Monday, April 1, 2013, 7:21 A.M.
In the mirror, I can see the blade shining in Papa’s hand.
It’s sharp. And pointy.
He puts it to the back of my neck. I can feel it, cold and cutting.
I bite my lips until they bleed.
I am trembling, but I’m too scared to say a word. Papa stands behind me. He must be able to tell I’m afraid, must feel me shivering, the goose bumps covering my skin.
Papa brings the blade close again. The point touches my neck this time. It’s ice-cold. The blade moves up towards my left ear.
I force myself not to move an inch. I must wait, be perfectly still. I mustn’t scream. I mustn’t panic.
Papa could hurt me. By accident.
He’s not very good at this.
More chunks of hair fall into the sink.
Tears come in the corners of my eyes. I promised Papa I wouldn’t cry, but it’s hard.
Papa’s explained it all to me, though: to find Maman, we have to get up very early and leave as quickly as possible. We have a sort of meeting, at the other side of the island. He also told me that I have to be the bravest girl in the whole wide world.
I am, I will be, I promise, so we can find Maman. But still, I’m sad about my hair. I dreamed of it growing so long it would go right down past my waist, so it would be as beautiful as Maman’s. I wouldn’t have minded if it had taken years for that, if I’d had to spend hours each morning combing out the knots.
Papa cut it all off with five snips of his scissors. The pig!
What a weird idea, making me look like a boy! He said he got the idea when he was looking at the photographs. A little boy, almost the same age as me, sleeps here sometimes, when he comes to stay with his grandma. It must be nice to have a grandma on Réunion. Better than staying in that hotel. She looks kind, too—and a bit funny, with her blue hair. In the photos, she always wears necklaces made of shellfish or crocodile teeth.
“You could dress up as a boy,” Papa told me. “It would be like a disguise.”
He made himself laugh. When Papa tries to be funny, he usually isn’t.
The scissors move behind my ears, cutting the hair even shorter.
Actually, I know why Papa wants to disguise me as a boy. It’s not so no one will recognize me. Well, not just that.
I decide to take Papa by surprise. I turn around:
“Papa, is it true that I had a little brother? Before. And I’ve never met him because he’s dead? Do I look like him?”
Papa almost drops the scissors. He catches them at the last moment, but the blade has nicked the skin at the top of my neck. I didn’t really feel anything though, because I was concentrating too hard on Papa’s answer.
Except Papa didn’t say anything.
7:24 A.M.
Martial waits several minutes before speaking again. As if he hopes that, by leaving this silence, Sopha will forget her question.
“You make a very pretty boy, sweetheart.”
She sticks her tongue out at his reflection in the mirror.
A few last snips of the scissors. He tries to make the fringe as straight as he can, attempting to concentrate on his amateur hairdressing when his mind is filled with one thing only.
Sending his daughter outside, alone, is a suicidal idea. And yet, there is no other solution.
“So you understand, darling? I’ve made the list. All you have to do is show it to the man.”
“Can’t I read it to him? I know how to read, Papa!”
He leans towards the back of his daughter’s neck like an obsequious stylist.
“You should speak as little as possible, sweetheart. We don’t want anyone to know that you’re a girl. So, just show him the list and make sure he gives you everything on it. A 1/25,000 map.”
“That’s complicated.”
“A compass.”
“I know the rest. Some fruit and some sandwiches.”
“And if anyone asks, you say that your name is . . .”
“Paul!”
“Good.”
He forces himself to laugh again, but he is the only one laughing. “And you remember how to get there? Go towards the sea, straight down the main pedestrian avenue. All the shops are there. Don’t talk to the people in the shops. Or to anyone else. Understood?”
“I know. I’m not a baby any more.”
Martial removes the towel, which is covered in hair, from his daughter’s shoulders. Sopha examines herself in the mirror, stunned at the way she looks with the horrible bowl cut. Ruined.
“When Maman makes a shopping list, she always adds two lines at the bottom. A surprise for her beloved daughter and a surprise for her beloved husband.”
It’s true. Liane had a kind of everyday grace that made a game of each chore. He hesitates, then replies:
“The best surprise, darling, would be for you to come back very, very quickly.”
He walks over to the door, opens it and scans the empty street.
“Wait, Sopha, one last thing.”
He leans over his daughter and puts a pair of sunglasses on her. He found them on the entrance hall table.
“Listen, Sopha, when you come back, you might not recognize me. I’m going to disguise myself too: cut my hair, shave my beard. You understand?”
“Yes . . .”
It is hard to read the girl’s expression.
Is she frightened? Surprised? Excited by this new game?
Martial runs his fingers through his daughter’s short hair. Scores of tiny cuttings stick to his fingers.
“All right, Sopha, now off you go.”