They were kind enough, or had enough time on their hands, to carry out the funeral and pay for the undertaker, the parish priest, the carpenters, the sextons, and the hearse that carried his body from the hostel to the cemetery. They were in a sense his brothers and sisters, if of different mothers and religions. Their were only really distinguished by their names, or at least their nicknames, which they had brought from their home countries or acquired through some unusual exploit here. They had known him only as “the guy the bitches don’t bark at,” because he was the only person who, in the yard in front of the dormitory, at the windows, in the dining hall, or on the street that led to the town. was left in peace by the hungry, continually pregnant bitches who guarded their litters hereabouts. Perhaps he knew the language of dogs.
