Iron In The Soul

354 Pages·1963·16.77 MB·English

by  Jean Paul Sartre

PENGUIN ROOKS
IRON IN THE SOUL
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Iron in Soul
JEAN-PAUL SARTRE
TRANSLATED BY
GERARD HOPKINS
PENGUIN BOOKS
IN ASSOCIAT;tON WITH
HAMISH HAMILTON

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PART ONE
*
New York: Saturday, 15 fune 1940. 9 a.m.
AN octopus? He pulled out his knife and opened his eyes - it
was a dream. No, it wasn't. The octo.pus was a reality, and
it was draining him with its suckers : it was the heat. He was
sweating. He had gone to sleep about one o'clock. At two the
heat had woken him. Streaming with sweat, he ha? plunged
into a cold bath, and had then got back into bed without drying
himself. Almost at once the furnace had resumed its roaring
under his skin, and he had begun to sweat again. At dawn he
had fallen asleep, only to dream that the house was on fire. The
sun must be pretty high by this time. Not for a moment did
Gomez stop sweating. He had been sweating uninterruptedly for
forty-eight hours. 'Christ I' he muttered, passing a damp hand
over his streaming chest. This was more than mere heat -a sick­
ness of the atmosphere. The very air was in a fever, the very air
was sweating, and human beings were sweating within a cara­
pace of sweat. He must get out of bed : he must put on his shirt
and start sweating in that. He sat up. 'Hombre! I haven't a dry
shirt left I' Bis last, the blue one, was soaked, because he had had
to change twice a day. None left. He would have to wear this sop­
ping, stinking rag until his things came back from the laundry.
Very cautiously he got to his feet, but no matter how slowly he
moved, the moisture poured from him. Great drops crept down
'his legs, like lice, tickling him. His crumpled shirt lay. across
the back of the armchair, a mass of creases. He felt it. Nothing
ever gets properly dry in this bloody country. His heart was
thumping: his mouth tasted like the bottom of a parrot's cage,
just as though he'd had a thick night.
He put on his trousers, went across to the window, and pulled
aside the curtains. The street glared up at him, a catastrophic
dazzle of white sunlight. 'Thirteen more hours of daylight to
face. In a mingled mood of suffering and fury he gazed down
at the roadway. Everywhere the same catastrophe. Over there,
blood and screams on the good, black earth, under a pall of
smoke: here a blinding sunlight between rows of low, red-brick
7
houses - sunlight and sweat. But the catastrophe was the same.
Two Negroes wex:e strolling along the sidewalk, laughing: a
woman was just going into a drugstore. 'Oh God I' he muttered,
'Oh, God I' He looked at the screaming confusion of discordant
colours. 'Even i£ I had the time, even if I were in the mood, how
could I paint in light like this I Oh, God I he exclaimed, 'Oh,
j
God I'
There was a ring at the bell: Gomez went across and opened
the door. It was Ritchie. _
'Darned murder, that's what it is,' said Ritchie as he came in.
Gomez gave a start:
'What d'you meanr'
'This heat -darned murder. Hello I' -he went on accu:singly-
'you not dressed yet? Ramdn's expecting us at ten.'
Gomez shrugged:
'Didn't get to sleep till late.'
Ritchie grinned, and Gomez added hastily:
'Too hot -couldn't get off.'
'Always like that at first,' said Ritchie breezily; 'you'll get used
to it.' He gave the other an appraising look;: 'See here, you
taking your salt-pills?'
'Of course I am, but they don't do a bit of good.'
Ritchie shook his head: there was a touch of severity in his
friendliness. Salt pills ought to stop sweating. If they didn't
stop Gomez, that must be because Gomez was different from
other guys.
'Wait a minute!' he said with a frown: 'You should be
acclimatized by this time: Spain's plenty hot I'
Gomez's mind went back to the dry, tragic mornings in
Madrid, to the noble light of the sun above the Alcala when it
was still speaking of hope. He shook his head.
'Not the same kind of heat.'
'Less humid, eh?' - there was a note almost of pride in
Ritchie's voice.
'Yes, and more human.'
Ritchie was holding a newspaper. Gomez stretched a hand to
take it, but his courage failed him, and he let it fall back.
'This is my big day,' said Ritchie cheerfully: 'Delaware cele­
brations: that's my home-town, y'see.'
8
He opened the paper at page thirteen. Gomez saw photo­
a
graph of La Guardia shaking hands with a fat man. Both of them
were smiling broadly.
'Guy on the left's the Governor vf Delaware,' explained
Ritchie: 'La Guardia received him yesterday at City Hall:
pretty big occasion.'
Gomez wanted to snatch the paper from him and look at the
front page. But he thought: 'What the hell do I care I' and
went into the bathroom. He started running cold water into the
tub, and shaved hurriedly. Just as he was getting into his bath,
Ritchie called to him:
'How you getting along?'
'Just about cleaned out: not a clean shirt to my name, and
eighteen dollars left. Manuel's due back, too, on Monday, and I
shall have to clear out of the apartment.'
But his mind was on the newspaper. Ritchie was reading it
while he waited. Gomez could hear him turning the pages. He
dried hims�lf carefully: but it was no use: the towel was wring­
ing wet. He put on his damp shirt with a shiver, and went back
into the bedroom.
'The Giants' big game.'
Gomez looked at Ritchie. He had no idea what he was talking
about.
'Baseball -yesterday-the Giants won.'
'Oh yes, of course, baseball .•• .'
He bent down to tie his shoes. He tried to read the front-page
headlines upside down. Finally, he asked:
'What about Paris?'
'Didn't you hear the radio?'
'Haven't got a radio.'
'Finished, washed up' - said Ritchie without any show of
excitement. 'They got into it last night.'
Gomez went over to the window ana pressed his forehead to
1
the blazing pane. He looked at the street, at the meaningless
sun, at the whole meaningless day. There would be nothing
now, any more, but meaningless days. He turAed away and
dropped on to the bed.
'Hurry,' said Ritchie: 'Ramon doesn't like to be kept wait­
ing.'
9
Gomez got up. Already his shirt needed wringing. He began
to knot his tie in front of the glass.
'Think he'll agree?'
'In principle, yes. Sixty dollars a week -and you can do the art
shows. But he wants to see you.'
'He'll see me all right,' said Gomez,: 'he'll see me.'
Then he swung round.
'I've got to have an advance -is he likely to give it me?'
Ritchie shrugged. After brief pause, he said:
a:
'I've told him you were in Spain, and he doesn't exactly think
you've got Fxanco written on your heart, but I didn't say any­
thing about� •. about what you'd been doing there. Better not
say you were a General ••. nobody really knows what he thinks
'
about things.'
A General l Gomez looked at his shabby trousers, at the dark
sweat stains already showing oh his shirt. He said bitterly:
'Don't worry: I'm not likely to boast. I know only too well
what it costs a man here to have fought in Spain. For six months
.now I haven't had a smell of a job I'
Ritchie showed signs of annoyance.
'We Americans don't like war,' he S!lid.
' Gomez stuffed his jacket under his arm:
'Let's get going.' .
Ritchie slowly folded the paper and scrambled to his feet. On
their way downstairs, he asked a questiqn:
'Your wife and kid in Paris?'
'I sincerely hope not,' s;iid Gomez briskly. ·� hope Sarah was
sharp enough to leg it down to Montpe1lier.'
He paused for a moment, and then added: 'I haven't had any
news of them since the first of June.'
'If you get this job you'll be able 'to bring tern across,' said
·
Ritchie.
'Yes,' said Gomez: 'yes -nothing for it but to wait and see:'
The street was a dazzle of windows. The sun blazed down on
the flat-roofed warehouses of blackish brick. In front of every
door was a flight of white stone steps. Over towards the East
River there was a heat-haze. The whole city looked stunted. No
shade anywhere. In no street in the world would one feel so
terribly exposed. White-hot needles seemed to pierce his eyes. He
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