime made worse than sordid by the
fact that they were dealing with a monster, a man with
out morals. Raymond wanted to defend himself and my
lawyer objected, but they were instructed that they must
let the prosecutor finish. "I have little to add," the prose
cutor said. "Was he your friend?" he asked Raymond.
es, aymon sa1 . e were pa s. "Y " R d "d "W I " The prosecutor
then put the same question to me, and I looked at Ray
mond, who returned my gaze. I answered, "Yes." The
prosecutor then turned to the jury and declared, "The
same man who the day after his mother died was in
dulging in the most shameful debauchery killed a man
for the most trivial of reasons and did so in order to
settle an affair of unspeakable vice."
He then sat down. But my lawyer had lost his
patience, and, raising his hands so high that his sleeves
fell, revealing the creases of a starched shirt, he shouted,
"Come now, is my client on trial for burying his mother
or for killing a man?" The spectators laughed. But the
prosecutor rose to his feet again, adjusted his robe, and
declared that only someone with the naivete of his
esteemed colleague could fail to appreciate that between
these two sets of facts there existed a profound, funda
mental, and tragic relationship. "Indeed," he loudly
exclaimed, "I accuse this man of burying his mother
With crime in his heart!" This pronouncement seemed
to have a strong effect on the people in the courtroom.
My lawyer shrugged his shoulders and wiped the sweat
from his brow. But he looked shaken himself, and I
realized that things weren't going well for me.
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The trial was adjourned . As I was leaving the court
house on my way back to the van, I recognized for a
brief moment the smell and color of the summer eve
ning. In the darkness of my mobile prison I could make
out one by one, as if from the depths of my exhaustion,
all the familiar sounds of a town I loved and of a cer
tain time of day when I used to feel happy. The cries
of the newspaper vendors in the already languid air, the
last few birds in the square, the shouts of the sandwich
sellers, the screech of the streetcars turning sharply
through the upper town , and that hum in the sky before
night engulfs the port : all this mapped out for me a
route I knew so well before going to prison and which
now I traveled blind. Yes, it was the hour when, a long
time ago, I was perfectly content. What awaited me
back then was always a night of easy, dreamless sleep.
And yet something had changed, since it was back to
my cell that I went to wait for the next day . . . as if
familiar paths traced in summer skies could lead as
easily to prison as to the sleep of the innocent.
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