To my surprise each of them shook hands with me, as though this night together, in which we hadn’t exchanged a word, had created a kind of intimacy between us.
I was quite done in.
The keeper took me to his room, and I tidied myself up a bit.
He gave me some more “white” coffee, and it seemed to do me good.
When I went out, the sun was up and the sky mottled red above the hills between Marengo and the sea.
A morning breeze was blowing and it had a pleasant salty tang.
There was the promise of a very fine day.
I hadn’t been in the country for ages, and I caught myself thinking what an agreeable walk I could have had, if it hadn’t been for Mother.
As it was, I waited in the courtyard, under a plane tree.
I sniffed the smells of the cool earth and found I wasn’t sleepy any more.
Then I thought of the other fellows in the office.
At this hour they’d be getting up, preparing to go to work; for me this was always the worst hour of the day.
I went on thinking, like this, for ten minutes or so; then the sound of a bell inside the building attracted my attention.
I could see movements behind the windows; then all was calm again.
The sun had risen a little higher and was beginning to warm my feet.
The keeper came across the yard and said the warden wished to see me.
I went to his office and he got me to sign some document.
I noticed that he was in black, with pin-stripe trousers.
He picked up the telephone receiver and looked at me.
“The undertaker’s men arrived some moments ago, and they will be going to the mortuary to screw down the coffin.
Shall I tell them to wait, for you to have a last glimpse of your mother?” “No,” I said.
He spoke into the receiver, lowering his voice.
“That’s all right, Figeac. Tell the men to go there now.”
He then informed me that he was going to attend the funeral, and I thanked him.
Sitting down behind his desk, he crossed his short legs and leaned back. Besides the nurse on duty, he told me, he and I would be the only mourners at the funeral.
It was a rule of the Home that inmates shouldn’t attend funerals, though there was no objection to letting some of them sit up beside the coffin, the night before.
“It’s for their own sakes,” he explained, “to spare their feelings.
But in this particular instance I’ve given permission to an old friend of your mother to come with us.
His name is Thomas Perez.”
The warden smiled.
“It’s a rather touching little story in its way.
He and your mother had become almost inseparable.
The other old people used to tease Perez about having a fiancee. ‘When are you going to marry her?’ they’d ask.
He’d turn it with a laugh.
It was a standing joke, in fact.
So, as you can guess, he feels very badly about your mother’s death.
I thought I couldn’t decently refuse him permission to attend the funeral.
But, on our medical officer’s advice, I forbade him to sit up beside the body last night.”
For some time we sat there without speaking.
Then the warden got up and went to the window. Presently he said:
“Ah, there’s the padre from Marengo.
He’s a bit ahead of time.”
He warned me that it would take us a good three quarters of an hour, walking to the church, which was in the village.
Then we went downstairs.
The priest was waiting just outside the mortuary door. With him were two acolytes, one of whom had a censer.
The priest was stooping over him, adjusting the length of the silver chain on which it hung.
When he saw us he straightened up and said a few words to me, addressing me as, “My son.”
Then he led the way into the mortuary.
I noticed at once that four men in black were standing behind the coffin and the screws in the lid had now been driven home.
At the same moment I heard the warden remark that the hearse had arrived, and the priest starting his prayers.