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Maman died today. Or yesterday maybe, I don't know. I got a telegram from the

home: "Mother deceased. Funeral tomorrow. Faithfully yours." That doesn't mean

anything. Maybe it was yesterday.

 

The old people's home is at Marengo, about eighty kilometers from Algiers, I'll

take the two o'clock bus and get there in the afternoon. That way I can be there

for the vigil and come back tomorrow night. I asked my boss for two days off and

there was no way he was going to re­ fuse me with an excuse like that. But he

wasn't too happy about it. I even said, "It's not my fault." He didn't say

anything. Then I thought I shouldn't have said that. After all, I didn't have

anything to apologize for. He's the one who should have offered his condolences.

But he probably will day after tomorrow, when he sees I'm in mourning. For now,

it's almost as if Maman weren't dead. After the funeral, though, the case will

be closed, and everything will have a more official feel to it.

 

I caught the two o'clock bus. It was very hot. I ate at the restaurant, at

Celeste's, as usual. Everybody felt very sorry for me, and Celeste said, "You

only have onemother." When I left, they walked me to the door. I was a little

distracted because I still had to go up to Emmanuel's place to borrow a black

tie and an arm band. He lost his uncle a few months back.

 

I ran so as not to miss the bus. It was probably be­ cause of all the rushing

around, and on top of that the bumpy ride, the smell of gasoline, and the glare