The Stranger Read Online Free PDF Page A

reddish scabs on his face and wispy yellow hair. As for the dog, he’s sort of taken on his master’s stooped look, muzzle down, neck straining. They look as if they belong to the same species, and yet they hate each other. Twice a day, at eleven and six, the old man takes the dog out for a walk. They haven’t changed their route in eight years. You can see them in the rue de Lyon, the dog pulling the man along until old Salamano stumbles. Then he beats the dog and swears at it. The dog cowers and trails behind. Then it’s the old man who pulls the dog. Once the dog has forgotten, it starts dragging its master along again, and again gets beaten and sworn at. Then they both stand there on the sidewalk and stare at each other, the dog in terror, the man in hatred. It’s the same thing every day. When the dog wants to urinate, the old man won’t give him enough time and yanks at him, so that the spaniel leaves behind a trail of little drops. If the dog has an accident in the room, it gets beaten again. This has been going on for eight years. Céleste is always saying, “It’s pitiful,” but really, who’s to say? When I ran into him on the stairs, Salamano was swearing away at the dog. He was saying, “Filthy, stinking bastard!” and the dog was whimpering. I said “Good evening,” but the old man just went on cursing. So I asked him what the dog had done. He didn’t answer. All he said was “Filthy, stinking bastard!” I could barely see him leaning over his dog, trying to fix something on its collar. I spoke louder. Then, without turning around, he answered with a kind of suppressed rage, “He’s alwaysthere.” Then he left, yanking at the animal, which was letting itself be dragged along, whimpering.
    Just then my other neighbor came in. The word around the neighborhood is that he lives off women. But when you ask him what he does, he’s a “warehouse guard.” Generally speaking, he’s not very popular. But he often talks to me and sometimes stops by my place for a minute, because I listen to him. I find what he has to say interesting. Besides, I don’t have any reason not to talk to him. His name is Raymond Sintés. He’s a little on the short side, with broad shoulders and a nose like a boxer’s. He always dresses very sharp. And once he said to me, talking about Salamano, “If that isn’t pitiful!” He asked me didn’t I think it was disgusting and I said no.
    We went upstairs and I was about to leave him when he said, “I’ve got some blood sausage and some wine at my place. How about joining me?” I figured it would save me the trouble of having to cook for myself, so I accepted. He has only one room too, and a little kitchen with no window. Over his bed he has a pink-and-white plaster angel, some pictures of famous athletes, and two or three photographs of naked women. The room was dirty and the bed was unmade. First he lit his paraffin lamp, then he took a pretty dubious-looking bandage out of his pocket and wrapped it around his right hand. I asked him what he’d done to it. He said he’d been in a fight with some guy who was trying to start trouble.
    “You see, Monsieur Meursault,” he said, “it’s not that I’m a bad guy, but I have a short fuse. This guy says to me, ‘If you’re man enough you’ll get down off that streetcar.’ I said, ‘C’mon, take it easy.’ Then he said, ‘You’re yellow.’ So I got off and I said to him, ‘I think you better stop right there or I’m gonna have to teach you a lesson.’ And he said, ‘You and who else?’ So I let him have it. He went down. I was about to help him up but he started kicking me from there on the ground. So I kneed him one and slugged him a couple of times. His face was all bloody. I asked him if he’d had enough. He said, ‘Yes.’ ” All this time, Sintès was fiddling with his bandage. I was sitting on the bed. He said, “So you see, I wasn’t the one who started it. He was asking for it.” It was