When we lived together, Mother was always watching me, but we hardly ever talked.
During her first few weeks at the Home she used to cry a good deal.
But that was only because she hadn’t settled down.
After a month or two she’d have cried if she’d been told to leave the Home.
Because this, too, would have been a wrench.
That was why, during the last year, I seldom went to see her.
Also, it would have meant losing my Sunday—not to mention the trouble of going to the bus, getting my ticket, and spending two hours on the journey each way.
The warden went on talking, but I didn’t pay much attention.
Finally he said:
“Now, I suppose you’d like to see your mother?”
I rose without replying, and he led the way to the door.
As we were going down the stairs he explained:
“I’ve had the body moved to our little mortuary—so as not to upset the other old people, you understand.
Every time there’s a death here, they’re in a nervous state for two or three days.
Which means, of course, extra work and worry for our staff.”
We crossed a courtyard where there were a number of old men, talking amongst themselves in little groups.
They fell silent as we came up with them.
Then, behind our backs, the chattering began again.
Their voices reminded me of parakeets in a cage, only the sound wasn’t quite so shrill.
The warden stopped outside the entrance of a small, low building.
“So here I leave you, Monsieur Meursault.
If you want me for anything, you’ll find me in my office.
We propose to have the funeral tomorrow morning.
That will enable you to spend the night beside your mother’s coffin, as no doubt you would wish to do.
Just one more thing; I gathered from your mother’s friends that she wished to be buried with the rites of the Church.
I’ve made arrangements for this; but I thought I should let you know.”
I thanked him.
So far as I knew, my mother, though not a professed atheist, had never given a thought to religion in her life.
I entered the mortuary.
It was a bright, spotlessly clean room, with whitewashed walls and a big skylight.
The furniture consisted of some chairs and trestles.
Two of the latter stood open in the center of the room and the coffin rested on them.
The lid was in place, but the screws had been given only a few turns and their nickeled heads stuck out above the wood, which was stained dark walnut.
An Arab woman—a nurse, I supposed—was sitting beside the bier; she was wearing a blue smock and had a rather gaudy scarf wound round her hair.
Just then the keeper came up behind me. He’d evidently been running, as he was a little out of breath.
“We put the lid on, but I was told to unscrew it when you came, so that you could see her.”
While he was going up to the coffin I told him not to trouble.
“Eh? What’s that?” he exclaimed.
“You don’t want me to ...?”
“No,” I said.
He put back the screwdriver in his pocket and stared at me. I realized then that I shouldn’t have said, “No,” and it made me rather embarrassed.
After eying me for some moments he asked:
“Why not?” But he didn’t sound reproachful; he simply wanted to know.
“Well, really I couldn’t say,” I answered.
He began twiddling his white mustache; then, without looking at me, said gently:
“I understand.”
He was a pleasant-looking man, with blue eyes and ruddy cheeks.
He drew up a chair for me near the coffin, and seated himself just behind.
The nurse got up and moved toward the door.
As she was going by, the keeper whispered in my ear: