I think of catastrophes great and small. I think of my own. I think of fresh catastrophes and of those that have had time to take shape. The catastrophe in the railway compartment is slight and breathless, it possesses details that would be private were they not so fresh. Perhaps she thinks I cannot understand her because I spoke to her in English when I entered the compartment. But it makes no difference. I am not here. I don’t think it matters whether I am here or not. In her world there is only a stunned daughter and a listening mother.
