knife went in. The apartment is silent. She goes to the bedroom. These ten paces took all the energy she could muster and she sits on the corner of the bed. One wall of the room is lined with wardrobes. Hands on her knees, Sophie painfully shuffles over and opens the first door. There is enough here to clothe an entire orphanage. She and Véronique are about the same size. She opens the second door, the third, and finally finds a suitcase which she tosses, open, onto the bed. She chooses dresses because she does not have time to find tops that would go well with the skirts. She takes three pairs of well-worn jeans. The effort of doing something brings her back to life. Without even thinking, she picks out things that are most unlike her own style. Behind the last door, she finds drawers full of underwear. She puts a handful into the case. As for shoes, at a glance she can see that they range from horrid to hideous. She takes two of the ugliest pairs and a pair of trainers. Then she sits on the suitcase so that she can snap it shut, drags it into the hall and leaves it next to her bag. In the bathroom, she washes her face without looking at herself. Looking in the mirror she notices that the sleeve of her jacket is stained with blood and rips it off as though it were on fire. Back in the bedroom, she opens the wardrobe again, spends four seconds choosing a jacket, optingfor something bland in navy blue. In the time it takes to transfer the contents of her pockets to the jacket, she is standing in the hall, her ear pressed to the front door.
She can still picture herself clearly. Gingerly she opens the door, takes the suitcase in one hand, her handbag in the other, and leaves, taking the lift, her stomach heaving, her eyes now dry of tears, as though drained. Jesus, the suitcase feels heavy. Probably because she is so tired. A few steps and she is opening the door to the street, she is out on boulevard Diderot and turns left, away from the train station.
7
Shehas propped the passport on the washbasin, open at the photograph, and is studying herself in the mirror. Her eyes flick back and forth from her face to the photograph. She picks up the passport again and checks the issue date: 1993. It is old enough for her to pass. Véronique Fabre, born February 11, 1970 – not much of an age gap – in Chevreaux. She has not the faintest idea where Chevreaux might be. Somewhere in the middle of France? Not a clue. She will have to look it up.
Translator. Véronique said that she translated from English and Russian. Sophie, when it comes to languages . . . A little English, a few words of Spanish, and that was long ago. If she has to offer proof of her occupation, things will fall apart, but she cannot imagine any circumstances in which it might arise. Come up with more improbable languages: Lithuanian, Estonian?
The impersonal passport photograph shows an unremarkable woman with short hair and banal features. Sophie looks at herself in the mirror. Her forehead is higher, her nose broader, her eyes are very different. But she has to do something. She opens the plastic bag containing everything she has just bought at thenearby Monoprix: scissors, a make-up bag, dark glasses, hair dye. One last glance in the mirror. She sets to work.
8
Shetries to read her fate. Standing beneath the departures board, her suitcase next to her, she scans the destinations, the times, the platform numbers. Choosing one destination rather than another might make all the difference. Avoid the T.G.V. for the time being, since she would be trapped inside. Decide on a densely populated city where she can easily melt into the crowd. Buy a ticket for the last station on the line, but get off at an earlier stop in case the person at the ticket desk remembers her. She picks up a handful of timetables and, at the table of a snack bar, works out a convoluted route which will take her from Paris to Grenoble, with six changes. It will be a long journey, it will
She can still picture herself clearly. Gingerly she opens the door, takes the suitcase in one hand, her handbag in the other, and leaves, taking the lift, her stomach heaving, her eyes now dry of tears, as though drained. Jesus, the suitcase feels heavy. Probably because she is so tired. A few steps and she is opening the door to the street, she is out on boulevard Diderot and turns left, away from the train station.
7
Shehas propped the passport on the washbasin, open at the photograph, and is studying herself in the mirror. Her eyes flick back and forth from her face to the photograph. She picks up the passport again and checks the issue date: 1993. It is old enough for her to pass. Véronique Fabre, born February 11, 1970 – not much of an age gap – in Chevreaux. She has not the faintest idea where Chevreaux might be. Somewhere in the middle of France? Not a clue. She will have to look it up.
Translator. Véronique said that she translated from English and Russian. Sophie, when it comes to languages . . . A little English, a few words of Spanish, and that was long ago. If she has to offer proof of her occupation, things will fall apart, but she cannot imagine any circumstances in which it might arise. Come up with more improbable languages: Lithuanian, Estonian?
The impersonal passport photograph shows an unremarkable woman with short hair and banal features. Sophie looks at herself in the mirror. Her forehead is higher, her nose broader, her eyes are very different. But she has to do something. She opens the plastic bag containing everything she has just bought at thenearby Monoprix: scissors, a make-up bag, dark glasses, hair dye. One last glance in the mirror. She sets to work.
8
Shetries to read her fate. Standing beneath the departures board, her suitcase next to her, she scans the destinations, the times, the platform numbers. Choosing one destination rather than another might make all the difference. Avoid the T.G.V. for the time being, since she would be trapped inside. Decide on a densely populated city where she can easily melt into the crowd. Buy a ticket for the last station on the line, but get off at an earlier stop in case the person at the ticket desk remembers her. She picks up a handful of timetables and, at the table of a snack bar, works out a convoluted route which will take her from Paris to Grenoble, with six changes. It will be a long journey, it will
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