by Albert Camus
"It won't do," Rieux said. "Why not?"
"Because 'sorrel' doesn't mean a breed of horse; it's a color."
"What color?"
"Well—er—a color that, anyhow, isn't black." Grand seemed greatly troubled.
"Thank you," he said warmly. "How fortunate you're here to help me! But you see how difficult it is."
"How about 'glossy'?" Tarrou suggested.
Grand gazed at him meditatively, then "Yes!" he exclaimed. "That's good." And slowly his lips parted in a smile.
Some days later he confessed that the word "flowery" was bothering him considerably. As the only towns he knew were Oran and Montelimar, he sometimes asked his friends to tell him about the avenues of the Bois de Boulogne, what sort of flowers grew in them and how they were disposed. Actually neither Rieux nor Tarrou had ever gathered the impression that those avenues were "flowery," but Grand's conviction on the subject shook their confidence in their memories. He was amazed at their uncertainty. "It's only
artists who know how to use their eyes," was his conclusion. But one evening the doctor found him in a state of much excitement. For "flowery" he had substituted "flower-strewn." He was rubbing his hands. "At last one can see them, smell them! Hats off, gentlemen!" Triumphantly he read out the sentence:
"One fine morning in May a slim young horsewoman might have been seen riding a glossy sorrel mare along the flower-strewn avenues of the Bois de Boulogne."
But, spoken aloud, the numerous "s" sounds had a disagreeable effect and Grand stumbled over them, lisping here and there. He sat down, crestfallen; then he asked the doctor if he might go. Some hard thinking lay ahead of him.
It was about this time, as was subsequently learned, that he began to display signs of absentmindedness in the office. A serious view was taken of these lapses of attention, as the municipality not only was working at high pressure with a reduced staff, but was constantly having new duties thrust upon it. His department suffered, and his chief took him severely to task, pointing out that he was paid to do certain work and was failing to do it as it should be done. "I am told that you are acting as a voluntary helper in the sanitary groups. You do this out of-office hours, so it's no concern of mine. But the best way of making yourself useful in a terrible time like this is to do your work well. Otherwise all the rest is useless."
"He's right," Grand said to Rieux.
"Yes, he's right," the doctor agreed.
"But I can't steady my thoughts; it's the end of my phrase that's worrying me, I don't seem able to sort it out."
The plethora of sibilants in the sentence still offended his ear, but he saw no way of amending them without using what were, to his mind, inferior synonyms. And that "flower-strewn" which had rejoiced him when he first lit on it now seemed unsatisfactory. How could one say the flowers were "strewn" when presumably they had been
planted along the avenues, or else grew there naturally? On some evenings, indeed, he looked more tired than Rieux.
Yes, this unavailing quest which never left his mind had worn him out; none the less, he went on adding up the figures and compiling the statistics needed for the sanitary groups. Patiently every evening he brought his totals up to date, illustrated them with graphs, and racked his brains to present his data in the most exact, clearest form. Quite often he went to see Rieux at one of the hospitals and asked to be given a table in an office or the dispensary. He would settle down at it with his papers, exactly as he settled down at his desk in the Municipal Office, and wave each completed sheet to dry the ink in the warm air, noisome with disinfectants and the disease itself. At these times he made honest efforts not to think about his "horsewoman," and concentrate on what he had to do.
Yes, if it is a fact that people like to have examples given them, men of the type they call heroic, and if it is absolutely necessary that this narrative should include a "hero," the narrator commends to his readers, with, to his thinking, perfect justice, this insignificant and obscure hero who had to his credit only a little goodness of heart and a seemingly absurd ideal. This will render to the truth its due, to the addition of two and two its sum of four, and to heroism the secondary place that rightly falls to it, just after, never before, the noble claim of happiness. It will also give this chronicle its character, which is intended to be that of a narrative made with good feelings—that is to say, feelings that are neither demonstrably bad nor overcharged with emotion in the ugly manner of a stage-play.
Such at least was Dr. Rieux's opinion when he read in newspapers or heard on the radio the messages and encouragement the outer world transmitted to the plague-ridden populace. Besides the comforts sent by air or overland, compassionate or admiring comments were lavished on the henceforth isolated town, by way of newspaper articles or
broadcast talks. And invariably their epical or prize-speech verbiage jarred on the doctor. Needless to say, he knew the sympathy was genuine enough. But it could be expressed only in the conventional language with which men try to express what unites them with mankind in general; a vocabulary quite unsuited, for example, to Grand's small daily effort, and incapable of describing what Grand stood for under plague conditions.
Sometimes at midnight, in the great silence of the sleep-bound town, the doctor turned on his radio before going to bed for the few hours' sleep he allowed himself. And from the ends of the earth, across thousands of miles of land and sea, kindly, well-meaning speakers tried to voice their fellow-feeling, and indeed did so, but at the same time proved the utter incapacity of every man truly to share in suffering that he cannot see. "Oran! Oran!" In vain the call rang over oceans, in vain Rieux listened hopefully; always the tide of eloquence began to flow, bringing home still more the unbridgeable gulf that lay between Grand and the speaker. "Oran, we're with you!" they called emotionally. But not, the doctor told himself, to love or to die together— "and that's the only way. They're too remote."
A
nd, as it so happens, what has yet to be recorded before coming to the culmination, during the period when the plague was gathering all its forces to fling them at the town and lay it waste, is the long, heartrendingly monotonous struggle put up by some obstinate people like Rambert to recover their lost happiness and to balk the
plague of that part of themselves which they were ready to defend in the last ditch. This was their way of resisting the bondage closing in upon them, and while their resistance lacked the active virtues of the other, it had (to the narrator's thinking) its point, and moreover it bore witness, even lit its futility and incoherences, to a salutary pride.
Rambert fought to prevent the plague from besting him. Once assured that there was no way of getting out of the town by lawful methods, he decided, as he told Rieux, to have recourse to others. He began by sounding cafe waiters. A waiter usually knows much of what's going on behind the scenes. But the first he spoke to knew only of the very heavy penalties imposed on such attempts at evasion. In one of the cafes he visited he was actually taken for a stool-pigeon and curtly sent about his business. It was not until he happened to meet Cottard at Rieux's place that he made a little headway. On that day he and Rieux had been talking again about his unsuccessful efforts to interest the authorities in his case, and Cottard heard the tail end of the conversation.
Some days later Cottard met him in the street and greeted him with the hail-fellow-well-met manner that he now used on all occasions.
"Hello, Rambert! Still no luck?"
"None whatever."
"It's no good counting on the red-tape merchants. They couldn't understand if they tried."
"I know that, and I'm trying to find some other way. But it's damned difficult."
"Yes," Cottard replied. "It certainly is."
He, however, knew a way to go about it, and he explained to Rambert, who was much surprised to learn this, that for some time past he had been going the rounds of the cafes, had made a number of acquaintances, and had learned of the existence of an "organization" handling this sort of busi
ness. The truth was that Cottard, who had been begin-
ning to live above his means, was now involved in smuggling ventures concerned with rationed goods. Selling contraband cigarettes and inferior liquor at steadily rising prices, he was on the way to building up a small fortune.
"Are you quite sure of this?" Rambert asked.
"Quite. I had a proposal of the sort made to me the other day."
"But you didn't accept it."
"Oh, come, there's no need to be suspicious." Cottard's tone was genial. "I didn't accept it because, personally, I've no wish to leave. I have my reasons." After a short silence he added: "You don't ask me what my reasons are, I notice."
"I take it," Rambert replied, "that they're none of my business."
"That's so, in a way, of course. But from another angle— Well, let's put it like this: I've been feeling much more at ease here since plague settled in."
Rambert made no comment. Then he asked:
"And how does one approach this organization, as you call it?"
"Ah," Cottard replied, "that's none too easy. Come with me."
It was four in the afternoon. The town was warming up to boiling-point under a sultry sky. Nobody was about, all shops were shuttered. Cottard and Rambert walked some distance without speaking, under the arcades. This was an hour of the day when the plague lay low, so to speak; the silence, the extinction of all color and movement, might have been due as much to the fierce sunlight as to the epidemic, and there was no telling if the air was heavy with menace or merely with dust and heat. You had to look closely and take thought to realize that plague was here. For it betrayed its presence only by negative signs. Thus Cottard, who had affinities with it, drew Rambert's attention to the absence of the dogs that in normal times would have
been seen sprawling in the shadow of the doorways, panting, trying to find a nonexistent patch of coolness.
They went along the boulevard des Palmiers, crossed the Place d'Armes, and then turned down toward the docks. On the left was a cafe painted green, with a wide awning of coarse yellow canvas projecting over the sidewalk. Cottard and Rambert wiped their brows on entering. There were some small iron tables, also painted green, and folding chairs. The room was empty, the air humming with flies; in a yellow cage on the bar a parrot squatted on its perch, all its feathers drooping. Some old pictures of military scenes, covered with grime and cobwebs, adorned the walls. On the tables, including that at which Rambert was sitting, bird-droppings were drying, and he was puzzled whence they came until, after some wing-flappings, a handsome cock came hopping out of his retreat in a dark corner.
Just then the heat seemed to rise several degrees more. Cottard took off his coat and banged on the table-top. A very small man wearing a long blue apron that came nearly to his neck emerged from a doorway at the back, shouted a greeting to Cottard, and, vigorously kicking the cock out of his way, came up to the table. Raising his voice to drown the cock's indignant cacklings, he asked what the gentlemen would like. Cottard ordered white wine and asked: "Where's Garcia?" The dwarf replied that he'd not shown up at the cafe for several days.
"Think he'll come this evening?"
"Well, I ain't in his secrets—but you know when he usually comes, don't you?"
"Yes. Really, it's nothing very urgent; I only want him to know this friend of mine."
The barkeeper rubbed his moist hands on the front of his apron.
"Ah, so this gentleman's in business too?"
"Yes," Cottard said.
The little man made a snuffling noise.
"All right. Come back this evening. I'll send the kid to warn him."
After they had left, Rambert asked what the business in question might be.
"Why, smuggling, of course. They get the stuff in past the sentries at the gates. There's plenty money in it."
"I see." Rambert paused for a moment, then asked: "And, I take it, they've friends in court?"
"You've said it!"
In the evening the awning was rolled up, the parrot squawking in its cage, and the small tables were surrounded by men in their shirt-sleeves. When Cottard entered, one man, with a white shirt gaping on a brick-red chest and a straw hat planted well back on his head, rose to his feet. He had a sun-tanned face, regular features, small black eyes, very white teeth, and two or three rings on his fingers. He looked about thirty.
"Hi!" he said to Cottard, ignoring Rambert. "Let's have one at the bar."
They drank three rounds in silence.
"How about a stroll?" Garcia suggested.
They walked toward the harbor. Garcia asked what he was wanted to do. Cottard explained that it wasn't really for a deal that he wanted to introduce his friend, M. Rambert, but only for what he called a "get-away." Puffing at his cigarette, Garcia walked straight ahead. He asked some questions, always referring to Rambert as "he" and appearing not to notice his presence.
"Why does he want to go?"
"His wife is in France."
"Ah!" After a short pause he added: "What's his job?"
"He's a journalist."
"Is he, now? Journalists have long tongues."
"I told you he's a friend of mine," Cottard replied.
They walked on in silence until they were near the wharves, which were now railed off. Then they turned in
the direction of a small tavern from which came a smell of fried sardines.
"In any case," Garcia said finally, "it's not up my alley. Raoul's your man. And I'll have to get in touch with him. It's none too easy."
"That so?" Cottard sounded interested. "He's lying low, is he?"
Garcia made no answer. At the door of the tavern he halted and for the first time addressed Rambert directly.
"The day after tomorrow, at eleven, at the corner of the customs barracks in the upper town." He made as if to go, then seemed to have an afterthought. "It's going to cost something, you know." He made the observation in a quite casual tone.
Rambert nodded. "Naturally."
On the way back the journalist thanked Cottard.
"Don't mention it, old chap. I'm only too glad to help you. And then, you're a journalist, I dare say you'll put in a word for me one day or another."
Two days later Rambert and Cottard climbed the wide shadeless street leading to the upper part of the town. The barracks occupied by the customs officers had been partly transformed into a hospital, and a number of people were standing outside the main entrance, some of them hoping to be allowed to visit a patient—a futile hope, since such visits were strictly prohibited—and others to glean some news of an invalid, news that in the course of an hour would have ceased to count. For these reasons there were always a number of people and a certain amount of movement at this spot, a fact that probably accounted for its choice by Garcia for his meeting with Rambert.
"It puzzles me," Cottard remarked, "why you're so keen on going. Really, what's happening here is extremely interesting."
"Not to me," Rambert replied.
"Well, yes, one's running some risks, I grant you. All
the same, when you come to think of it, one ran quite as much risk in the old days crossing a busy street."
Just then Rieux's car drew up level with them. Tarrou was at the wheel, and Rieux seemed half-asleep. He roused himself to make the introductions.
"We know each other," Tarrou said. "We're at the same hotel." He then offered to drive Rambert back to the center.
"No, thanks. We've an appointment here."
Rieux looked hard at Rambert.
"Yes," Rambert said.
"What's that?" Cottard sounded surprised. "The doctor knows about it?"
"There's the magistrate." Tarrou gave Cottard a warning glance.
Cottard's look changed. M. Othon was striding down the street toward them, briskly, yet with dignity. He took off his hat as he came up with them.
"Good morning, Monsieur Othon," said Tarrou.
The magistrate returned the greeting of the men in the car a
nd, turning to Rambert and Cottard, who were in the background, gave them a quiet nod. Tarrou introduced Cottard and the journalist. The magistrate gazed at the sky for a moment, sighed, and remarked that these were indeed sad times.
"I've been told, Monsieur Tarrou," he continued, "that you are helping to enforce the prophylactic measures. I need hardly say how commendable that is, a fine example. Do you think, Dr. Rieux, that the epidemic will get worse?"
Rieux replied that one could only hope it wouldn't, and the magistrate replied that one must never lose hope, the ways of Providence were inscrutable.
Tarrou asked if his work had increased as the result of present conditions.
"Quite the contrary. Criminal cases of what we call the first instance are growing rarer. In fact, almost my only work just now is holding inquiries into more serious breaches
of the new regulations. Our ordinary laws have never been so well respected."
"That's because, by contrast, they necessarily appear good ones," Tarrou observed.
The magistrate, who seemed unable to take his gaze off the sky, abruptly dropped his mildly meditative air and stared at Tarrou.
"What does that matter? It's not the law that counts, it's the sentence. And that is something we must all accept."
"That fellow," said Tarrou when the magistrate was out of hearing, "is Enemy Number One."
He pressed the starter.
Some minutes later Rambert and Cottard saw Garcia approaching. Without making any sign of recognition he came straight up to them and, by way of greeting, said: "You'll have to wait a bit."
There was complete silence in the crowd around them, most of whom were women. Nearly all were carrying parcels; they had the vain hope of somehow smuggling these in to their sick relatives, and the even crazier idea that the latter could eat the food they'd brought. The gate was guarded by armed sentries, and now and then an eerie cry resounded in the courtyard between the barrack rooms and the entrance. Whenever this happened, anxious eyes turned toward the sick-wards.
