The Plague by Albert Camus. Part 2 Chapter 9

And, as it so happens, what is 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, heart-rendingly monotonous struggle put up by some obstinate people like Rumber to recover their lost happiness and to bulk 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 incoherence to a salutary pride. Rumber fought to prevent the plague from besetting him. Once assured that there was no way of getting out of the town by lawful methods, he decided, as he told Rear, 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 Cotard at Rear's place that he made a little headway. On that day he and Rear had been talking again about his unsuccessful efforts to interest the authorities in his case, and Cotard heard the tail end of the conversation. Some days later Cotard met him in the street and greeted him with a hail fellow well-met manner that he now used on all occasions. Hello Rumber, 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 damn difficult. Yes, Cotard replied, it certainly is. He, however, knew a way to go about it, and he explained to Rumber, 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 organisation handling this sort of business. The truth was that Cotard, who had been beginning 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? Rumber asked. Quiet, I had a proposal of the sort made to me the other day, but he didn't accept it. Oh come, there's no need to be suspicious. Cotard's tone was genial. I didn't accept because, what, personally I have 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, Rumber replied, that they're none of my business. Well, 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 the plague settled in. Rumber made no comment, and then he asked, and how does one approach this organisation as you call it? Ah, Cotard 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 the shops were shuttered. Cotard and Rumber 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 colour 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 realise that plague was here, for it betrayed its presence only by negative signs. Thus Cotard, who had his affinities with it, drew Rumber'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 non-existent patch of coolness. They went along the Boulevard des Palmiers, crossed the Place d'Armes and then turned down towards the docks. On the left was a cafe painted green with a wide awning of coarse yellow canvas projecting over the sidewalk. Cotard and Rumber 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 Rumber 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. Cotard took off his coat and banged on the tabletop. 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 Cotard and vigorously kicked 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 gentleman would like. Cotard ordered a 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 wanted 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? Well yes, Cotard said. The little man made a shuffling noise. All right, come back this evening. I'll send the kid to warn him. After they'd left, Rumber asked what the business in question might be. Oh smuggling of course. They get the stuff in past the sentries at the gates. There's plenty money in it. I see. Rumber paused for a moment and then asked, and I take it they 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 Cotard entered, one man with a white shirt gaping on a brick red chest and a straw hat planted well on the back of his head rose to his feet. He had a suntanned face, regular features, small black eyes, very white teeth, and two or three rings on his fingers. He looked about 30. Hi, he said to Cotard, ignoring Rumber. Let's have one at the bar. They drank three rounds in silence. How about a stroll, Garcia suggested. They walked towards the harbour. Garcia asked what he was wanted to do. Cotard explained that it wasn't really for a deal that he wanted to introduce his friend, Monsieur Rumber, but only for what he called a getaway. Puffing at a cigarette, Garcia walked straight ahead. He asked some questions, always referring to Rumber as he, and appearing not to notice his presence. Why does he want to go? Well his wife's in France. Ah. After a short pause he added, what's his job? He's a journalist, as you know. Journalists have long tongues. I told you he's a friend of mine, Cotard replied. They walked on in silence until they were near the wharfs, 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? Cotard 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 Rumber directly. The day after tomorrow, at 11, 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. Rumber nodded, naturally. On the way back, the journalist thanked Cotard. Don't mention it old chap. I'm only 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, Rumber and Cotard 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 are 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 Rumber. It puzzles me, Cotard remarked. Why are you so keen on going? Really, what's happening here is extremely interesting. Well, not to me, Rumber 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 Ria's car drew up level with them. Taru was at the wheel and Ria seemed half asleep. He roused himself to make the introductions. We know each other, Taru said. We're at the same hotel. He then offered to drive Rumber back to the centre. Oh no thanks, I've an appointment here. Ria looked hard at Rumber. Yes, Rumber said. What was that? Cotard sounded surprised. The doctor knows about it. There's the magistrate. Taru gave Cotard a warning glance. Cotard's look changed. Monsieur Auton was striding down the street towards them. Briskly, yet with dignity, he took off his hat as he came up with them. Good morning, Monsieur Auton, said Taru. The magistrate returned the greeting of the men in the car and, turning to Rumber and Cotard, who were in the background, gave him the quiet nod. Taru introduced Cotard 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 Taru, 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 Rieu, that the epidemic will get worse? Ria 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. Taru asked if his work had increased as a 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. Well, that's because, by contrast, they necessarily appear good ones, Taru observed. The magistrate, who seemed unable to take his gaze off the sky, abruptly dropped his mildly meditative air and stared at Taru. Well, 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 Taru, when the magistrate was out of hearing, his enemy number one, he pressed the starter.