They sat down without a single chair creaking. I saw them more clearly than I

had ever seen anyone, and not one detail of their faces or their clothes escaped

me. But I couldn't hear them, and it was hard for me to be­ lieve they really

existed. Almost all the women were wearing aprons, and the strings, which were

tied tightaround their waists, made their bulging stomachs stick out even more.

I'd never noticed what huge stomachs old women can have. Almost all the men were

skinny and carried canes. What struck me most about their faces was that I

couldn't see their eyes, just a faint glimmer in a nest of wrinkles. When they'd

sat down, most of them looked at me and nodded awkwardly, their lips sucked in

by their toothless mouths, so that I couldn't tell if they were greeting me or

if it was just a nervous tic. I think they were greeting me. It was then that I

realized they were all sitting across from me, nodding their heads, grouped

around the caretaker. For a second I had the ridiculous feeling that they were

there to judge me.

 

Soon one of the women started crying. She was in the second row, hidden behind

one of her companions, and I couldn't see her very well. She was crying softly,

steadily, in little sobs. I thought she'd never stop. The others seemed not to

hear her. They sat there hunched up, gloomy and silent. They would look at the

casket, or their canes, or whatever else, but that was all they would look at.

The woman kept on crying. It surprised me, because I didn't know who she was. I

wished I didn't have to listen to her anymore. But I didn't dare say anything.

The caretaker leaned over and said some­ thing to her, but she shook her head,

mumbled some­ thing, and went on crying as much as before. Then the caretaker

came around to my side. He sat down next to me. After a long pause he explained,