and a toothbrush. We got off at the Gare du Nord. Early-morning sun angled through the gray metal grid on the arched windows up by the ceiling. The lollipop-shaped lights were still lit on either side of the green columns that went the length of the station.
We headed toward the clock. I thought we’d have to wait for Arvo to get off the train, but he was there ahead of us, crutches tucked out of sight behind him, and a cap pulled low over his eyes. He didn’t look up as we came, so we stood nearby but pretended we were not together. I looked around for the spy guy, but there were hundreds of people in the station even though it was early in the morning.
“We need to find the Métro, right?” I said.
“Yeah,” Vivian said. “I looked at the map last night. We should take this red train to the Latin Quarter and get off atOdéon and take the green line to Cluny, and then we are only three blocks from the Sorbonne.”
“Can you walk that far?” I whispered. Arvo gave an almost imperceptible nod.
“I think we need bathrooms first,” Vivian said. “To put on our recital clothes. I don’t even know if there will be changing rooms at the university.”
“Meet you at the Métro station,” I whispered, and Arvo headed slowly in the direction of the subway.
Giselle and I trooped after Vivian down a flight of stairs to the bathroom and changed into the black skirts and white blouses we always wore for competitions. We put up our hair. Mom thought the outfits made us look like real professionals. I thought they made us look like penguins. We clip-clopped back up the stairs in our dress shoes and headed for the university.
Two Métro rides later, we were walking through the Latin Quarter. The streets were narrow but not crowded so early on a Saturday morning. Except for some construction workers and one well-dressed groggy couple who seemed to be heading home from a Friday-night party, we were alone. We came to the iron gate and then the carved wooden front doors of the Sorbonne. We followed signs for the music competition to a lobby full of people with name tags. We fell into line behind a quartet of older girls and a mixed trio about our age. The registration table was staffed by a girl who looked like she was in high school and an older womanwho was deep in conversation with two other music teachers. We were safe, probably.
“Just sign Herr Müller’s name where they show you,” Vivi whispered to Arvo.
He signed the paper without looking up and inviting conversation. We got our program with the order of competition and followed the general tide of musicians down the hall and up two flights of stairs into an ancient lecture hall. Fancy plasterwork ringed the ceiling like frosting flowers around the edge of a wedding cake. The wooden floor was buffed to a honey-colored glow. The long wooden tables were pushed to the side and were so old, they probably had graffiti on them that said “Napoleon rocks!” Violin cases and sheets of music and backpacks and satchels were strewn about, and chairs were pulled up in groups as duos, trios, and quartets tuned and practiced their pieces.
I searched the room for an empty spot where we could have a little privacy to settle our nerves. A comfortably anonymous hum of voices in French, German, and Italian floated in the room, but then, a little louder than everyone else, I heard an unmistakably American voice. It was a flat, unmusical, middle-of-the-country voice. I turned around, and there was Mrs. Jorgenson and her string trio from Minneapolis, the trio that beat us in Frankfurt last year.
The kids were named Karl, Lazlo, and Megan, or maybe it was Maggie. There was no mistaking them; they were as pale as three puddles of milk. They looked like triplets withstick-straight pale hair and broad shoulders. I’d heard that they were farm kids from dairy towns in Minnesota and their parents had sent them to the music boarding school in Minneapolis. Vivi had carried on last
We headed toward the clock. I thought we’d have to wait for Arvo to get off the train, but he was there ahead of us, crutches tucked out of sight behind him, and a cap pulled low over his eyes. He didn’t look up as we came, so we stood nearby but pretended we were not together. I looked around for the spy guy, but there were hundreds of people in the station even though it was early in the morning.
“We need to find the Métro, right?” I said.
“Yeah,” Vivian said. “I looked at the map last night. We should take this red train to the Latin Quarter and get off atOdéon and take the green line to Cluny, and then we are only three blocks from the Sorbonne.”
“Can you walk that far?” I whispered. Arvo gave an almost imperceptible nod.
“I think we need bathrooms first,” Vivian said. “To put on our recital clothes. I don’t even know if there will be changing rooms at the university.”
“Meet you at the Métro station,” I whispered, and Arvo headed slowly in the direction of the subway.
Giselle and I trooped after Vivian down a flight of stairs to the bathroom and changed into the black skirts and white blouses we always wore for competitions. We put up our hair. Mom thought the outfits made us look like real professionals. I thought they made us look like penguins. We clip-clopped back up the stairs in our dress shoes and headed for the university.
Two Métro rides later, we were walking through the Latin Quarter. The streets were narrow but not crowded so early on a Saturday morning. Except for some construction workers and one well-dressed groggy couple who seemed to be heading home from a Friday-night party, we were alone. We came to the iron gate and then the carved wooden front doors of the Sorbonne. We followed signs for the music competition to a lobby full of people with name tags. We fell into line behind a quartet of older girls and a mixed trio about our age. The registration table was staffed by a girl who looked like she was in high school and an older womanwho was deep in conversation with two other music teachers. We were safe, probably.
“Just sign Herr Müller’s name where they show you,” Vivi whispered to Arvo.
He signed the paper without looking up and inviting conversation. We got our program with the order of competition and followed the general tide of musicians down the hall and up two flights of stairs into an ancient lecture hall. Fancy plasterwork ringed the ceiling like frosting flowers around the edge of a wedding cake. The wooden floor was buffed to a honey-colored glow. The long wooden tables were pushed to the side and were so old, they probably had graffiti on them that said “Napoleon rocks!” Violin cases and sheets of music and backpacks and satchels were strewn about, and chairs were pulled up in groups as duos, trios, and quartets tuned and practiced their pieces.
I searched the room for an empty spot where we could have a little privacy to settle our nerves. A comfortably anonymous hum of voices in French, German, and Italian floated in the room, but then, a little louder than everyone else, I heard an unmistakably American voice. It was a flat, unmusical, middle-of-the-country voice. I turned around, and there was Mrs. Jorgenson and her string trio from Minneapolis, the trio that beat us in Frankfurt last year.
The kids were named Karl, Lazlo, and Megan, or maybe it was Maggie. There was no mistaking them; they were as pale as three puddles of milk. They looked like triplets withstick-straight pale hair and broad shoulders. I’d heard that they were farm kids from dairy towns in Minnesota and their parents had sent them to the music boarding school in Minneapolis. Vivi had carried on last
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