The death of an unknown woman

I probably ran into her a few times in the courtyard. My windows face the playground, so I could have heard her daughter’s voice. In summertime the girls ride around on their scooters, calling out: « Catch me! Catch me! » I moved here in January; I must have seen her coming home from work while I was out walking my dogs. In small towns you’re supposed to say hello to everyone you meet by your building. Maybe she was the woman sitting on the curb that day, smoking and eating a supermarket croissant. My dogs were excited to see her and trotted over, and she petted them. Maybe she was the woman raising the gray lid of the tobacco display at the SPAR when I asked if they had Vogue menthols — I often see women from nearby buildings working as clerks in the neighborhood shops. Maybe she was the woman throwing her scraps on the street for the strays, while I swore to myself as I went around picking up chicken bones — that’s really dangerous for dogs, eating bones could kill them. 

Imagining the life of the Unknown Woman is beyond my powers. I know that she existed and that she had a seven-year-old daughter. And I know the circumstances of her death. Because in small towns people say hello to their neighbors. And if you have a dog, or even two, as I do, your arrival won’t go unnoticed. The pensioner stationed outside will strike up a conversation, and if you respond respectfully, in the future this relationship will provide you with everything you need to know about the residents of your own building and the apartment blocks nearby.