The chapter opens with the narrator receiving a telegram announcing his mother’s death. Uncertain whether she died yesterday or today, he arranges to take the 2 o’clock bus from Algiers to the old‑people’s home in Marengo, about eighty kilometres away, and secures two days’ leave from his boss, who reluctantly agrees. On the bus he falls asleep and wakes beside a soldier, then walks the two kilometres from the station to the home.

At the home he is escorted to the director’s office. The director, an elderly man wearing the Legion of Honor ribbon, greets him warmly, shakes his hand for a long time, and reviews his mother’s file. He gently rebukes the narrator for not having been able to support her financially, but comforts him by explaining that the mother had been happier among the other residents, who were her peers and friends. The director arranges a religious burial despite the mother’s atheism and informs the narrator that the funeral will be at ten o’clock the next morning.

The narrator is led to a bright, white‑washed mortuary where his mother’s body lies in a closed casket on cross‑shaped sawhorses. An Arab nurse in a white smock and a scar‑faced caretaker (formerly from Paris, sixty‑four) attend the scene. The caretaker offers the narrator a chair, coffee with milk, and a cigarette; they talk lightly about the home’s routine, the heat that forces quick burials, and the caretaker’s own history as a former resident. The narrator declines to have the casket uncovered, feeling embarrassed.

During the night vigil the caretaker keeps the narrator’s company while the old residents drift in and out of sleep. Soon, about ten of the mother’s former friends arrive: mostly elderly women in aprons with bulging stomachs and thin men with canes. They sit silently, some weeping softly. One woman cries continuously; the caretaker consoles her and later explains that she was the mother’s closest friend. The narrator feels observed and judged but also strangely connected to the group. He drifts between drowsiness and wakefulness, noticing hornets buzzing, the bright sunlight, and the faint smacking noises of the old people. Eventually he falls asleep.

At dawn the residents prepare to leave. The director asks the narrator to sign paperwork and offers a final look at the mother, which the narrator declines. The director informs him that the undertaker’s men have arrived and that he will seal the casket. He also grants permission for the mother’s old friend, Thomas Pérez, to join the funeral procession, an exception to the home’s rule that residents do not attend funerals.

The narrator, director, nurse, caretaker, and Pérez walk to the village church. The procession is slow and oppressive under a scorching sun; the road is hot, the tar soft, and the hearse glistens like a pencil box. Pérez repeatedly falls behind, takes shortcuts across fields, and finally rejoins, his face streaked with tears. The narrator notes the heat, the sweat, the sound of insects, and the brightness of the sky. The priest, two altar boys, and four pall‑bearers accompany the hearse. Inside the church the casket’s screws are tightened, and the priest begins the rites. The nurse warns the narrator about sunstroke versus chill inside the church.

After the ceremony the narrator’s mind is filled with vivid images: Pérez’s tear‑streaked face, the red‑earth landscape, the geranium‑filled graves, the smell of leather, the oppressive heat, and the relief of returning to Algiers on the bus, anticipating a long sleep.