I thought she might be an elderly street walker when I saw her come in on the first night. She was wearing white boots, brown stockings, a short black skirt and a white jacket. She changed into her jeans to sleep.

I’ve seen her with a phone to her ear, but I’ve never heard her speak.

Her hair is platinum blonde- helmet perfect- under tucked with combs. She’s painfully thin- what does one politely call that in a woman? Slender, slight – these sound too willowy, supple- too young lithe. She’s bone dry. She only wears black and white. She doesn’t make eye contact. She doesn’t speak. She isn’t spoken to. She doesn’t use the house linen. She has a plastic sheet over her bed. She sleeps on it, always completely clothed. She uses her own blanket and covers her head when she sleeps. Her hair is still perfect when she emerges. She has a duffle bag which looks to weigh more than she does. She’s tall.

Maybe she is sad.

Greg said she was not without graces- she had been practicing her moves in the common room before she set off to a soirée at the French Embassy. She had asked him how he thought she should approach dignitaries.

Maybe there’s a body in that duffle. Maybe she’s a spy. DC has the most spies of any city in the world.

She’s a woman of mystery.

The other one- she’s no mystery at all. If you give her a glance she will tell you everything she knows in English, French and Spanish. Unfortunately, she doesn’t seem to know ever so much other than those languages.

Mysteries are so much better for one’s imagination.