I won’t do it, she wrote.

Again, the reply came quickly.

It’s your decision.

For a long time, Norah sat there, staring at the messages. She was sure the other person was doing the same. Was it possible to get a feel for someone you were only texting? Norah tried to listen to her gut. Man or woman? she wondered. Woman. Old or young? Old. Older than Norah anyway. Or was she? Already Norah was beginning to feel less certain. Glancing at her watch, she realised that the sun was about to rise.

Don’t you ever sleep? she wrote.

Three dots jumped up and down on the screen.

I can’t.

Why not?

I’m too sad.

Why? Norah asked.

There was no reply for a long time; then she saw that the other person was writing a message.

I’m lonely.

Me too, Norah thought. She put her phone down and waited for the sun to rise.

50

Rain pelted against the windows and the winter landscape was a never-ending strip of earthy brown, tired green and dead grey. Behind Norah, across the aisle, sat an elderly couple whose old faces looked grimly similar, as is sometimes the way with people who have lived together for a long time. Norah had often wondered whether one changed more than the other—and if so, which—or whether the two met somewhere in the middle. Further up the carriage, Norah could hear a group of teenagers talking in an almost impenetrable dialect. She was glad the train wasn’t crowded and that the seat next to her was empty so that she was spared having to make conversation.

Arriving at the station to catch the Salzburg train—it was the day she was to interview the conductor—Norah had heard piano music in the distance and soon spotted a grand piano which had been put there so that passing train travellers could entertain one another. It was something she’d often seen in other cities—at the airport in Rome, for instance, and in various stations in the Netherlands—and she’d always admired those who had the guts to sit down and play in public. As she hurried to her platform, she saw that in this case the pianist was a young woman. Norah vaguely recognised the pop song she was playing, without knowing what it was, and the tune must have lodged itself in her head because she soon heard exasperated throat clearing behind her and realised she was humming along. She fell silent—and then gave a start when her phone rang.

‘Norah?’ said Max.

‘Yes, hi,’ she said. ‘How are you doing?’

‘Norah? I can barely hear you. Hello?’

‘Yes. Sorry. Hello? Sorry, I’m on the train.’

‘Ah, now I can hear you,’ said Max. ‘Can you hear me?’

‘I can hear you. What’s up?’

Instinctively, Norah glanced over her shoulder at the elderly couple, as if she could feel their disapproving looks on the back of her head. And indeed: the corners of their mouths had slipped even lower. If she hadn’t had an alarmed-sounding Max at the other end of the line, she’d have been tempted to smile.