Among the noises of the station a moan makes its way that makes me turn my head. Not because of the volume, far below the bustle of trains and people, but because of the rarity of the lament; sharp but serious, out of control. Where does that animal sound come from? It turns out to be the cry of a woman with her back turned, leaning over an information desk. Suddenly, a kind of anthropological thread, between compassionate and curious, unites us with her. It prevents us from taking our eyes off that convulsed body that now turns, and drops to the ground, squatting, with its head in its hands. The image of desolation. Other gazes like mine observe her from a distance.
People circulate around here who eat potatoes or suck ice cream to cool off the warm-up, young people who laugh and push each other, people who yell at a mobile or whisper to it, families with bags, couples with dogs. The woman doesn't care, she cries on the floor like a baby.
I begin an approximation in circles, with an anti-pollution cardboard cup, with coffee remains, attached to one hand. Several heads hang around the tragic scene. Who is she? What does she work on? What's wrong with her? Is she drunk? Is she crazy? What's her name? Has she received such terrible news to throw herself on the ground to cry like that? Do we all throw ourselves? Does she have reasons? Is it justified? What world has just collapsed?
The heads we approached; and we could have a meeting of heads to discern, secretly, if he belongs to our club of normal people, and it would be said that he does, because he wears quite normal boots, a skirt and a blue jacket that anyone could wear, a chestnut hair that it covers half of your face, no dirt is visible, and between your legs you have dropped a bag from a clothing store, where perhaps you just bought something. Everything indicates that this woman belongs to our club. But when we are about to put a hand on her shoulder, or caress her cheek, two of her security guards have already lifted her off the ground.
“What happened to her?” I ask one of them, as the woman walks away in her normal boots and dark blue jacket. "She has lost her documentation," she replies. "Ah," I say, "I thought it was something worse." The man looks me in the eye. "Don't believe it, it's very important to them," he says. And then I fall.
