THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 7, 2013
As the plane circled Zurich, I felt myself begin to sweat. Dark crescents soaked under the sleeves of the HOTLANTA sweatshirt. Does it go without saying that I had not slept? That I had passed the entire overnight flight worrying? Of the many images that tormented me, the worst was imagining how Mom and Dad would react when they learned what I had done. I hated knowing I would cause such pain. Hated knowing that I couldn’t call to comfort them, or to explain myself. In my life, I’ve never gone more than a day without speaking to my parents. Now I might be forced to go months, or years, or forever.
We were scheduled to land just after noon in Switzerland. Just after 6:00 a.m. in Atlanta. I had no idea what might have happened in the nine hours we had been in the air. Unless she was an abnormally early riser, the Sinclares’ housekeeper would not have entered their house yet. But Betsy might have thrashed herself free, or a friend could have dropped by the house and found the body, or any number of other scenarios could have transpired. It seemed more likely than not that Swiss police would be waiting to drag me off in chains, the moment we touched down.
I had weighed whether to change into my new clothes on the plane, or after landing. I went with the latter. I was stuck with being Caroline Cashion up until the moment I crossed the Swiss border; I needed to match my passport photo. After the border, all bets were off.
The plane bumped down onto the runway. Taxied to the gate. All seemed normal. I stepped off the plane, head down, avoiding eye contact. The throng of passengers shuffled toward passport control. I joined a long line. Around me slumped bleary-eyed, jet-lagged travelers, sneaking glances at their e-mail despite signs banning cell phone use in this section of the airport. I envied their insouciance. Wanted felons such as myself couldn’t risk pissing off the guards.
My heart pounded when at last my turn came. I had been hoping for the grandmotherly officer in Lane 7. Instead I was waved toward Lane 5, presided over by a blond man with piggy eyes and multiple chins. He flipped through my passport unhurriedly.
“Purpose of your visit?”
“Tourist.” This was always the right answer, no matter what actually brought you to a country. Otherwise there would inevitably be some problem with your visa, some work permit you had failed to obtain, some form you’d forgotten to get stamped.
“How long are you staying in Switzerland?”
“Just transiting en route to Italy,” I lied.
He scanned the bar code in my passport. I held my breath. Now he was scrutinizing the main page, the one showing my photo and personal data. Slowly he raised his eyes to mine. “Alles Gute zum Geburtstag,” he said sternly.
I am a linguist, as you know. I speak French couramment, my accent indistinguishable from a native’s. I speak Italian and Spanish well. For reasons that now elude me, I had studied Mandarin for a year in college, and I can still direct a taxi or order the Peking duck in Beijing without resorting to sign language. But German? Nein. Barely a word. I’m not even sure I can count to ten.
I spread my hands in a gesture of incomprehension and gave him a shaky smile.
He did not return it. “Alles Gute zum Geburtstag!” he said, more agitated this time. The passport officer in Lane 6 stopped what she was doing to peer over.
Was this it? Was he onto me? Had the bar-code scan triggered an alert?
“Sie sprechen kein Deutsch? I saying, happy birthday. Soon you are turning . . . achtunddrei?ig. In English, how you say? Thirty-eight.”
He raised his hand and brought it down to crunch a rectangular, red stamp into my passport.
My knees had gone so weak I had to concentrate to walk away.
? ? ?
IN THE LADIES’ room of the airport bus terminal I dropped my skirt to the floor. Off next came the rhinestone HOTLANTA hoodie. Hallelujah.
For this next act I had to screw up my courage. I hadn’t managed to find proper scissors for sale in the Arrivals Hall, but I did stumble upon a vending machine that stocked travel necessities, from disposable socks to plastic rain ponchos to mini–sewing kits. Inside this last item was a teensy pair of scissors for snipping thread.
I pulled my hair down over my eyes. I should have had a mirror to do this, but I couldn’t bear to watch. A hank of glossy, dark hair came off in my hand. I held it for a moment, remembering how Will had wrapped his fingers around these same strands, outside another airport, in what felt like another lifetime. I shook my head to dispel the thought and let the hair drop on top of my discarded clothes. Snip snip snip. The scissors were nowhere near big enough for the job; it took ages to work my way around, sawing off my curls to within an inch of my scalp.
When I was finished, I felt naked in a way that had nothing to do with my standing in the stall of a bus station bathroom wearing only my underwear. I bundled up my old clothes, my old hair. Exited the bathroom without permitting myself to check my reflection in the mirror above the sinks.
Ten minutes later, a mousy-looking woman wearing sensible boots and a beige sweater boarded a bus for Freiburg, Germany.
? ? ?
I NEEDED TO make my way west and north across Europe. But it seemed unwise to chart too straight a line. I had booked my flight into Zurich for this very reason: to create a record of me entering a different city, in a different country, than the one to which I was actually headed.