—
The receptionist knocked again and tried the door handle. The clock ticked. The window—this was New York—should have a fire escape. Had Betty gone that way? Or through the door? The fire escape. Betty was a black woman and would know to keep her mouth shut because no one would listen to her. Could Eva accuse Betty of the murders? Whose story would the public believe: a colored woman’s or a Communist Finn’s? No, it wouldn’t work. Eva’s position was no stronger than that of a black parlor maid.
—
The receptionist had come to the door again and began shoving the knob violently.
—
By that point, Eva was already at the window. On the fire escape. Outside.
Norma twirled her hair. Her mother claimed it was capable of murder. Maybe her mother wanted to scare her. She had always done that. While other mothers were warning their daughters about skirts that were too short and dark alleys, Norma’s mother offered up horror stories about the unhappy fates of people who were different.
If she forgot cutting time, her mother lectured her about freaks forced to display themselves for money, Mengele’s human experiments, or some collector’s circus of curiosities, and asked whether Norma wanted a future like that.
Norma did a quick Internet search for the term hair murders. The results were mostly about failed dye jobs. She knew her mother was telling Norma her own kind of bogeyman story. Even so. Could her hair really do what Eva’s had? Without her being able to control it?
April 21, 2013
In Harlem, Eva had walked by the place many times. In the front room was a permanent machine that looked like a milking contraption, and in the back room you could find a poker table, bookmaker, whiskey bottles, and gangsters’ girlfriends selling undergarments that still had ten-dollar tags but were being sold for three. Heroin passed from hand to hand in brown paper rolls. Eva went to the back door and flashed her basket. Once she had the money, she fled. She had just sold her hair for the first time.
—
The police found Eva’s home and a stash of indecent cards and books, including, under the rug, one without a face. The receptionist, who was in custody, remembered the doctor’s last patient and recognized her unusually heavy hair in the picture. The papers started calling Eva the Woman Without a Face. But her hair wasn’t front-page news—only bob cuts made for scandal in those days, because they were considered a sign of a dangerous life. So the headlines focused instead on the mystery of the faceless woman and the cold-blooded murder of an abortionist. The police’s theory about the hair left in the procedure room was that the murderer had used voodoo to try to exorcise the evil spirits from the place.
—
Johannes disappeared, and the police never caught up with him. Eva guessed he had gone to work for the mafia bootlegging pornography. Because Eva had presented herself as Johannes’s wife in the neighborhood for the sake of propriety, only Johannes knew her real name. That was why the newspapers called her Mrs. Johannes Nieminen. That gave Eva time to get new papers.
May 7, 2013
Eva ended up in Chicago by chance. She needed a doctor who didn’t mind dark alleys and wouldn’t ask too many questions, and Dr. Jackson was just such a man. A few furtive inquiries in a café frequented by streetwalkers led her to him without much trouble.
—
Eva knew her hair would resist if she tried again to get rid of the fetus. In order to ensure that the episode at the abortionist’s clinic wouldn’t repeat, she planned to weaken herself by fasting and then shaving her head when her water broke. She had arranged with the doctor that an accident would happen to the child immediately after it was born. She could feel the hair that was growing in her womb, how it behaved the same way her own did. It reacted to people and sensed evil intentions, but still so faintly that Eva didn’t believe it would be any danger to Dr. Jackson.
—
Eva stepped out of the doctor’s office relieved. The police were still searching for the Woman Without a Face, and it was possible that one of Johannes’s old photographs would pop up—a version with her face visible—and a Finnish immigrant would connect her to the mystery. There wasn’t room in her life for another freak of nature.
—
She didn’t read about the scope of Dr. Jackson’s activities—the children buried in his backyard—until later. She hoped her child had ended up in Jackson’s oven or in the mass graves arranged by the undertaker. Even so, she carefully studied every circus advertisement she saw, and listened to what people said about the shows and the freaks on display. She didn’t hear anything indicating Jackson hadn’t kept his promise, yet still she doubted and was haunted by dreams of her child calling to her, waiting and calling.
Norma shouldn’t have been surprised, and yet she was. Somewhere in the world someone else like her might still exist. Someone who succeeded in concealing her strange attribute as Norma did. Someone who considered living underground as important as Norma’s mother had. Although some of her mother’s story must have been invented to prove a point, there was nothing impossible about the idea that Eva might have descendants.
She could find her distant relative easily if she wanted to. If she did exactly the opposite of what her mother had taught her. All it would take was putting a video of herself online. When she was younger, she could have done it. Back then she had sometimes mocked her mother’s caution just as a matter of principle, claiming that the world had never been so ready to accept a new minority. Her mother thought she was childish and naïve, and observed with concern the way reality television swept the world and gave new life to the traditional freak show. Her mother watched them all: Body Shock, My Shocking Body, and any other program that masqueraded as documentary. Her mother was horrified. In the old days, the circus took the freak away and left the family alone, but not anymore. Now the media wanted all the relations, too. Norma had laughed and said her mother should relax. The TV pushed human rights for even the smallest marginal groups, and popular shows dealt with sexual minorities, vampires, and supernatural phenomena. Clairvoyants and angel whisperers posed on the covers of glossy women’s magazines. All the other freaks had already come out of the closet now, so Norma could, too. She could live like everyone else. Maybe there weren’t any others like her, but what did that matter?
If she exposed herself, she might hear from someone as soon as tomorrow. In a few hours, someone like her somewhere in the world could be reading an article about a strange woman and wouldn’t be able to resist the temptation to get in touch. She wouldn’t be alone anymore. Neither of them would be. Together they could prove all her mother’s suspicions wrong, and Norma’s secret dream could come true: she had always wanted to meet someone who shared her problems. Norma turned the fan toward her face. Her neck and temples were wet as if her hair were crying.
May 18, 2013
We spent your whole childhood visiting all sorts of doctors, scientists, charlatans, and snake oil salesmen. I reported vague symptoms and hinted at your abnormal hair growth, making sure that none of them saw it themselves, and hoped that along the way something in the blessings, curses, exorcisms, homeopathy, or whatever would help. I wanted to find someone who might give me the sense that there were other people like you. I hoped that someday in some office we’d run into another pair like us—a mother and daughter—and that you would recognize them even if I didn’t.
—
I was looking for help in the wrong place. It’s men like Lambert who know doctors like Jackson, and doctors like Jackson never talk. No patient records, no leaks. No real name. It isn’t cheap, but it’s possible, and once you’re normal, you can have a family and a regular life, everything I’ve always wanted for you.
—
Finding the right man took time. I didn’t arrange the date for the Big Bang with Marion until I was sure Grigori was the one. I met him on a business trip to Stockholm. Our conversation moved to hereditary hypertrichosis, its treatment with laser epilation and pulse li
ght therapy, and he told me about his friend who specializes in excessive hair growth treatment and researches the genetic mutations that cause hypertrichosis. There were only fifty known cases, and he found the rarity of the disease fascinating. In the past, sufferers were believed to possess supernatural power and would be abducted for it.
—
Grigori had succeeded in curing a woman who suffered from hypertrichosis. I’ve seen her myself, with my own eyes. She was a client at one of Lambert’s clinics. Her hair is normal now, and her children were born healthy.
—
Norma, dear, there are so many things I wish we’d talked about. I didn’t bring them up because I wouldn’t have had any answers. In these videos, I’ve tried to tell you everything you should know. If something goes wrong, Eva will help you find these recordings, and then you have to leave right away. Go to the airport, take the first flight anywhere, get to Bangkok. By that time, everything will be ready and paid for. I’ll give you the contacts and their exact information later. I’ll also get you papers under someone else’s name. Marion knows people you can get a passport from. Maybe I’m worried for nothing, but Lambert has lookouts everywhere. We’ve met too many people, and eventually somebody’s going to talk. Even Lasse and Kristian are vulnerable. Patient information leaks like a sieve, and everyone has their price. I’ve especially started to suspect Kristian. I’m afraid his nerve will fail, and he’ll reveal everything to Lambert just to save his own skin, or he’ll think he can get money for it, maybe even forgiveness for his debts to Lambert.
—
Helena’s case and Eva’s fate convinced me that we can never be sure how your hair will act. I would have been prepared to abandon my plan if these women I trust had warned me away. Instead, Norma, they approve of everything I’ve done.
—
More than the wild behavior of your hair, I’ve been afraid of something else that no woman has been able to resist: the enticements of the heart. Before long, you’ll meet someone from whom you want more than momentary companionship. Before long, your heart will betray you the way it betrayed your ancestor. That’s why this is all necessary. I trust your head but not your heart.
Eleven
The Thais prefer to use Vietnamese women, or Cambodian or Taiwanese. This isn’t just about cost but also cultural differences. The Thais respect their own women more. Everyone ends up feeling this way. Using someone different from you is easier. You should remember that.
New brochures from the Source Agency were spread around the table. Alla checked the Russian version while Marion worked on the Finnish and Swedish. Source represented quality, not unsavory charlatans, so no mistakes could be allowed in its materials. They had chosen the best paper, the graphic designer had cost a fortune, and it showed. Alvar focused on reviewing the surrogate videos, which were also top-notch. Occasionally everyone glanced at the clock on the wall. Lambert had called a few hours ago and told them to put champagne on ice. It was time for a little celebration.
One of Lambert’s habits was withholding good news to increase suspense. He was like a circus ringmaster. When he finally arrived, he threw open the door and strode into the room to the rhythm of the summer’s hit pop song that happened to be playing on the radio. He hummed. He whistled. He grabbed the new brochures, danced across the room browsing them, then gave them his approval by tousling Alvar’s hair. Producing brochures in multiple languages had been Alvar’s idea. Now both the surrogates and the clients would receive materials in their own languages. That engendered trust.
“Soon we’ll need to print some in Vietnamese,” Lambert said with a grin. “The government is changing its stance on surrogates. The deputy prime minister has been making beautiful statements about everyone being entitled to dreams of motherhood. Just think. Growing a good braid takes God knows how long, but a pregnancy lasts only nine months. And the girls are so healthy and natural.”
Then Lambert stopped his skipping, turned off the radio, and let the silence grow. Marion felt a chill, and the skin on her forehead quivered as if she had just stepped out of the sauna into subzero temperature. Alvar shook his head at her imperceptibly. He didn’t know what was going on either.
“Dimitri called from the lab. They’ve analyzed the hair.”
Lambert banged the corner of the coffee table and blew air through his lips. The champagne glasses on the tray jingled.
“It’s clean, extremely clean. No residues. Dimitri thinks it’s possible it was produced in a lab after all.”
“Just because of the hair’s purity?” Alvar asked.
“No. It’s also the DNA,” Lambert said, clapping his hands. “They took samples from three different bunches, from three different deliveries. All of them have the same DNA, which is possible only if the hair came from one living creature. I think someone has invented a cheap way of quickly cloning human hair, and Anita’s partners are part of the project.”
Marion realized that Anita had lied. Anita’s obscure relative wasn’t traveling around Ukrainian villages collecting braids. The hair must come from an advanced high-tech laboratory with tremendous resources and lots of staff. Someone would talk. Someone always talked. Lambert would find that someone, and then he would find the producer.
“Dimitri is looking for parallels right now and ordering samples from around the world,” Lambert said. “We’ll find the source before long. The fastest way is to go through the girl. Are we making any progress there?”
“We still wouldn’t know who planned it all, who has the camera, who Anita was collecting evidence for, and what they intended to do with it,” Alvar said. “The girl has to pay down her debt soon. How can she afford to pay unless she tells us what she knows?”
“My son is always such a killjoy,” Lambert said with a sigh. “Squeeze the information out of her.”
—
Marion remained sitting at the table when the others went outside. When the conversation turned to the girl, Alvar’s gaze had been evasive, just like with Albino. That time Marion had torn another pile of paper tissues into shreds. Lambert had sniffed the apple scent of the Calvados served with the coffee as if it were the finest perfume and presented his apologies that we had ended up in this situation. His sympathy lay with young hearts, but Albino’s betrayal could not be overlooked. They had brought her into the family after Reijo’s boating accident, supporting her and then giving her a job. Lambert had treated her like his own daughter. And how did she reward him? The little bitch had betrayed Alvar most of all by taking advantage of his affection. Albino’s greed was evident from the beginning, Lambert had reminded them, taking them back to the moment when she’d seen a briefcase full of dollars and wanted to touch them. Just a little. She had actually salivated. It bubbled on her lower lip, which was sticky with lip gloss, and that had spawned her stupidity. She had thought she could poach on Lambert’s land without getting caught.
On the bookshelf in the living room had been a picture of Lambert and Reijo Ross posing with their children: Marion, Alvar, and the offspring of Ross’s new family, Albino and her brother. After that night, the picture disappeared, and in exchange Alvar received a villa and a new car. He didn’t seem to mourn Albino any more than Marion mourned Bergman. Albino had offered good companionship, Bergman a way out of the house, a connecting stop Marion had thought would lead to the beginning of her own life. Later she realized no beginning would ever come. There would be no love, no family, nothing and no one of her own, not for either of them. There would be only Lambert, in every direction. But that would end now. Determination melted the stiffness in Marion’s limbs. There was every reason to believe that the girl hadn’t actually made a deal with the clan. Maybe she had met with Alvar to ask about Anita’s final days, just as she had with Marion. So Marion could still do the right thing and try to save the idiot. Then she wouldn’t haunt her as Albino did.
Alvar drummed the steering wheel at the traffic light, then continued through intersection after intersection, swung
through a roundabout, and changed lanes. He had no expression, none at all, uttering not a word the whole way from the warehouse to the salon. As they approached Kallio, Marion surfed the airwaves, which were full of cheery advertisements, promises of continuing summer weather, and weddings.
“Could it really be true?” Marion asked. “What Lambert said about the DNA of the hair?”
Alvar shut off the radio just as he had shut his mouth.
Marion tried again. “You feeling wound up? Listen, I’ve got a salon to run. If the girl goes on vacation, you’re going to have to send someone to replace her.”