A short story inspired by Albert Camus

It came to my attention that due to the unforeseen circumstance which caused my initial departure, I had not been home, or sober, in three days. I sat in the leather armchair that had once belonged to my father (whom I neither remember nor care for) and ran my hands through the stubble coating my face. I felt hot. I watched as a magpie flew past the window and landed on a park bench. The sight of the bird reminded me of the letter folded into the breast pocket of my shirt, which was clinging to my back with sweat. I ran my thumb and forefinger over the crumpled piece of paper, and a second magpie flew over to the bench and began to join in with an inspection of what must have been an old coin. At that moment I envied the formality between the two birds. The sun was too bright and too yellow, and I began to feel slightly disorientated. I walked over to the window and pulled the curtain across until it stopped just an inch short of blocking out all the light. The incompleteness of the curtain and the dust particles floating in front of me made my bones ache.

I read the letter again, for what must have been the twentieth time since I’d received it. I needed to make sure I hadn’t misread it. Maybe I had. The words ‘sister’ and ‘died in childbirth’ played on repeat in my head, as if they were waiting for me to feel something. I took a walk then, as it was Sunday; although I’d more or less forgotten that. I always walk on Sundays. It was quarter to twelve; the church service would be finishing soon, which meant that I’d be forced to exchange awkward but polite conversation with the priest as I walked through the graveyard. He was there as I expected, and waved me over, his long black sleeve blowing in the breeze which was just hard enough to tickle my throat. The sun was blinding. ‘Good morning Monsieur Jégou,’ he said. His voice was friendly enough, but ever since he’d seen me walking past my mother’s grave a few years ago he’d assumed that she was the reason for my Sunday walks. I hadn’t wanted to disappoint him, nor to seem like I did not love my mother, so I didn’t say anything and I let him feel sorry for me. Now, thirty years old, nothing has changed. Today he spoke to me about God, which, in all our years of knowing each other, he has only attempted a few times. He knows I have no interest in that sort of thing. ‘God can share your joy and carry you through your sorrows,’ he said to me. I pitied him for believing it. I pitied everyone. I nodded politely and hummed Bach’s Concerto no.5 en Ré majeur as I walked away.

I thought again of the letter, which frustrated me. Every time it entered my head I felt obliged to pay attention to it, but I could never seem to think of anything worthwhile to say – I understood all there was to understand. My sister was dead and I would be taking care of her new-born baby for the next few weeks until a permanent home could be found, and as far as I was concerned that was that, although I preferred not to think of it at all.

I ate alone at Gaspard’s, despite not being hungry. I ordered the soup and ate it whilst I read Le Figaro, though there was nothing of interest to me. I pulled my leather notebook out of my coat pocket and began sketching. I drew a picture of the Monet painting which hung lazily at an angle on the wall opposite me. There’s something satisfying about drawing things which have already been created; I’ve always preferred that to having to think for myself. I’d drawn the Monet several times before, but this time something was different, although I couldn’t quite work out what. My hand shook, not uncontrollably, but enough to make my grip on the pencil loosen and for the soft lines I was attempting to become sharp and jagged. The lead of my pencil broke then, so I asked for the bill and placed the exact change onto the table; I already knew how much it would be as I never order anything different. Gaspard came over to my table. ‘I’m so sorry to hear about your sister, Jégou. She was always such a lovely girl. And I hear you’ll be having her baby, is that right?’ I knew that it was considered appropriate to be saddened by the concept of death, but the gleam is his eyes seemed awfully eager, as if he was anticipating how I would react. I replied: ‘Yes, apparently so.’ He said: ‘If you ever need anything – food, clothes, or simply general help with the baby, Beatrice is always willing to lend a hand.’ His friendly tone was too much for me to stomach, so I simply smiled and said ‘Thank you.’ I left then and took the long route home, letting the fresh air nullify the ache in my chest. I had first noticed it when I was eating. I thought it had been indigestion, but it didn’t feel quite right. Either way, I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. I felt something stuck to my shoe as I walked. It was a green silk hair tie. It reminded me of Elodié, a girl whom I’d briefly dated after meeting at the library a few years before. I’d been attracted to her at the time; I remember liking the shape of her face and her breasts. She’d told me she loved me and my lack of response caused our relationship to come to an abrupt end.

At that moment I decided to go and see her. I walked back to my house to get my bike and then cycled to the library. I pedalled fast and it took ten minutes. I realised as I was walking through the entrance to the library that I had no idea if she still worked there. As I was walking towards the main desk where I hoped she’d be, I was distracted by a sign pointing towards an exhibition room displaying local paintings. I entered the room and found myself alone. The whitewashed walls were bleak yet comforting and I’m not sure how long I stood in there. It was only when Elodié entered the room carrying a pile of papers that I remembered why I’d come to the library in the first place. She said she’d missed me. I didn’t think it meant anything, but I told her I’d missed her too. She asked how I was. I hesitated briefly before telling her about my sister and the baby, as I knew she’d feel sorry for me. I recall my friend Aubin telling me once that the worst thing you could make a woman feel was sorry for you. He’d been drunk at the time, but I’d written it down in my notebook nonetheless. I hadn’t quite worked out an appropriate reaction to the abundance of sympathy I’d been receiving for the past few days, so I settled for the same solemn smile I’d given the Vicar and Gaspard as Elodié gasped and threw her arms round my shoulders. Her breath was hot against my cheek as she apologised. She was not responsible for my sister’s death so I don’t know why she was sorry. ‘You simply must read Dr Spock’s ‘The Common Sense Book of Baby and Child Care,’’ she told me. ‘We have a copy here.’ I didn’t see how this would change anything. I am not the baby’s parent. Surely it will know that. I told her that the baby was being brought to my house at six o’clock and she offered to stay the night. She looked older and less delicate than the last time I’d wanted to kiss her, and there were dark circles around her eyes. I wanted her to stay.

She took the rest of the day off work to help me buy essentials for my sister’s child. We walked through the park and ate ice cream. She held my hand, and I had no reason not to hold hers back. Yellow sunlight dripped lazily onto our shoulders as we lay side by side on the uncut grass, and I noticed that the blades made patterns on her bare thighs as she pressed her body into the ground. I traced the patterns deliberately with my thumb as we rolled over to stare at the clouds. We watched as what must have been forty birds flew over our heads, swooping almost as low as the trees. I felt her sigh beside me. ‘When the bird arrives’, she said, ‘If it arrives, observe the most profound silence. Wait till the bird enters the cage, and when it has, gently close the door with your brush.’ I recognised the quote from Jacques Prévert’s ‘To Paint a Picture of a Bird’, a poem that I had read before but had not enjoyed much. The softness of her voice made me tired, so I offered to walk her home. We arranged for her to come to my house at eight o’clock, as she said I’d need time to ‘bond with the baby’. The way she spoke implied that she was attempting to comfort me, as if I were worried or distressed about the matter. I stated that I was neither of those things and she smiled at me and slipped through her doorway.

I carried the shopping home on my bike and unpacked each bag in the kitchen. I realised that I had not thought about the fact that I did not have a cupboard assigned to baby things. It would have to wait; I could not move things around now, it was too late in the day. Golden orange light oozed into the kitchen and coated every surface with a warm effulgent glow. I sat down in my father’s armchair and drank a glass of neat whiskey and lit a cigarette whilst finishing the crossword I’d been doing when I received the letter informing me of my sister’s death. I hadn’t found any time to complete it before now. Five minutes till six o’clock. At that precise moment I heard a knock at the door.

An official-looking woman stood on the other side of the door, the baby in her arms and boxes of baby things behind her. I didn’t care much for the way in which she bombarded me with questions, all but a few of which I refused to dignify with an answer. She asked me if I had everything I need and I said: ‘Yes.’ She said that I must really like children and I told her that I didn’t. She looked at me differently after that, the same look that mother used to give me when I’d be sent home from school for stepping on other children’s sandcastles and cutting the ends of girls’ braids off. I’d come to understand that it was a disapproving look. She placed the baby into my arms and laughed as I held him. She said: ‘He’s a baby Monsieur, not a football.’ I didn’t understand what she meant. She told me she’d be back to check on me once a week. She left me with her telephone number and then got into her car and drove away.

The baby was staring at me, as if expecting me to do something. Maybe it was thirsty. I took a bottle of milk out of the fridge and held it to the baby’s lips, but it didn’t drink it. It began to cry, though it had no reason to, other than the fact that its mother had died, but I highly doubt it knew that. I’d placed the cot supplied by the woman on the other side of the room, as she’d told me I had to keep an eye on the baby at all times. I felt tired again, so I went upstairs to my bedroom to sleep. I went downstairs every half hour to check if the baby was crying. Elodié has told me earlier that if the baby cries, it needs something, and I will have to work out what. I failed to see how I would be expected to understand something that couldn’t talk. A loud knock woke me and I went to the bathroom and splashed cool water on my face before walking downstairs and answering the door.

For a while, we didn’t speak; I watched her as she dipped her hands in and out of the soapy water as she washed our dishes and we listened to the radio. She asked me to dance and I agreed, so we waltzed from the kitchen to the dining room. She spent most of the night holding the baby; pacing the room and rocking it back and forth in her thin arms. It seemed to make her happy. I sat in my father’s chair and smoked another cigarette and drank many more glasses of whiskey. She looked pretty in the smoky darkness and I thought about sleeping with her. I remembered lying in bed with her last time, and I remembered her whispering that she loved me as she slid her fingers between my shoulder blades, and I remembered how it had ended last time. This was no different. I had no desire to repeat that situation. I bid her goodnight and went to my bedroom. I could hear Elodié talking quietly to the baby downstairs, and it made me wonder what she was saying. I decided that it didn’t matter as it wouldn’t understand anyway. It felt odd sleeping in a house that wasn’t empty. The lack of silence made me uncomfortable.

The official-looking woman came back a week later to check on the baby. She was supposed to arrive at twelve o’clock yet it was already three minutes past and there was no sign of her. I began to worry that she wouldn’t come and that I’d be stuck in what felt like an infinite loop of abnormality. I felt a great indifference towards it, which Elodié said was strange and quite disconcerting after she realised that I wasn’t joking. She had only spent one night in her own apartment since the baby came, and I was grateful for that I think. She’d been granted time off from the library to look after it, which meant that I continue to work and go out and play poker on Saturday nights with Aubin and a few of our other colleagues. The woman arrived at five minutes past and I felt air rush out of my lungs in what must have been relief. She sat in the kitchen with Elodié and the baby and drank coffee. I remained alone in the study and smoked my sixth cigarette of the day and tried to catch up on the work I hadn’t been able to do last night due to the baby’s incessant crying. The kitchen door was slightly ajar and I heard the woman ask Elodié how I was coping with my sister’s death. I realised that I hadn’t given it much thought as she told the woman that I’d expressed a ‘serious lack of emotion’. I thought this was an unfair statement, but to tell the truth I didn’t know what anyone expected me to do apart from go to work and read the newspaper and smoke cigarettes and eat at Gaspard’s like I always do. I’ve come to learn that by not expecting anything, nothing will change and you can continue life in the warm embrace of repetition and routine, and I cannot understand why anybody would desire anything different.

Elodié continued by saying: ‘I’m worried about him. He’s only held the baby twice when I’ve forced him to, and hasn’t once referred to him by his name. It’s as if he has no emotional connection to his nephew at all.’ It was true that I’d only held the baby twice. This was partly due to it being awkward and uncomfortable for both of us, I assumed; and also partly out of principle. It is the job of a parent to hold and comfort their baby – and I am neither mother nor father. I watched the way Elodié’s face would change as she held the baby in her arms and wondered why this was so. She was not the mother any more than I was. She called my name at that moment and I felt reluctant to respond. She’d warned me that the woman may want to witness how I was coping with the baby first hand. Honestly I was not keen on the idea. She had told me to act normal, or as normal as I could manage, whatever that meant. The three of us and the baby went out into the garden in front of the house for tea. The garden was small and rectangular and empty, bar a table and three chairs. Aubin had insisted I buy them a couple of years ago when the sweltering summer heat became too hot to play poker indoors, even in the evenings. I asked the woman how long it would be before a permanent family could be found and she said she didn’t know, but that she suspected a few more weeks. I was reminded of the time I’d been asked to look after my neighbour’s dog for two weeks when I was fifteen. I’d got bored of it within a day and had paid my sister all of my pocket money to look after it for me. I realised that this was almost the same situation, except without the money.

The woman left and said she’d be back next week. Elodié returned to the house and I followed. I asked her if she wanted to go out to eat and she didn’t reply. I spoke louder. Her lack of response suggested to me that she was annoyed with me, but to what extent and for what reason I remained unsure. Honestly I didn’t care enough to ask. I didn’t think that made me a bad person, because I don’t believe in bad people. I believe in bad society, and do not blame individuals for their inevitable corruption.

I found myself living an infinity of repeated days in which I went to work and came home to Elodié and the baby as if we were some sort of family that you read about in books. It was claustrophobic. Today was Sunday; three Sundays since the baby had arrived. It would be leaving tomorrow, or so the official woman had said. Elodié was acting differently, and looked sad. I kissed her and then went out for my walk. The vicar was not outside the church, which was unusual. I went inside purely out of curiosity. It was the only time I’d ever entered the church for anything other than a funeral. I said: ‘Hello?’ into the seemingly empty church and walked up the aisle. The priest was sitting in a pew facing the giant marble statue of Jesus on the cross, which polluted the view of the stained glass windows behind. The windows made the church at least slightly more appealing. I’d drawn them many times, but from the outside only. I spoke louder. The priest turned to look at me and smiled. He looked surprised. I thought this was odd as it was twelve o’clock, and he knew that I always walk past the church at about twelve. I slid into the pew next to him and we talked quietly, neither one of us looking at each other. He asked me: ‘How’s fatherhood treating you?’ and I replied ‘I wouldn’t know. I’m not a father.’ For this was the truth. He then explained that in God’s eyes, raising a child makes you a father. I assured him that I would not be raising the child as it was being taken to a permanent home tomorrow. He seemed angry then. He said: ‘Why do you insist upon acting as if you do not care? In all my years of knowing you, Monsieur Jégou, you haven’t once, not once, shown any sort of affection towards anything!’ He turned to face me then, and I held his gaze; a game of who would look away first. His voice broke as he said: ‘How can you hate this world that God created so much that you feel no love at all?’ He asked me one last time if I believed in God. As always, I told him I did not, and I felt him sigh in exasperation. He continued in this manner, but the Priest’s ramblings soon became tedious so I said goodbye and left.

After eating at Gaspard’s I walked the short way home; the sky was a delicate grey and I predicted rain. Elodié was standing in the hallway waiting for me. She told me her mother had suddenly become ill so I would have to look after the baby for a few hours whilst she visited her. I wondered why she couldn’t take it with her, but I didn’t object. I realised that this would be the first time I’d be alone with the baby. That made me nervous for some reason. Elodié left and I switched on the radio and sat in my chair reading Le Figaro. After what must’ve been two hours, I heard the baby coughing from the room next door. I turned the radio up. The coughing continued, becoming louder and louder. I reluctantly left my chair annoyed at the fact I had to move. I stared into the cot and saw that the baby’s skin was blue. I did not know the first thing about babies but I assumed that was not a good sign. I began to panic. If anything happened to it whilst Elodié was out she would never forgive herself. I couldn’t deal with that responsibility. I was angry with her for leaving me, but the baby’s coughing stopped me from thinking. I lifted it out of the cot and paced around the room, cradling it in my arms. I felt blood rush to my temples and I could hear my heart beat in my ears as if it were being amplified. I was out of my depth. I remembered the book Elodié had brought home from the library for me about parenting and at that moment I regretted not reading it. I couldn’t tell if it was the heat of the room or the adrenaline which was causing me to sweat. I carried the baby into the kitchen and laid it on the table. Only now did I realise how ridiculous it was that I had no idea how to look after a baby. I found the book under a pile of work papers and scanned it until I found a section about health. From the symptoms listed, it appeared that the baby had croup, which is apparently common in infants and affects the airway to the lungs. The coughing intensified; it couldn’t breathe. The book proclaimed the benefits of inhaling steam. I filled the kettle to the brim and waited.

I could feel my nails digging into my palms but I couldn’t stop it. I didn’t look at the baby. I couldn’t. The water boiled and I lifted the baby, holding it high enough above the steam for it not to be too hot. I don’t know how long I stood there. My head was still pounding due to the cacophony of noise engulfing the kitchen. The low whistle of the kettle and the harsh sound of the baby’s coughs made me shudder. But suddenly it stopped. I waited. The bluish tinge left the baby’s skin, and it began to cry quietly. My shoulders dropped in relief and a shaky laugh left my body. It was only when I noticed a drop of water on the baby’s head that I realised I’d been crying for what I think was the first time in twenty years. I returned to my chair and collapsed into it, holding the baby tightly against my chest. At that moment, I would rather have died than let go.

I must have fallen asleep as the clock now said it was nine o’clock and the baby was no longer in my arms. I heard Elodié in the kitchen talking to him and I smiled. I’d realised something important whilst sitting in my chair with the baby; I didn’t want him to go to another family. Maybe I could learn to be a father. I’m sure there are books in the library that explain this sort of thing. The same way that I can only enjoy drawing things that have already been created, like the Monet painting and the stained glass windows, maybe I can raise my sister’s child as it is not properly mine. There is something far more beautiful about other people’s creations than there has ever been about my own. This baby is like a painting; perhaps I can appreciate it now I understand that. I know that I will not be a good father; I do not have the patience nor the time. But there is something drawing me to that baby, as if it is an emotional addiction I have to satisfy. I do not understand love, but if I am capable of feeling it, I think that I must love him.

‘I packed his things whilst you were sleeping.’ Elodié said as I walked in the kitchen.