Chapter from "The Stranger"

Part 2 Chapter 1

[From the point of view of the examining magistrate]

I was rather intrigued by M. Meursault. The young man was charged with having killed a man at a beach near Algiers, yet he seemed completely oblivious and unrepentant. He was quite direct and honest, but never spoke too many words. I asked him about his details and whether he had hired an attorney. He said no, and asked whether it was really necessary. I asked him why he would ask that, and he simply stated that his case would be pretty simple.
I smiled at him politely, despite my astonishment at his assertion. “That’s your opinion. But the law is the law. If you don’t hire an attorney yourself, the court will appoint one.” He looked slightly relieved. “How convenient that the court should take care of those details”, he said, and I agreed “I agree, it is a good law indeed”.
He was brought into the interrogation room and I left when his lawyer came to talk to him. Shortly after that, at about two o’clock in the afternoon M. Meursault was brought into my office. It was very hot and I explained to him that his lawyer hadn’t been able to come due to unforeseen circumstances.
“You have the right to remain silent, and you may wait for your lawyer’s counsel” I informed him.
“I can speak for myself”, he replied.
I called in a clerk and he entered and sat down behind Meursault.
So the examination began.
“From various report of people you have been described as a taciturn and withdrawn person. What do you think?” I asked him.
He simply stated, “It’s just that I don’t have much to say. So I keep quiet.”
He seemed a bit taken aback so I smiled at him, a friendly, polite smile and agreed with him that it was a good reason. “Besides, it’s not important,” I added.
I was very curious about this man, so I leaned forward and inspected him closely. “What interests me is you.” He didn’t respond.
“There are one or two things that I don’t quite understand. I’m sure you’ll help me clear them up”. I told him.
He seemed to be slightly annoyed at this point. I don’t think he quite understood.
He sighed. “You see it’s all very simple”, he stated.
“Could you go back over that day in as much detail as possible?” I pressed him.
He explained it to me very clearly. He said that he had been with Raymond, a neighbor of his with whom he was friends with and a girlfriend, to visit Raymond’s friend at the beach who had invited them all. They had gone fishing and for a swim and had lunch very early and after lunch they had taken a walk on the beach with Raymond and Masson. Suddenly the group of Arabs approached them and a small skirmish ensued. Meursault claimed that he hadn’t taken part in the fight but that Raymond and Masson both got injured when the Arabs had attacked them with knives.
All throughout this time I commented on his sentences with “Fine, fine”.
They all returned to the hut and their injuries were tended to. Later, he and Raymond had taken another walk and encountered the Arabs again. Raymond had first wanted to provoke his enemy to attack him and then shoot him, but Meursault had advised him to hand over the gun, which he then did. However, the Arabs then backed off first and he and Raymond returned to the hut, weary. When Meursault did not feel like going back to the commotion he returned once again to walk on the beach, when he was confronted by only one of the Arabs. He claimed that the sun was burning down on him and the heat was scorching as they approached each other and very suddenly, the Arab attacked him first with a knife, slashing at his eyes and face. Meursault then remembered the gun and shot him quickly. After the Arab fell, he shot him four more times.
After a short silence, in which Meursault seemed to be almost out of breath, I just commented, “Good, good”.
I stood up. “You see, I really want to help you Monsieur Meursault. I am quite interested in you, and your case, in fact. With God’s help, I would do anything for you.”
“Did you love your mother?” I asked him abruptly.
“Yes, the same as anyone.”
“Did you fire all shots at once?”
He hesitated a moment.
“Well, first I fired a single shot and then, a few seconds later, the other four,” he replied.
“Why did you pause between the first and the second shot?”
Silence.
I leaned closer to him, and rephrased my question.
“Why, why did you shoot at somebody that was on the ground?”
No answer.
“Why? You must tell me. Why?!”
No answer.
I was beginning to lose my patience, so I tried out a different method. I got up and strode over to the far corner of the office. I pulled out the silver crucifix out of a file cabinet drawer. I held it up, walking towards Meursault.
“Do you know what this is?” I asked, almost shouting.
“Yes, of course.”
“I believe in God. I am convinced that no man is so guilty that God would not forgive them. But in order for that to happen a man must repent and in doing so, become like a child whose heart is open and ready to embrace all.”
I was waving it near his face now, almost above his head. He looked like he was about to say something but then gave up, and continued to sit in silence, seemingly considering his actions or what he had just heard. I cut him off anyway.
“Do you believe in God?” I asked him.
“No.”
I sat down. I almost pitied him now.
“It’s impossible; all men believe in God,” I said at first, “even those who turn their backs on him. It is my belief, and if I were ever to doubt it, my life would become meaningless. Do you want my life to become meaningless?” Again, I almost shouted at this point.
He said that as far as he could see, it had nothing to do with him. At this point I thrust the crucifix in his face and screamed, furiously.
“I am a Christian. I ask Him to forgive your sins. How can you not believe that He suffered for you?”
He seemed slightly annoyed at first, but then suddenly he changed. He agreed. It took me by surprise, but I felt triumphant anyway.
“You see, you see! You do believe, don’t you, and you’re going to place your trust in Him, aren’t you?”
“No.”
Exhausted, I slumped in my chair. Then I waited a few more moments. The clerk was still typing out the last few sentences on the typewriter. Finally, I said something.
“I have never seen a soul as hardened as yours. The criminals who have come before me have always wept at the sight of this image of suffering.”
He seemed thoughtful for a while, and then decided to say nothing.
I was tired of the conversation, so I stood up and just asked him if he felt sorry for what he had done.
He thought about it for a minute, and then replied that he felt more annoyed than sorry.
I failed to comprehend this man. He seemed to have no emotions, no remorse or anything of the sorts whatsoever. Instead, our investigations continued for another eleven months, in which more details were sorted out. Throughout this time I would sometimes lead him to the door of my office, slap him on the shoulder and say, “That’s all for today, Monsieur Antichrist.”