it. That's partly why I didn't go there much this past year. And also because it

took up my Sunday-not to mention the trouble of getting to the bus, buying

tickets, and spending two hours traveling.

 

The director spoke to me again. But I wasn't really listening anymore. Then he

said, "I suppose you'd like to see your mother." I got up without saying

anything and he led the way to the door. On the way downstairs, he explained,

"We've moved her to our little mortuary. So as not to upset the others. Whenever

one of the residents dies, the others are a bit on edge for the next two or

three days. And that makes it difficult to care for them." We crossed a

courtyard where there were lots of old people chatting in little groups. As we

went by, the talk­ ing would stop. And then the conversation would start up

again behind us. The sound was like the muffied jabber of parakeets. The

director stopped at the door of a small building. ''I'll leave you now, Monsieur

Meur­ sault. If you need me for anything, I'll be in my office. As is usually

the case, the funeral is set for ten o'clock in the morning. This way you'll be

able to keep vigil over the departed. One last thing: it seems your mother often

expressed to her friends her desire for a religious burial. I've taken the

liberty of making the necessary arrangements. But I wanted to let you know." I

thanked him. While not an atheist, Maman had never in her life given a thought

to religion.

 

I went in. It was a very bright, whitewashed room with a skylight for a roof.

The furniture consisted of some chairs and some cross-shaped sawhorses. Two of

them, in the middle of the room, were supporting a closed casket. All you could