Narrow streets, whitewashed shanties with red tile roofs, sheep assuming the right of way wherever they happened to wander. The funeral procession stopped when, I assumed, the lead car reached the church. Since there was nothing resembling a place to park, the rest of the cars simply stopped and disgorged their passengers. Sophie talked to our cabbie and told me he and the other drivers were going to take their vehicles out of town where they would wait for us until the service was over, then drop back around to pick us up. He showed her how the cardboard sign in his windshield would help us find him again, without which, of course, he couldn’t collect his fare. I stepped to one side of the street and slapped a cloud of dust off my clothes. Some fifty yards ahead of us stood a small stucco church. From the car behind the hearse, a young woman in the black of deep mourning and a boy of about seven climbed out and were led off toward the church. The little boy looked back toward me before they led him away.
