And I can remember the look of the church, the villagers in the street, the red geraniums on the graves, Pérez’s fainting fit-he crumpled up like a rag doll-the tawny-red earth pattering on Mother’s coffin, the bits of white roots mixed up with it; then more people, voices, the wait outside a café for the bus, the rumble of the engine, and my little thrill of pleasure when we entered the first brightly lit streets of Algiers, and I pictured myself going straight to bed and sleeping twelve hours at a stretch.