dragged along, whimpering.

 

Just then my other neighbor carne in. The word around the neighborhood is that

he lives off women. But when you ask him what he does, he's a "warehouse guard."

Generally speaking, he's not very popular. But he often talks to me and

sometimes stops by my place for a minute, because I listen to him. I find what

he.has to say interesting. Besides, I don't have any reason not to talk to him.

His name is Raymond Sintes. He's a little on the short side, with broad

shoulders and a nose like a boxer's. He always dresses very sharp. And once he

said to me, talking about Salarnano, "If that isn't pitiful!" He asked me didn't

I think it was disgusting and I said no.

 

We went upstairs and I was about to leave him when he said, "I've got some blood

sausage and some wine at my place. How about joining me?" I figured it would

save me the trouble of having to cook for myself, so I ac­ cepted. He has only

one room too, and a little kitchen with no window. Over his bed he has a

pink-and-white plaster angel, some pictures of famous athletes, and two or three

photographs of naked women. The room was dirty and the bed was unmade. First he

lit his paraffin lamp, then he took a pretty dubious-looking bandage out of his

pocket and wrapped it around his right hand. I asked him what he'd done to it.

He said he'd been in a fight with some guy who was trying to start trouble.

 

"You see, Monsieur Meursault," he said, "it's not that I'm a bad guy, butl have

a short fuse. This guy says to me, 'If you're man enough you'll get down off

that streetcar.' I said, 'C'mon, take it easy.' Then he said, 'You're yellow.'