Stranger

My mother died today. Or maybe yesterday; I received a telegram from the home that simply stated: "Mother deceased. Funeral tomorrow. Sincere condolences." That didn't tell me anything. I took two days off work and caught the two o'clock bus. The heat was stifling, and I slept most of the way. When I arrived, the director met me, explaining that Mother had died peacefully. I saw her in the mortuary, but chose not to open the coffin. The caretaker sat with me through the night, a silent presence, and I smoked cigarettes, drank coffee, and watched the dawn break over the countryside. I noted the old people, their faces, their movements, but felt no profound sorrow. At the funeral, under the oppressive sun, the heat and the glare were all I truly registered.

The very next day, a Saturday, I met Marie Cardona at the public beach. We swam together, laughed, and later that evening, she came back to my place. We spent Sunday together, a day like any other, filled with the warmth of the sun and the simple pleasure of her company. A few days later, my neighbor, Raymond Sintès, a man with a reputation, invited me to dinner. He told me about his mistress, how he had beaten her, and how he wanted to humiliate her further. He asked me to write her a letter, a harsh, dismissive one, and I did, seeing no reason not to. Later, he had a confrontation with his mistress's brother and his friends. Raymond was struck, and the police intervened.

The following Sunday, we went to Masson's beach house, Marie and Raymond and I, along with Masson and his wife. The sun beat down, relentlessly. After lunch, Raymond and Masson and I walked along the beach. We saw the Arabs again, two of them, including the brother of Raymond's mistress. A fight broke out. Raymond was cut by a knife. We returned to the house, and I took Raymond's revolver from him, to prevent further trouble.

But the heat, the sun, the shimmering air, they drew me back to the beach. I walked toward the spring where we had seen the Arabs. There, alone, was the brother. The sun was a blinding force, reflecting off his knife like a blade of light. I felt the sweat run into my eyes, the pressure in my head. And then, I fired. Once. Then four more times into the motionless body.

The arrest came, then the questioning. My lawyer seemed perplexed by my lack of remorse, my simple honesty about my feelings. The magistrate, a man of faith, waved a crucifix at me, demanding I believe in God, but I could only state that I did not. It seemed they were more interested in my behavior at my mother's funeral than in the murder itself. Marie visited me in prison, always smiling, always hopeful, but I found myself increasingly detached from even her.

The trial began. The courtroom was packed, the press eager. They presented me as a monster, an emotionless killer who had shown no grief at his mother's passing and had begun an affair the very next day. Testimonies painted a picture of a cold, calculated individual. My lawyer tried to argue the facts of the case, the influence of the sun, the self-defense, but the prosecutor skillfully connected my "heartlessness" at the funeral to the murder, suggesting a premeditated crime. I felt like an outsider, observing the proceedings, a stranger to the narrative they were constructing about me. The verdict was guilty. The sentence: death by decapitation.

In the solitude of my cell, awaiting the appeal, I wrestled with the meaning of my life, the certainty of death. The chaplain came, offering solace, speaking of God and repentance. I rejected him, furiously, pouring out all the accumulated indifference and rage, the realization that the universe itself was indifferent, that nothing truly mattered. In that moment, I understood my mother's choices, her own embrace of a meaningless world. I opened myself to the benign indifference of the universe, and in doing so, found a peculiar peace, a sense of freedom. I wished only that on the day of my execution, there would be a large crowd of spectators, greeting me with cries of hate.