on the death of one's colleague

very very strange thing, the death of one's colleague, and at their disappearance we only then realise their greatness and kindness somehow... Gudrun was a colleague of mine and I chatted with her on Monday (or some time last week I am not sure) about her holidays, the great time she had driving in the States visiting so many places there, and me telling her about one mistake I had made (forgot to order one of the textbooks for German) and her being so kind about this, almost humourous, me commenting about how neat and nice her working space was... then I believe it was the day after, I saw her in the restaurant while I was having lunch with other colleagues, and then that was it, next time I heard something about her, she was dead. And we went to lunch at the same restaurant, and I sat, without noticing I have to say, at the place where she was sitting when I had last saw her. Very very strange indeed, the accidental death of once's colleague, too young to die really. And I had heard (as we all did) of an accident. So, of course, thinking of a big accident on the motorway (especially that Gudrun told us about some close shave she had on the motorway a few months before). But no, not at all, she died because she had fallen down the stairs. She had stayed overnight at St John's, after a college diner, and felt down the stairs (probably very medieval steps of stairs, this is St John's after all!) in the morning. And that was that really, a stupid, silly death. Or so we think... but I did, last century (yes this is a while ago now...), study the history of European music and remembered the touching and intimate pages written by Louis Couperin and his friend Froberger about the death of monsieur de Blancrocher, musician, who died after falling down a step of stairs. I am listening to the Couperin's piece now.

It is funny somehow (or perhaps I should use another word, other than "funny" as indeed suddenly we are somehow prude about the words we are using when death is around) how differently we react to the news of death, or some other bad news I suppose. When our boss called us all in the library to say he had some bad news to tell, another colleague and I had tears coming out very easily, and no one else did, but so what? Does the measuring of O.litters of salted tears accounts for what one's truly feels?

There is a text by Montaigne I believe (quoting the ancients but I have not read them) speaking about this... this king who loses his son and hardly cries, but then loses it completely when he loses his dog... one can never measure one's sorrow and we all have our own ways to cope with this, and can be surprised by it... hence me rushing to the church opposite and asking, who was that? St Antony's to take Gudrun into paradise if such thing would exist... and then coming back to work, and doing a guided tour of the library with a smile and asking the IT Officer about something... and that was the whole of the week really, meeting shocked colleagues and sharing a tear or two and then forgetting about it all to do my job required at this time of the year (tours, tours, tours). Spending time also forgetting and remembering it had happened, and not believing, and I still somehow, do not believe I will not see Gudrun again. Last time I had a colleague dying, and I had not been a colleague for a while when I heard, but I had been very attached to her, I did see her so often, so often after she had gone. It has not happened with Gudrun so far, but so far somehow I am not believing it, that she has gone. I can remember her voice and laughter quite well, I can hear her if I wish. And really, it was yesterday almost our conversations. The information will sink in somehow, slowly.

I have just been listening to the Froberger version of the tombeau. How in the end, it finished with a descending scale to figure the fall, how we have to accept that "ridiculous" small death, what we call these days "domestic incidents", happen still. And they are death also, and not ridiculous at all, intimate rather.