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 add only a few minutes to Sofia’s journey, but it would allow her to disappear into the anonymity of the Champs-élysées; and she should still have enough time to reach the embassy before her absence was discovered.
But when the Count had made this calculation, what he had failed to take into account was the impact upon a twenty-one-year-old girl of seeing the Arc de Triomphe and the Louvre lit up at night for the very first time. True, Sofia had seen them both the day before, along with plenty of other sights; but just as the Count had imagined, she had seen them through the window of a bus. It was a different thing altogether to see them at the onset of summer, having received an ovation, changed one’s appearance, and escaped into the night. . . .
For while in the classical tradition there was no Muse of architecture, I think we can agree that under the right circumstances, the appearance of a building can impress itself upon one’s memory, affect one’s sentiments, and even change one’s life. Just so, risking minutes that she did not have to spare, Sofia came to a stop at the Place de la Concorde and turned slowly in place, as if in a moment of recognition.
On the night before she had left Moscow, when Sofia had expressed her distress at what her father wanted her to do, he had attempted to console her with a notion. He had said that our lives are steered by uncertainties, many of which are disruptive or even daunting; but that if we persevere and remain generous of heart, we may be granted a moment of supreme lucidity—a moment in which all that has happened to us suddenly comes into focus as a necessary course of events, even as we find ourselves on the threshold of a bold new life that we had been meant to lead all along.
When her father had made this claim, it had seemed so outlandish, so overblown that it had not assuaged Sofia’s distress in the least. But turning in place on the Place de la Concorde, seeing the Arc de Triomphe, and the Eiffel Tower, and the Tuileries, and the cars and Vespas zipping around the great obelisk, Sofia had an inkling of what her father had been trying to say.
“Was it like this all night?”
Richard Vanderwhile, who was standing in his apartment in the embassy, had just noticed the angle of his bow tie in the bedroom mirror. It was at a slant of twenty-five degrees.
“Your tie is always like that, my dear.”
Richard turned to his wife in shock.
“Always! Why on earth haven’t you ever said anything?”
“Because I think it makes you look rakish.”
Giving the nod of one who could make do with “rakish,” Richard took another look in the mirror, then pulled the tie loose, hung his tuxedo jacket on the back of his chair, and was about to suggest a nightcap when there was a knock at the door. It was Richard’s attaché.
“What is it, Billy?”
“I’m sorry to bother you at this hour, sir. But there is a young man asking for you.”
“A young man?”
“Yes. Apparently, he is seeking asylum. . . .”
Richard raised his eyebrows.
“Asylum from what?”
“I’m not certain, sir. But he isn’t wearing any shoes.”
Mr. and Mrs. Vanderwhile exchanged looks.
“Well then, I guess you had better show him in.”
The attaché returned a minute later with a young man in a newsboy’s cap who was, in fact, barefoot. In the manner of the polite but anxious, the young man took off his cap and held it at his waist in both hands.
“Billy,” said Mrs. Vanderwhile, “this is not a young man.”
The attaché’s eyes widened.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” said Richard. “Sofia Rostov.”
Sofia smiled with an expression of relief: “Mr. Vanderwhile.”
Richard told his attaché he could go, then he approached Sofia with a grin and took her by the elbows.
“Let me get a good look at you.” Without letting go of Sofia, Richard turned to his wife. “Didn’t I tell you she was a beauty?”
“You certainly did,” said Mrs. Vanderwhile with a smile.
Although from Sofia’s perspective, it was Mrs. Vanderwhile who was the beauty.
“What a terrific turn of events,” said Richard.
“You weren’t . . . expecting me?” asked Sofia tentatively.
“Of course we were! But your father has grown quite fond of all this cloak-and-dagger business. He assured me that you were coming, but he wouldn’t let me know when, where, or how. And he certainly didn’t tell me you’d be arriving as a barefoot boy.” Richard pointed to Sofia’s knapsack. “Is that all you brought with you?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Are you hungry?” asked Mrs. Vanderwhile.
Before Sofia could respond, Richard chimed in: “Of course she’s hungry. I’m hungry and I’ve just returned from a dinner. I’ll tell you what, my dear: Why don’t you see if you can scare up some clothes for Sofia, while she and I have a chat. Then we can all rendezvous in the kitchen.”
While Mrs. Vanderwhile went in search of clothes, Richard led Sofia into his study and sat on the edge of his desk.
“I can’t tell you how excited we are to have you in house, Sofia. And I do so hate putting business before pleasure. But once we sit down to eat, I suspect we’ll be swept away with stories of your adventures. So, before we go to the kitchen, your father mentioned that you might have something for me. . . .”
Sofia looked shy and hesitant.
“My father said that you might have something for me first. . . .”
Richard laughed and slapped his hands together.