BETWEEN YES AND NO
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would be reborn, the round light of the kerosene lamp, the oilcloth,
the cries, the coarse words. But for the time being the silence marks
a stopping point, a moment beyond reckoning. Because he has felt
this confusedly, the child thinks that the burst of feeling within him is
love for his mother. And he ought to, for after all it is his mother.
She is not thinking of anything. Outside is the light, the noises;
here, the silence in the night. The child will grow up, will learn. They
are bringing him up and they will expect gratitude, as if they were
sparing him suffering. His mother will always have these spells of
silence. And he will grow in suffering. Being a man, that's what
counts. His grandmother will die, then his mother, and he.
The mother has jumped up with a start. She has been frightened.
He looks idiotic staring at her that way. Let him go do his homework.
The child has done
his
homework. Today he is in a sordid cafe. He
is now a man. Isn't that what counts? The answer must be no, since
doing one's homework and agreeing to be a man lead to being old.
The Arab in his corner, still squatting, is holding his feet between
his hands. From the terraces, a smell of grilled coffee rises up with
the lively chattering of young voices. A tugboat again sounds its
deep and tender note. The world draws to a close here, as every day,
and nothing now remains of all its measureless torments but this pro–
mise of peace. The indifference of this strange mother! Only the im–
mense solitude of the world shows me what it really is. One night,
her son-who was already grown-was called to her side. She had
received a shock which resulted in a serious emotional disturbance.
She was in the habit of sitting out on the balcony at the end of the
day. She would take a chair and put her mouth on the cold salty iron
of the balcony. She would then watch the people go by. Behind her,
the night would gradually deepen. In front of her, the stores would
suddenly light up. The street would swell with people and light.
She would lose herself in an aimless contemplation. On the evening
in question, a man had suddenly appeared behind her, had dragged
her, treated her brutally and fled upon hearing some noise. She had
seen nothing and had fainted. She was lying in bed when her son
arrived. He decided, upon the advice of a doctor, to spend the night
at her side. He stretched out on the bed, beside her, upon the blankets.
It was summer. The fear of the recent scene lingered in the over–
heated room. Footsteps shuffled by and doors creaked. In the heavy
