The Plague by Albert Camus. Part 5 Chapter 2

But in those days when the plague seemed to be retreating, slinking back to the obscure lair from which it had stealthily emerged, at least one person in the town viewed this retreat with consternation, if Tarrou's notes are to be trusted. And that man was Cotard. To tell the truth these diary notes take a rather curious turn from the date on which the death returns began to drop. The handwriting becomes much harder to read. This may have been due to fatigue, and the diarist jumps from one topic to another without transition. What's more, these later notes lack the objectivity of the earlier ones. Personal considerations creep in. Thus, sandwiched between long passages dealing with the case of Cotard, we find a brief account of the old man and the cats. Tarrou conveys to us that the plague had in no ways lessened his appreciation of the old fellow, who continued equally to interest him after the epidemic had run its course. Unfortunately, he could not go on interesting him, and this threw no lack of good intentions on Tarrou's part. He had done his best to see him again. Some days after that memorable 25th of January, he stationed himself at the corner of the little street. The cats were back at their usual places, basking in the patches of sunlight. But at the ritual hour, the shutters stayed closed, and never once did Tarrou see them open on the following days. He drew the rather odd conclusion that the old fellow was either dead or vexed. If vexed, the reason being that he had thought that he was right and the plague had put him in the wrong. If dead, the question was, as in the case of the old asthmatic, had he been a saint? Tarrou hardly thought so, but he found in the old man's case a pointer. Perhaps, he wrote, we can only reach approximations of sainthood, in which case we must make shift with a mild benevolent diabolism. Interspersed with observations relating to Cartada, remarks scattered here and there about Grand. He was now convalescent and had gone back to work as if nothing had happened, and about Rieu's mother. The occasional conversation he had with her, when living under the same roof, the old lady's attitudes, her opinions on the plague, are all recorded in detail in the diary. Tarrou lay stress above all on Madame Rieu's self-effacement, her way of explaining things in the simplest possible words, her predilection for a special window at which she always sat in the early evening, holding herself rather straight, her hands at rest, her eyes fixed on the quiet street below, until twilight filled the room and she showed among the gathering shadows a motionless black form which gradually merged into the invading darkness. He remarks on the lightness with which she moved from one room to the other, on her kindness, though no precise instances had come to his notice. He discerned its gentle glow in all she said and did, on the gift she had of knowing everything without apparently taking thought, and lastly, dim and silent though she was, she quailed before no light, even the garish lights of the plague. At this point Tarrou's handwriting began to fall off oddly, indeed the following lines were almost illegible, and, as if in confirmation of this loss of grip upon himself, the last lines of the entry deal for the first time in the diary with his personal life. She reminds me of my mother. What I loved most in mother was her self-effacement, her dimness, as they say, and it's she I've always wanted to get back to. It happened eight years ago, but I can't say she died. She only effaced herself a trifle more than usual, and when I looked round, she was no longer there. But to return to Kothad, when the weekly totals began to show a decline, he visited Ria several times on various pretexts, but obviously what he really wanted was to get from Ria his opinion on the probable course of the epidemic. Do you really think it can stop like that all of a sudden? He was sceptical about this, or anyway professed to be, but the fact that he kept on asking the question seemed to imply he was less sure than he professed to be. From the middle of January, Ria gave him fairly optimistic answers, but these were not to Kothad's liking, and his reactions varied on each occasion from mere petulance to great despondency. One day the doctor was moved to tell him that, though the statistics were highly promising, it was too soon to say definitely that we were out of the wood. In other words, Kothad said promptly, there's no knowing, it may start again at any moment. Quite so. Just as it's equally possible the improvements may speed up. Distressing to everyone else, this state of uncertainty seemed to agree with Kothad. Tauru observed that he would enter into conversations with shopkeepers in his part of the town, with the obvious desire of propagating the opinion expressed by Ria. Indeed, he had no trouble in doing this. After the first exhilaration following the announcement of the plague's decline had worn off, doubts had returned to many minds, and the sight of their anxiety reassured Kothad. Just as at other times he yielded to discouragement. Yes, he said gloomily to Tauru, one of these days the gates will open and then, you'll see, they'll drop me like a live coal. Everyone was struck by his abrupt changes of mood during the first three weeks of January. Though normally he spared no pains to make himself liked by neighbours and acquaintances, now for whole days he deliberately cold-shouldered them. On these occasions, so Tauru gathered, he abruptly cut off outside contacts and retired morosely into his shell. He was no more to be seen in restaurants, or at the theatre, or in his favourite cafes. However, he seemed unable to resume the obscure humdrum life he had led before the epidemic. He stayed in his room and had his meals sent up from a nearby restaurant. Only at nightfall did he venture forth to make some small purchases, and on leaving the shop he would furtively roam the darker, less frequented streets. Once or twice Tauru ran into him on these occasions, but failed to elicit more than a few gruff monosyllables. Then, from one day to another, he became sociable again, talked volubly about the plague, asking everyone for his views on it, and mingled in the crowd with evident pleasure. On January 25th, the day of the official announcement, Kothad went to cover again. Two days later Tauru came across him loitering in a side street. When Kothad suggested he should accompany him home, Tauru demurred. He'd had a particularly tiring day, but Kothad wouldn't hear of a refusal. He seemed much agitated, gesticulated freely, spoke very rapidly in a very loud tone. He began by asking Tauru if he really thought the official communique meant an end to the plague. Tauru replied that obviously a mere official announcement couldn't stop an epidemic, but it certainly looked as if, barring accidents, it would shortly cease. Yes, Kothad said, barring accidents, and accidents will happen, won't they? Tauru pointed out that the authorities had allowed for that possibility by refusing to open the gates for another fortnight. Ah, very wise they are, Kothad explained in the same excited tone. By the way things are going, I should say they'll have to eat their words. Tauru agreed this might be so. Still, he thought it wiser to count on the reopening of the gates and return to normal life in the near future. Granted, Kothad rejoined, but what do you mean by a return to normal life? Tauru smiled. Well, new films at the picture houses? But Kothad didn't smile. Was it supposed, he asked, that the plague wouldn't have changed anything, and the life of the town would go on as before, exactly as if nothing had happened? Tauru thought that the plague would have changed things and not changed them. Naturally, our fellow citizens' strongest desire was and would be to behave as if nothing had changed, and for that reason nothing would be changed. In a sense. But to look at it from another angle, one can't forget everything, however great one's wish to do so. The plague was bound to leave traces, anyhow, in people's hearts. To this Kothad rejoined curtly that he wasn't interested in hearts. Indeed, they were the last thing he bothered about. What interested him was knowing whether the whole administration would be changed, lock, stock and barrel. Whether, for instance, the public services would function as before. Tauru had to admit he had no inside knowledge on the matter. His personal theory was that, after the upheaval caused by the epidemic, there would be some delay in getting these services underway again. Also, it seemed likely that all sorts of new problems would arise and necessitate at least some reorganisation of the administrative system. Kothad nodded. Yes, that's quite on the cards. In fact, everyone would have to make a fresh start. They were nearing Kothad's house. He now seemed more cheerful, determined to make a rosier view of the future. Obviously, he was picturing the town entering on a new lease of life, blotting out his past and starting again with a clean sheet. So that's that, Tauru smiled. Quite likely things will pan out all right for you too, who can say? It'll be a new life for us all, in a manner of speaking. They were shaking hands at the door of the apartment house where Kothad lived. Quite right. Kothad was growing more and more excited. That would be a great idea, starting again with a clean sheet. Suddenly, from the lightless hall, two men emerged. Tauru had hardly time to hear his companion mutter. Now, what do those birds want? When the men in question, who looked like subordinate government employees in their best clothes, cut in with an inquiry if his name was Kothad. With a stifled explanation, Kothad swung around and dashed off into the darkness. Taken by surprise, Tauru and the two men gazed blankly at each other for some moments, and then Tauru asked them what they wanted. In non-committal tones, they informed him that they wanted some information, and walked away, unhurrying in the direction Kothad had taken. On his return home, Tauru wrote out an account of this peculiar incident, following it up with, Feeling very tired tonight, which is confirmed by his handwriting in this entry. He added that he still had much to do, but that was no reason for not holding himself in readiness. And he questioned if he were ready. As a sort of postscript, and in fact it is here that Tauru's diary ends, he noted that there is always a certain hour of the day, and of the night, when a man's courage is at its lowest ebb. And it was that hour only that he feared.