the musicians began to play and Sofia made her way to the dressing room.
The Conservatory’s orchestra performed Dvorak’s concerto in just over thirty minutes. Sofia would allow herself fifteen to reach the exit.
Taking up her knapsack, she went straight to one of the bathrooms reserved for the musicians. Locking the door behind her, she kicked off her shoes and shed the beautiful blue dress that Marina had made. She took off the necklace that Anna had given her and dropped it on the dress. She donned the slacks and oxford shirt that her father had purloined from the Italian gentleman. Then looking into the small mirror above the sink, she took out the scissors that her father had given her and began to cut her hair.
This little implement in the shape of an egret, which had been so prized by her father’s sister, had clearly been designed for snipping, not shearing. The rings cut into the knuckles of Sofia’s thumb and forefinger as she tried and failed to cut through lengths of her hair. Beginning to shed tears of frustration, Sofia closed her eyes and took a breath. There is no time for that, she told herself. Wiping the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand, she began again—cutting smaller amounts of hair, working systematically around her head.
When she was finished, she swept up the hair with her hands and flushed it down the toilet, just as her father had instructed. Then from a side pocket in the knapsack she took the little black bottle that the barber of the Metropol had once used to dye those first gray hairs that appeared in his customers’ beards. The cap of the bottle had a small brush attached to it. Taking in hand the strip of white hair that had virtually defined her appearance since the age of thirteen, Sofia leaned over the sink and carefully brushed it with the dye until it was as black as the rest of her hair.
When she was done, she returned the bottle and the scissors to her pack. She took out the Italian’s cap and set it on the sink. Then she shifted her attention to the pile of clothes on the floor—and that is when she realized they had never considered her shoes. All she had was the elegant pair of high-heeled pumps that Anna had helped pick out for the Conservatory competition the year before. With little choice, she dumped them in the trash.
She scooped up the dress and necklace to dispose of them as well. Yes, Marina had made the dress and Anna had given her the necklace, but she couldn’t take them with her—of that, her father had left no doubt. If for any reason she was stopped and her bag was searched, these glamorous feminine items would give her away. Sofia hesitated for a moment, then she stuffed the dress into the trash with the shoes; but the necklace, she slipped into her pocket.
Securing the straps of the knapsack and swinging it onto her back, Sofia pulled the cap tightly onto her head, opened the bathroom door, and listened. The strings were beginning to swell, signaling the end of the third movement. Leaving the bathroom, she turned away from the dressing rooms and headed toward the back of the building. The music grew louder as she passed directly behind the stage. Then with the first notes of the final movement, she passed through the exit at the rear of the hall and went barefoot into the night.
Walking quickly, but not running, Sofia circled the Salle Pleyel to the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, where the well-lit entrance of the concert hall was located. Crossing the street, she stepped into a doorway and took off the Italian’s cap. From under the brim, she pulled out the little map that her father had cut from the Baedeker and folded into the size of a matchbook. Opening it, she oriented herself and then began following the red line half a block along Faubourg Saint-Honoré, down the Avenue Hoche to the Arc de Triomphe, and then left onto the Champs-Élysées, headed toward the Place de la Concorde.
In drawing this zigzagging line from the doors of the Salle Pleyel to the American Embassy, the Count had not chosen the most direct route. That would have been ten blocks straight along Faubourg Saint-Honoré. But the Count had wanted to get Sofia away from the concert hall as quickly as possible. This slight detour would