Pascale Petit, 7 January 1993
The air was full of Gitane Filtre, her reflection
transformed by the spray that lifts from torrents, the wardrobe-door open, her clothes pristine.
Some were in polythene, preserved in the mist from the day they were worn; a blue and peach suit
striped with Iceland’s primeval landscape where fire and ice hiss under Northern Lights.
She told me about her year in the Indian Embassy,...