“Anita said her sister’s or cousin’s mother-in-law lived in Ukraine,” Alvar said. “Or something like that. So these boxes came from there?”
“Yes.”
“The original box is missing, though, and the package slip.”
“I threw them away.”
“We just want their contact information.”
“I don’t have it.”
Norma managed to catch the grin that flickered at the corner of Alvar’s mouth.
“How about this: you help us by giving us their contact information, and you get a cut of all future sales.”
Alvar took some hair out of the box. Norma’s stomach did a somersault, and a lock that had escaped her turban twisted and undulated. As Alvar’s fingers lifted the hair from the box, brushing it in long strokes, she felt his touch on her spine. When he wrapped the bundle around his wrist, it was as if he had placed his hand on Norma’s neck, his fingertips on her skin. It was an illusion, an illusion brought on by shock, but it didn’t feel constrictive. It resembled a caress.
“Twenty percent. For Anita’s sake.”
—
Norma leaned against the wall, and the rough feeling of the plaster on her back calmed her. She pulled her cigarettes out of the pocket of her dress. Alvar offered a light. He was one of those men who opened doors, offered chairs and drinks, and took care of women’s coats. Still, the sense of danger lingered. But though that lingered, the smell of criminality was absent. His dopamine levels weren’t those of a man prone to violence. Nothing in him smelled of insanity. He didn’t act confused. He wasn’t pulling an ax out of his coat. Maybe she just read danger in him because during the night she had learned about the pipe smoking and her own role in what happened to Helena. If it weren’t for Norma’s hair, Helena wouldn’t have tumbled over the edge. She would have recovered from her divorce and eventually might have been able to put her life back together. Helena would have had her children, and her children would have had their mother. Marion would have had a family. Norma now understood her mother’s words from the video in a different way. Her mother had been visiting Helena all these years out of guilt, not friendship, and she had lived with that guilt for decades.
Alvar stepped closer and apologized that he had to bother her with business like this so soon after Anita’s departure. Norma tried to return his gaze. She couldn’t. Her face burned, her blood flow concentrated in her scalp and nose, and she was sure Alvar would notice she was thinking of him as Crazy Helena’s son. He was an expert in that field just as Norma was with hair, and her eyes wandered up to the sky, the balconies and fire escape ladders of the building across the courtyard, and back to the asphalt, the rug-beating rack, the car tires, the back windows, and the nail studio technicians and their ankles. She had prepared poorly for her lies.
“Can you hear me? You look like a deer in headlights.”
Alvar snapped his fingers. Norma jumped.
“We can help you look for the contact information. Did Anita have any other phones?”
Alvar’s voice, his ordinary, rational tone, felt like a cold spring on a hot day and cleared Norma’s head. Her wandering gaze stopped on a piece of gum stuck to the asphalt. He thought her mother might have had more than one phone. But why? Had her mother hidden one somewhere, as she had concealed her videos as a spare key left with her florist? Norma didn’t understand what was going on. The Ukrainians’ contact information couldn’t be important enough to make Lambert follow her around and Alvar ambush her at the salon, unless they sensed the real situation, and that wasn’t possible.
“Everything will be fine if we can just get that address. Shall we talk about this again tomorrow? I’ll stop by in the evening,” Alvar said, and glanced at his watch. When he led Norma back inside with a light grip on her elbow, she realized that he was used to handling people as a stylist handled hair.
The female voice on the GPS gave driving directions, and the radio channels changed constantly, with news, weather reports, commercials, and music mingling in a confused carpet of sound that made Marion’s eyes twitch. They wouldn’t be back in Helsinki until morning and weren’t going to get much sleep in the meantime. Marion wished Lambert would concentrate on driving instead of channel surfing on the radio.
“Alvar seems to have made some sort of connection with the girl,” Lambert said. “Sometimes he has a magic touch with these things.”
“Norma hasn’t stolen anything. There’s no need to treat her like a thief.”
“Like Albino, you mean? Let’s not talk about that anymore. For the sake of your nerves.”
Marion concentrated on staring at the dead bee on the dashboard. Lambert’s car was parked near Hämeenlinna, where his mongrels had left another car for them to continue in. Usually Lambert let his men take care of the dirty work, but he wanted to handle this himself, and the only person he wanted along was Marion. For the educational value, he had said. One of Lambert’s principles was that sometimes a good leader picks up a shovel himself. That was the only way to avoid forgetting the price and value of success.
“We’ll make you some coffee when we get there. That should perk you up,” Lambert said, and started humming. He was in a good mood. Too good.
—
The Midsummer vacation week had drawn people away, and the neighborhood seemed deserted. Between the homes built during the boom were an equal number of lots that would never be filled. The old building stock was represented by a former grocery store with peeling decals in the window, hearkening back to a time before chain stores and hypermarkets made the village shops extinct.
Lambert parked the car behind a shuttered convenience store. The parking lot was overrun by willow herb, and plywood had been nailed over the windows. Marion got out to stretch her legs and listened. The silence was unbroken. She and Lambert melted into the summer gloaming like fish in weed-choked water; no one would see them.
“Lasse did good work again. I have new lists,” Lambert said as they walked across two overgrown building lots. He stopped to inspect Kristian’s garden, then grabbed a stem of chives and put it in his mouth. Something was stuck in the bird netting. Perhaps a thrush, perhaps a hedgehog. Marion turned her gaze to the trampoline and hot tub. She didn’t remember what people who owned their own homes had in their yards. When she was young, they didn’t have friends who played in little houses built by their parents on manicured lawns. Instead, Marion had run the blow-dryer in the evenings to cover the sounds of fighting and practiced for her future profession by cutting Alvar’s and Helena’s hair because they didn’t have money to go to a salon.
Marion held the hem of her skirt in her hands. Nettles stung her ankles. She lacked Lambert’s self-assurance and glanced nervously at the neighboring houses—their windows remained black, and no motion was visible.
“Taste the strawberries.” Lambert wiped his mouth with a handkerchief. “Such a delicate berry. They don’t travel well. Otherwise we could pick some and take them back with us. What do you think? Should we give Lasse a little Midsummer bonus?”
Lambert tried the back door. It was open. He shook his head and laughed.
—
Kristian had fallen asleep in front of the TV. On the coffee table was a half-eaten sausage and an empty beer bottle. As Lambert woke the man of the house, Marion went to check the bedrooms, even though she knew his wife and children were visiting grandparents. The mongrels had verified the family’s schedule. The sounds of a commotion came from downstairs. The bottle clattered off the table, and a chair leg screeched across the floor, but Kristian didn’t utter a word. Marion peered around half of the double door. Lambert had turned on the lights and closed the curtains.
“Could you make me something to eat?” Lambert asked.
Marion went looking for coffee filters in the kitchen. She found a tube of hydrocortisone in front of the radio and applied a layer to the nettle stings on her ankles. A note on the refrigerator listed the week’s menu, and inside were servings of po
tato salad, meatballs, and diced pork in plastic containers, all untouched. On the counter loomed a pile of empty sausage wrappers and a line of beer bottles, which Kristian had probably intended to dispose of before his wife and children came home. Beyond the table, she could see into the utility room. Marion felt sorry for the family when she looked at the dryer and the children’s soccer cleats all in a row, but she couldn’t change the course of events. Kristian worked for the clan because he was in debt to Lambert. Kristian wasn’t a volunteer like Lasse, but still he had become difficult. Marion turned on the radio and closed her ears.
—
On the way home, Lambert smiled. “Did you remember to bring snacks?”
“I made sandwiches.”
“Good. Any coffee?”
“In the thermos.”
“I didn’t get anything new out of Kristian. Anita paid him well.”
Marion didn’t understand. She’d thought they’d gone to see Kristian because he wanted to quit.
“Alvar has been showing Anita’s picture to all the agency’s employees. Kristian recognized her even though he tried to deny it at first. They shouldn’t have had any connection.”
“Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
“Because of your nerves.”
Marion glanced at Lambert, but his expression revealed nothing. If Anita had gone off on her own with Kristian, had she contacted other employees? What about dissatisfied clients from the agency? Anita had money for bribes. She could have found any number of surrogates, donors, or staff members. Marion would have to visit Lasse as soon as possible and make sure everything was still okay. The metal box would be safe with Lasse as long as no one suspected him.
“How could she have known to go to Kristian in the first place?” fumed Lambert. “Who told her about the agency? And why?”
“Did you find out anything else?”
Marion didn’t recognize her own voice. It was thin, like a streak of salt on a winter boot, and rippled unevenly, but Lambert didn’t seem to notice. Lost in his own thoughts, he hummed the same song Helena used to on car trips. Marion remembered sitting in the backseat with Alvar, scraping frost from the windows of the Volvo. Salami sandwiches wrapped in plastic. That song. Fights.
“Kristian didn’t know who Anita was working for. We’ll have to see what happens. If anything. Maybe the message will get across.”
Marion closed her eyes and pretended to sleep. Two dead bodies sent a powerful enough message as far as she was concerned. The song wouldn’t leave her ears. Kristian’s case would look like suicide, an overdose, or both. When Lambert said he was ready to leave, Marion hadn’t turned her eyes toward the living room; she knew to keep them where they belonged. She didn’t even remember how her fiancé, Bergman, had looked that night, a knife in his chest. The memories were missing. There were only fragments, the smell of blood and the feeling that her teeth were coming out. The open balcony door, the white curtains billowing, the paralysis. She couldn’t remember any sounds. Helena’s hands she remembered, her hands groping for the pipe, and her mouth, which had moved as if talking, probably to the same voices as before—to Dr. Jackson, to Alma, to the child she had left waiting somewhere, always waiting. Lambert hadn’t resisted when Alvar dragged Helena toward the door. He just stood like a statue, then pulled a flask out of the pocket of his linen jacket and handed the jacket to Marion. Milk had come through her blouse. Lights flashed blue and red. Only blue and red. The tunnel leading into the night swallowed everything else like a hole expanding in the ice on a lake.
Later she had visited Alvar at their grandparents’ house. Alvar tried to prevent her from leaving by hiding her ankle boots, but Crazy Helena’s daughter, wearing her grandmother’s church shoes, attracted even more attention in a small town. A kid on a bike yelled at her as he passed. Every glance contained an accusation.
On that village street, she decided she would never give anyone her heart. She would never let Helena’s disease be passed down. She didn’t want more Lamberts in the world. For her, this family was done.
Norma didn’t understand the sheet of paper on the table, even though this had to be the “unpleasant business” Lambert had wanted to talk about at the cemetery. She recognized her mother’s handwriting and signature. Next to it was the name Max Lambert. Norma had inherited her mother’s debts.
“Have you decided what payment system would be best?” Alvar asked.
“My mother didn’t even borrow sugar from the neighbors. What would she have done with this much money?”
“Bought a new kidney for your grandmother.”
Norma put her hand to her mouth. The laugh was unintentional and inappropriate for the situation. The zeros still danced in her eyes. Alvar put a glass of red wine in Norma’s hand and offered her a match. Norma had forgotten to light her cigarette. Because she had to play the role of a person who didn’t have anything to hide, she didn’t resist when Alvar invited himself over. She would have preferred to meet with him in a public place, but now she understood the reason for the house call. Alvar had thought this might agitate her, and news like this was best to deliver away from prying eyes. The turban choked her head like the hoop on a barrel.
“Apparently there wasn’t much time, and Anita wanted to speed up the process.”
“Where could she have gotten a kidney?”
“Anita visited Romania to buy hair for Alla. Maybe from there. At least she saw how easily poor women will sell their hair or their kidneys or anything else anyone wants to buy.”
“This is illegal.”
“Necessity knows no law. Do you intend to go ahead with the operation?”
“For the kidney? No!”
“Not even for your beloved grandmother?”
Alvar cocked his head, and Norma instinctively took a step back. The windowsill got in the way. Her mother had lied to Lambert again. There was nothing wrong with her grandmother’s kidneys, and her mother wouldn’t have sullied herself like this for her anyway. Every word about Elli Naakka in the videos—including the bitterness in her mother’s voice, the wrinkle in her brow—was evidence of that. She would have taken such a crazy loan only for Norma or Helena, not for anyone else.
“As you can see from the contract, the first payment comes due in July,” Alvar said.
The wind blowing through the open window didn’t clear Norma’s head. The fans she had placed strategically around the apartment before Alvar’s visit weren’t helping, either, and the wine and tobacco didn’t make her feel any better. There was no solution. There wasn’t enough time to scrape anything together. The estate inventory coming up in August would give her only worthless personal effects. Her mother’s apartment deposit was too small, and you couldn’t get a payday loan that large. Asking for a loan from a bank would be pointless. Her wildcat years were over, and Norma had a terrible credit rating, from a time when her life had been more reckless and she thought she deserved everything because she was unique. She preferred not to remember those days, but this was the price. Lambert probably already knew she wasn’t creditworthy. Where did desperate people get loans?
From men like Lambert.
“Why do I get the feeling you aren’t really listening?” Alvar said.
Norma lit another cigarette. According to Alvar, her mother had been getting one hundred euros per bundle of hair. They were delivered to the salon every two weeks, twenty ponytails at a time. That was four thousand euros a month, tax free. That was a lot but not enough. Her mother had agreed to utterly unreasonable loan terms and payment amounts.
“You can get a kidney for fifteen thousand euros. But Anita borrowed a hundred. I thought she must want to help her relatives who were in trouble, too. Originally Anita started dealing hair because of them.”
“My mother didn’t tell me anything.”
“Maybe your relatives need more money if you don’t think the loan was just for the kidney. You don’t seem to believe that.”
Alvar had come close. Too close.
Norma’s nervous laugh died, and ash fell onto the rug. Alvar bent to wipe it up with a handkerchief he produced from his pocket. He wasn’t lying, and Norma realized she was afraid. The roots of her hair squirmed like worms on hot asphalt, and she felt her carefully maintained restraint cracking.
“If Anita didn’t use all the money, enough should be left over to cover the immediate emergency. Do you know where it is?”
“No. Her account is empty.”
“Lambert would probably be satisfied with the Ukrainians’ contact information,” Alvar said. “After that, all this will go away and you can still have the twenty percent. That’s an unusually generous offer, for Anita’s sake. I wouldn’t advise looking at last-minute airline tickets. You have that look on your face. Next you’ll try crying or suggest we go to bed.”
The blush spread over Norma’s face before he finished his sentence.
“And let this be the last time you try to pull a fast one,” Alvar added. “I doubt Anita logged into social media from the other side. What were you doing there? Were you looking for the money or warning your Ukrainian relatives? You know where to find them, don’t you?”
Norma had been caught. Email. Messenger. Skype. Those pings from the inbox. Investigating the salon’s Facebook page and her mother’s overflowing email account. She had turned off the network after looking, but she had still been caught. She wasn’t going to beat these people. They knew what they were doing, and she didn’t.
Her hand went to the knot on her turban. It was holding. “I don’t know anything about any Ukrainians,” Norma said. “I only know the password to my mother’s computer. I had to look to see if she’d left any messages for me.”
Alvar grinned. His canine teeth were sharp. He had one day of stubble and summer in his pores. They breathed the same air in the same rhythm for a moment, and Norma heard her pulse in her ears, which also fell into the same pace.