“Not a bad performance,” Alvar said, and wiped a bead of sweat from Norma’s nose.
Norma drew a breath and took a step back. The moment passed. She had been on the verge of confessing. What was wrong with her?
Alvar took a business card out of his pocket. “Call me if anything happens.”
“Like what?”
“Anything. Or if you change your mind.”
—
After Alvar left, the apartment felt as if all the air had been sucked out, and the walls closed in. Norma had to go outside. The girls at the nail studio on the ground floor were finishing their day. They never greeted each other.
The girls made eye contact only with the asphalt. They wouldn’t see her sniffing, and even if they did, they wouldn’t react. She pressed her forehead to the cool stair railing in the shade of the backyard, steadied her breath, and pressed her hand over her mouth. Nail studios had started showing up on the street at about the same time as the extension salons, and they were all full of Vietnamese nail technicians. They were easy to recognize, as was the bitter aroma of fear. They feared their madams, just as Norma feared her creditors. They were all in the same position, and no one was going to help them.
The trash bins had already been emptied, and the nutritional supplements Norma had thrown away were gone. She would buy more from the pharmacy. She would buy everything possible. She had promised to deliver hair to Alvar on the same schedule her mother had.
According to Alvar, that was enough for the interest but no more. Only the Ukrainians’ contact information would bring complete forgiveness.
Lambert wiped raspberry jam from the corner of his mouth. Before reaching the beltway, he had wanted a freshly baked doughnut, and his expectations were rewarded at the counter of an ABC station, which was still quiet so early in the morning. Lambert dropped his crumpled napkin onto his plate and smiled. Raspberry seeds stuck between his teeth.
“Hard work gives a man an appetite. You should have one, too.”
Marion rotated her coffee cup and shook her head. After getting home, she would check the balance again. That would calm her nerves. At least she could get away and start over. A good stylist can always find work, although without Ukrainian virgin Remy, there was no chance of a place as glamorous as she deserved. That was why she held back, hoping that she might still find the importer before Lambert.
Lambert began to collect his things but then seemed to remember something and took his phone out of his pocket. He started scrolling. “That was sent from the Bangkok clinic.”
Marion didn’t dare look at the screen, but Lambert pushed it in front of her. Maybe the gesture was a hint. Maybe she was reading too much into it. Maybe it didn’t mean anything. Lately messages from the Bangkok clinic had meant only bad news for Marion. She still didn’t understand how Anita had managed to slip into the closed ward and why she had taken off her sunglasses and hat, making herself vulnerable to the security cameras. Maybe she’d wanted to show her face to the girl she had questioned, to seem more trustworthy.
“Look now,” Lambert demanded. “For Christ’s sake, Marion. It doesn’t show Anita.”
Marion took the phone. On the screen was a copy of a Japanese passport.
“What do you think? Mr. Shiguto wants a white child, preferably several. Shiguto’s representative, a woman I might add, made the order.”
“If it’s suspicious, don’t take it.”
“He’s already been to Bangkok to donate sperm.”
“So?”
“He’s already paid.”
“What’s the problem?”
“Nothing, yet. He’s just young. Twenty-two. How many clients that age have we had? Alvar reminded me about that American pedophile.”
“He wasn’t at any of our clinics.”
“No, and no one would have even noticed him if his sister hadn’t started calling around and alerting people about his background.”
Marion remembered the incident. After growing tired of the indifference of the authorities and the clinics, the man’s sister contacted the news. After that, the media caught the scent. A Swedish journalist managed to infiltrate a Nigerian baby farm as a customer and documented everything with a hidden backpack camera. The story rocked Sweden, and it was only a matter of time before someone else tried again. That was why Lambert’s partners delivered detailed reports of anything even the slightest bit suspicious. That was why Anita got caught. Everything would have gone fine if the Bangkok clinic hadn’t sent that security footage to Lambert. Everything would have gone fine if Anita hadn’t been sold an old security camera map. She had been cheated.
“Marion, take a picture of the girl, without that scarf she wears. And try to make her look presentable.”
Lambert grabbed his phone and stood up. A line of sugar still glittered on his lower lip.
“For what?”
“We don’t have any pictures of her.”
Marion couldn’t swallow the coffee she had just sipped. Lambert was looking for a buyer for Norma and wanted Marion to know.
As she lay down on the eyelash bed, Norma refused to take her turban off, and Marion nearly lost her temper. The trust between them was still delicate and she couldn’t crush it even though she was fighting against time. This was the first evening they’d spent together without any clients around, and for once the phone was quiet. Every day Marion had suggested going out after work, but the girl always complained of being in some vague rush.
“Think about that lash technician training,” Marion said, and dripped glue on a jade stone. “It only takes a day, and I’m a certified trainer. If you handled the eyelashes, I’d have more time for hair clients.”
Norma drew in short, rapid breaths. She was so different from Albino. She wasn’t tempted by the assurances that there were only a few pages of theory, let alone by the free eyelash treatment. She had agreed to extensions only after Marion fluttered her own and reminded her that you had to keep up appearances when you worked in a salon.
“These are exactly the kinds of industries women retrain for when jobs are hard to come by,” Marion said. “Hair, nails, eyelashes. Even during a recession, the market stays good. It’s the sort of simple luxury people give up last. Alvar said you’re going to start delivering hair just like Anita. That’s great. The customers have been clamoring for more.”
No reply, just a tremor in her eyelids. Occasionally a hand rose to check the turban.
“We only use artificial fibers and real hair for eyelash extensions, never mink. Remember that. Animal rights activists ask questions about that sort of thing.”
“Why isn’t anyone that strict about hair?”
“Because it’s not related to animal rights. Quality and country of origin are enough,” Marion replied. “And if someone does ask, just say something about Hindu princesses.”
The few customers who demonstrated interest in the source of their new hair had always seen a documentary about temple hair or read about it in the news. That’s why they were willing to pay such outrageous prices for their Great Lengths extensions, and they thought they were actually doing a good deed. To justify the price, the company appealed to their ethical approach, which was sourcing hair only from Tirupati, from pilgrims who sacrificed their hair without compensation. The idea of a sacred sacrifice had just the right romantic ring to enlarge the company’s halo. Of course no one talked about what the Temple of Tirupati did with its income or how much the pilgrims had to fork over to the barbers. With the money they made from free hair, Tirupati had long ago surpassed the Vatican in wealth, and the middle managers took what they could on the sly. You’d have to look long and hard for a more corrupt road to the gods.
—
After the job was done, Norma inspected the results, and as she batted her eyes, Marion took a series of pictures in the mirror.
“You have the same expression Anita had. Really, no one cares where the hair comes from. Anita couldn’t understand that either,” Marion
said.
Anita had tried to draw customers into asking about the source of the hair and started selling hair only once she was sure no uncomfortable questions would follow. Maybe Norma was wondering the same thing. It was time to get to the point.
“Lambert is willing to pay handsomely for the Ukrainians’ contact information. You could quit work. You could travel. You could do anything.”
“I promised Alvar I’d deliver the hair.”
“That isn’t going to be enough. Anita borrowed a lot of money.”
“Why?”
Norma’s mouth snapped shut, and Marion was left wondering whether the girl had actually asked or if that was just Marion’s wishful thinking. If Norma didn’t believe Lambert’s explanation for the loan, that meant she knew something. Or at least suspected. Marion sought Norma’s gaze. She remained mute. Why wasn’t money enough? Did Alvar and Lambert seem like the kind of men it was a good idea to be in debt to? Was someone paying her to keep quiet, or was she giving hair to someone else? Norma’s clothes were cheap Swedish fast fashion—sometimes she looked like she lived on the street—yet money didn’t have any effect on her. Marion decided to open a bottle of sparkling wine.
“Let’s talk seriously,” Marion said, and handed Norma a glass. “The beauty industry has always been women’s territory. It’s made up of microbusinesses that people can run out of their homes if they have to. It takes almost no capital, but whenever it becomes profitable, someone swoops in and takes over. Every time it’s the same, whether it’s women or colored people. We can be consumers but not owners, and we never get rich. The multinationals are controlled by whites, and they consume everything, the Unilevers and L’Oréals. Africa has already been taken over, and China and India are next. Anita hated that.”
Norma took a glass. She was listening, her attention had focused. “That sounds like Mom.”
“That was why Anita couldn’t stand the idea that Lambert was benefiting from all of this.”
“I never understood why Mom came to work for him.”
“Middle-aged women don’t have very many options, and without start-up money, it’s hard to do anything. This was supposed to be temporary. We had other plans for the future.”
Norma was clearly interested, and she sniffed again. For a fleeting moment, Marion wondered whether Norma could be her new partner. Would she be interested? Was she like Marion, who had needed a friend like Anita in order to take her life in a new direction, to see the world through new eyes? Maybe. But did the girl have the nerve for it? Marion decided to take the smallest risk she could. She would tell only part of the story.
“We were supposed to open our own salon. That was what Anita needed the loan for. The Ukrainian hair would have gotten us off to a running start.”
The girl fluttered her new lashes as if something were in her eye. “Where’s the money?”
“In London. Anita took it to a bank there and paid cash for a storefront. Of course it was a secret. Lambert never lets anyone leave easily.”
Marion called up a picture on her phone: Bond Street, where they would have opened their salon. The girl didn’t seem curious about how Anita could have deposited such a large amount of cash. She clearly didn’t understand business or banking. Marion sighed.
“We could open it together, you and me.”
“I have to repay the loan to Lambert.”
“We’ll handle that once we get the salon open.”
“The first payment—”
“Don’t worry about that. I’ll figure something out.”
Marion grabbed Norma’s hand and squeezed.
“Anita never would have given the Ukrainian to Lambert, never. And you shouldn’t either. You did the right thing. Promise me you won’t tell anyone about this, or—”
“Or what?”
“Or what happened to Anita will happen to me.”
—
Norma leaned her forehead on the cool tile of the bathroom. Her head was heavy—it had been more than four hours since her last haircut. She took out the scissors and untied her turban. The smell clinging to the fabric was so bitter that something had to be wrong. Her hairline was full of kinks. Marion had spoken of her mother with a warmth reserved for friends, and she didn’t believe in her mother’s suicide either. Maybe Marion knew the murderer and was afraid of him. She had told the truth about the business but lied about Bond Street. Norma just didn’t know why. Maybe the money was there, maybe not. Maybe Marion didn’t know where it was, or she wanted to keep it.
Norma turned the water on to cover the sound of the cutting, then grabbed a hank of hair and fixed rubber bands around it. Opening a salon didn’t make any sense, even though it would explain the need for the loan. Her mother had known about Norma’s multiplying grays. She must have lied to Marion about the purpose of the loan.
—
After folding the bundles into bags, Norma was ready to continue the evening and get more information. She stepped out of the bathroom. However, Marion no longer sat on the couch sipping sparkling wine. Instead she was digging through the cellophane packages delivered earlier in the day—Star Locks, Glamour and Dream Hair, Hair Gl’Amour, Simply Natural, Long Beyond, Delightful Hair—and piling them in a jumble.
Apparently a customer was having an emergency, and she had to leave. “We’ll pick up tomorrow where we left off.”
Marion’s voice was different now, and the sweat on her forehead had gone cold. She wasn’t afraid of Norma, but she was of the bald man waiting outside.
—
As the car pulled away, Norma picked up the brush that had fallen out of Marion’s handbag and sniffed. Her mother, in her final days, never emitted the kind of intense fear that now poured out of Marion constantly. Not even Marion’s old hair, which Norma found in her mother’s apartment, smelled of anything more than everyday stress. Had Lambert discovered that the women at his salon were planning to open their own shop? But would he be ready to take extreme measures just because someone wanted to leave the business? The security cameras in the metro showed clearly that her mother had jumped onto the tracks herself.
After noting the bank and credit cards Lambert was turning over in his hands, Marion focused her gaze on her coffee cup and the gold filigree of Alla’s Russian porcelain. She had thought the emergency had to do with one of the agency’s clients.
“Did you ever see either of these women with Anita? Were they customers at the salon?” Alvar placed two photographs in front of Marion.
“Do they look like customers to you?”
Lambert flicked Marion in the forehead with a finger, and coffee splashed in her lap. She started wiping her skirt with her napkin, focusing on that and hoping that everyone would assume her pallor was a result of Lambert’s bullying.
“This isn’t a good time to be fresh. Look at the pictures.”
Both women were about Anita’s age and blond like she was. Marion had seen them for the first time ages ago when prostitutes walked the streets openly in the Kallio neighborhood and the johns’ cruising kept the area busy through the night. The blondes’ lunch break must have fallen around the same time Marion finished with her last client, so she often saw them at the diner. The two disappeared suddenly at one point, and after they showed up on the street again, Marion overheard a conversation that made her think the women had been behind bars. That’s when it occurred to her they could provide the perfect cover.
Marion and Anita had made the decision in haste. Lambert had put off his answer on the loan for so long that they were on the verge of missing out on the possibilities offered by the Lagos trip. The clan knew people who could provide new identities, but Marion didn’t. These two ladies of the night were a quick solution. For an appropriate sum, they agreed to open accounts in Marion and Anita’s names and deposit the loan money in small amounts.
“Do they have something to do with Anita?” Marion asked. “I’ve never seen them before.”
“Anita had bank cards in her pocket w
ith these women’s names on them. And they recognized her photo,” Alla replied.
“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
Lambert snorted.
“I don’t believe they played any role other than allowing their names to be used,” Alvar said. “We let them go. The accounts have a good amount of money in them, presumably ours.”
“Are you going to use it to offset Norma’s debt?” Marion asked.
Alla laughed so hard, she had to stop filing her nails.
—
After Anita died, Marion saw one of the prostitutes on the street. She told her that now would be a good time to clear off and gave her all the money she had in her purse. Marion had managed to transfer most of the money from the accounts to her own new straw men, and she’d thought everything was fine. The clan shouldn’t have had any connection to the two women, since drug running and prostitution weren’t in their line of work. But still this happened. One of Lambert’s mongrels had found the women in Copenhagen, and now the ice was cracking beneath Marion’s feet.
A gang of immigrant boys was hanging around near the halal butcher shop. Marion didn’t see any familiar faces, but she still stopped and pretended to search for something in her purse while she registered each face in turn and then inspected the flow of customers at the international call café and braiding salon next door. Since Anita’s death, she flinched every time she saw darker-skinned young people, even though she realized that no one would connect her to the attack. Lambert’s mongrels didn’t remember anything about their attackers other than the color of their skin.
Folake was straightening a little girl’s hair, but no other customers were in the shop. Occasionally the little girl’s nose wrinkled at the smell of the sodium hydroxide, but the smile stayed on her face and she waved at Marion. Now she was going to be beautiful. Now she would have good hair. She proudly reported that she was turning six soon. One day, after she’d burned her scalp enough times, she could be Marion’s customer, too.