“Last time I brought Anita. That didn’t go very well. Talk to Alla.” Alvar stared ahead over the steering wheel, his wrists relaxed but his jaw tense, and Marion hoped, hoped so hard, that he would move her way even a little bit. When she and Anita had begun planning the Big Bang, Marion had been fully prepared to sell the whole family down the river. Later she changed her mind and decided to save her brother from the avalanche that would follow. Anita had suggested that they could warn Alvar just ahead of time. Marion couldn’t do anything she might regret afterward—and yet she needed to find a convincing reason to save her brother.
“Norma isn’t like the others,” Marion said. “She hasn’t done anything. We could let her go. Lambert never forgives me for anything, but he does forgive you.”
Alvar laughed. “You just tell yourself that.”
“You know how to pull his strings!”
“You would too if you ever bothered.”
“It wouldn’t be any use. Lambert always sees Helena in me.”
“You’re imagining that. All Lambert sees in you is the dolt who endangered everything by believing Anita’s lies. You aren’t cut out for this.”
Marion sniffed. Alvar handed her a handkerchief.
“Do you know where Albino is now?” she asked.
“No idea.”
“You didn’t try to find out?” Marion asked.
“Why would I?” Alvar sneered. “Why are you thinking about this? You didn’t even like her.”
“I don’t want to be there for that client meeting.”
With Albino, everything had progressed quickly after the decision, in just a couple of days. Alla had been juggling a lot: in addition to the problems Albino had caused, there were distribution issues in Maracaibo. Venezuela accepted all the Russian hair Alla sent, but the theft of hair from local women had led to stricter monitoring, and some wretches were still trying to smuggle cocaine alongside the hair. More bribes were needed. On the Mexican side, they needed surrogates. Alla had decided to handle everything on the same trip. She had bought three tickets to Bogotá and from there three more to Cancún.
Albino had been thrilled about the vacation and the hotel swimming pool. She thought she was living in a dream. She bought two new bikinis. Her lover had money, and she could just lie by the pool with a margarita in her hand.
Two weeks later Lambert was introducing a potential surrogate to an American couple when Albino appeared on the screen. Marion was shocked. Albino’s hair was more sedate, and her fake nails had been removed, but she still had her lash extensions. Her tan from the pool in Cartagena balanced the amphetamine twitch that they hadn’t been able to powder away. Lambert said she was just nervous in front of the camera. Albino was presented as a Finn who had moved to Mexico and needed financial support to start a new life after divorcing her Mexican husband. In the corner of the screen, the Planet Hospital logo wavered. Lambert had emphasized the Americans’ luck: women like this were hard to find. The child would be beautiful and probably have blue eyes.
“Why did you have to pick the very worst option for Albino?” Marion asked, as Alvar continued to drive grimly. “That man in particular. Can’t you find someone better this time? For Anita’s sake.”
Most of the couples were model parents, but Albino’s case represented the other extreme. Lambert hadn’t cared one bit when the future father called and explained that it would be better if his wife didn’t see the surrogate anymore. Because the eggs weren’t hers, she might doubt her own maternal instincts later if she focused too much on the biological mother. Then he asked if natural insemination would lower the price, and of course it would.
“What about that couple who gave up their adoption plans after the Haiti comment? Don’t you remember? They went to an adoption seminar, and the lecturer said that the Haitian catastrophe improved the market but that natural catastrophes like this were rare, and dry years were coming. The couple was shocked. You remember them.”
“They’ve already chosen a surrogate.”
“Say she got sick.”
“Too risky. That couple wants to see the surrogate and really get to know her.”
“By that point, Norma will have realized she’s out of options. She’ll understand.”
“Would that calm you down?”
“Yes, yes, it would.”
“You were fine when it was Albino. Why all this whining about Norma?”
Marion could still feel Alla’s elbow to her ribs as they watched Norma throw up in the park. She couldn’t save Anita or Anita’s daughter. The least she could do was arrange a slightly better situation for her. Then she would leave, it didn’t matter where to, and warn Alvar a day before the Big Bang. If he would just keep his promise.
Lasse hefted the Ukrainian hair in his hand and waved at the dresses draped over the couch. He couldn’t decide which to wear for the Pride Parade. Maybe he should go as the mother of all blondes, Marilyn.
“This democratization of blondness and duck lips has made me respect Marilyn more than ever,” Lasse said, pouring more coffee for Marion. “Or what about Angelina Jolie? I could be a brunette for a change. Angelina’s mastectomy was a big deal. Lambert must have been rubbing his hands.”
Lambert had gone even further, in fact. The news had made him grab Alla and start dancing. Having a superstar remove her breasts because of a cancer gene was an astonishing boost to business, and agency employees were instructed to mention the case whenever they encountered a client with hereditary issues. Now Lambert was just waiting for news to break of a Hollywood star who turned to donated eggs due to a predisposition to Alzheimer’s or schizophrenia.
“Business was hot after Nicole Kidman had her child using a surrogate,” Marion added.
“And Sarah Jessica Parker. Lambert may yet become as big a name as Sarah Jessica’s agent. But honey, tell me what’s on your mind. Worry isn’t good for a woman’s skin.”
“Has anyone come around asking questions?”
“About this box?” Lasse set the metal container on the table. Marion shoved it into her bag. She would sleep better if she could check on it in the middle of the night, and she wouldn’t need to worry if Lasse didn’t answer her messages instantly.
“About anything.”
“No, nothing, no one.”
Marion watched Lasse’s expressions. He still believed he had been looking after Marion’s rainy day fund and that she had given it to him only because Marion couldn’t control her shopping habit. Anita and Marion wanted to keep the box in a safe place the clan wouldn’t think to look. Lasse was one of the agency’s only employees who wasn’t motivated by money, which was why everyone trusted him. But distrust still flickered in her mind. If Lasse figured out what she and Anita had been up to, he might sing. Lasse wouldn’t want to endanger the agency’s activities. After the Big Bang, none of the male couples in his circle would get a child. Lasse’s friend who was becoming a father through the Bangkok clinic would never buy a family ticket for the train or search for a family room at a hotel. Their dreams crumbled the instant Lasse handed Marion the metal box. They could go ahead and rip Elton John’s family portraits off their walls because soon they wouldn’t be able to stand looking at them or reading stories about how Elton John had just welcomed another angel from the gentle womb of a surrogate mother. Marion found her eyes itching again. Pollen, that was it. Currently there were ten pregnant girls at the Thailand clinic, five in Georgia, eight in Ukraine.
“Should I be worried?” Lasse asked.
“No, Lambert is just so paranoid. It makes everything difficult.”
Marion noticed two phones on the table. Lasse’s own and a burner he used for agency business. When there was time, she would send Lasse a message to destroy the agency phone immediately. He didn’t deserve trouble. She needed to protect him, but she also needed to keep him calm. Marion herself felt at ease. Her hands weren’t cold and didn’t reach automatically for the pocket where she used to keep her project phone.
br /> “Did Anita really have to steal from Lambert?” Lasse asked. “I didn’t know she had money problems.”
“I didn’t either.”
“But to throw herself under a train because of it…”
“Lambert doesn’t forgive things like that. It was a lot of money. Anita had relatives in trouble—” Marion stopped talking. She didn’t want to lie to Lasse.
“He’s quite a man.”
“You could say that.”
“Just don’t get caught like Anita, okay?” Lasse said, then raised his hand. “No, don’t tell me any more. I don’t want to know. This is probably goodbye, then.”
Marion’s jaw trembled. It hadn’t occurred to her that she would never see him again.
Lasse tossed his Marilyn dress onto a chair and came over for a hug. “You deserve a fresh start,” he said. “Take it and run.”
Twelve
There are so many girls. I don’t know what will happen to all of them after the Big Bang. Nothing will be gained by delaying, though. Business isn’t slowing down. Eva said I shouldn’t think about the girls who are involved. Everything has its price.
The realization hit like white lightning. Norma stopped the video. Her mother’s new camera bag was visible in the image, as was a suitcase into which she was throwing something: her first digital camera. It was old enough now for thieves to ignore, so she always traveled with it. But she had taken the videos with her brand-new model, which currently sat on the bookshelf.
Norma checked her mother’s final messages again. Not a word about her old camera disappearing on the trip. She sent Margit a text and received an instant reply. Margit hadn’t seen the small pink camera, and she hadn’t taken it. Norma grabbed her mother’s roller bag and checked the contents again. Swimsuit, cotton skirts, sunscreen. Linen jacket. Souvenirs for Norma: a new silk wrap and lemongrass ointment. Her mother intended to give them to her on a night that never came. More silk. No camera.
The hotel where her mother stayed reported that nothing had been left behind. The Bangkok airport gave the same answer. At Helsinki-Vantaa, Norma’s call was forwarded to the Finnair desk. Norma described the camera and gave the two dates when it could have gone missing, the departure and arrival days. On the strap it had a small charm with Rossetti’s Regina Cordium, Elizabeth Siddal’s wedding portrait, on the medallion—
Norma hadn’t misheard. The camera was at the Finnair desk. The same worker had happened to be on duty when it was brought to her. Another Finn had seen the woman drop the camera, but the group had been moving so quickly she hadn’t been able to catch up to them.
—
Norma dumped a mixture of nutritional supplements into a cup, drained it, then cut a length of her hair. She mixed bits of hair with tobacco and rolled a spliff. After slowly smoking it, she glanced at Eva’s picture staring at her from next to the laptop and ordered a taxi for the airport.
As the wind chimes jangled, the patches on the armpits of Marion’s white blouse grew. Alvar had come to the salon to pick her up for a client meeting, and as always, the omens of a bad night were building. The banana bun she had rolled her hair in couldn’t hide the dampness and rancid oil of her unwashed scalp.
“Ready?”
“Of course.”
Marion went to spray on another layer of hair gloss. She was stalling. She didn’t want to leave, and everything in her screamed that one desire. Since her return from the airport, Norma realized she’d misinterpreted Marion because she didn’t know what to look for. But the smoking helped. Anita had been right about that. Without it, her roots wouldn’t be so calm or her thoughts so clear.
—
After being left alone, Norma pulled Marion’s car keys out of her pocket. She had stolen them from Marion’s bag while she was finishing her makeup. If Marion missed them, she would think she’d forgotten them in her agitation, along with the blotting papers and lipstick she always carried but had left on the edge of the sink. Norma grabbed a brush, dustpan, and handheld vacuum in case anyone wondered what she was doing and went to search Marion’s car.
In the trunk she found a carry-on-size roller bag. Norma put it in a garbage bag and carried it to the back room of the salon. The baggage claim tags had all been removed, and all that was inside were a few hotel and travel brochures from Kiev, Tbilisi, and Bangkok, a hairbrush, and a stack of Source Agency brochures with the same titles in several languages. The agency address was located in Kiev, with offices in Bangkok, Mexico, Ukraine, Poland, and St. Petersburg. Norma opened the Finnish brochure and glanced over the biographies of the staff who presented themselves as surrogacy experts. The head of the agency reported getting the idea to start the company after going through the same thing as her clients—a surrogate mother had been the only way for her to experience the joys of motherhood, and now she had two children. The staff at the partner clinics also gave convincing accounts of personal experiences that helped them relate to their clients’ difficulties. The final pages listed the client coordinators, the medical advisers, the area directors in charge of surrogates and donors, and the customer service representatives. All the necessary legal counsel, travel documents, and arrangements related to the child’s nationality were included in the package. Above the picture of the ideal family on the back cover read the words: MAKING DREAMS COME TRUE. Nothing in the information presented made any direct mention of Lambert or gave any hint of dubious practices.
Norma went out back to smoke another roll-up and then got to work. The bag had never been vacuumed or cleaned. It was a treasure. The first hair she found was Vietnamese. Definitely from a pregnant woman who was young and well nourished. There was some sort of chemical, too, but Norma didn’t recognize it. Pregnancy hair should have a springtime buoyancy, but this one was similar to the Vietnamese women at the nail studios, and the stress level was higher than expectant mothers generally. The next hair protruded from the hotel brochures. It belonged to a Nordic woman on a low-carb diet who was probably infertile. Norma had learned to recognize polycystic ovary syndrome ages ago from excess hair growth. Although the disease could be controlled with medicine, it was obvious from the woman’s hair, as were the clomiphene tablets she was taking. The third and fourth women’s conditions resembled menopause. The fifth was taking pituitary hormones and enjoyed cheese and organic wines. From the sixth, she picked up at least clomiphene, and from the seventh, pituitary hormones again. All were over thirty, two over fifty. The third and fifth could cut down their alcohol use, and the sixth was a lactose-intolerant anorexic who suffered from magnesium and several other trace element deficiencies. There were seven women in total, all with traces of infertility treatments in their hair. Norma also found a few hairs that belonged to men. One was Alvar’s, the other two from unidentified Scandinavians. The men’s standard of living and diet was similar to that of the women. And then it hit her—a strong scent memory. Her mother’s handbag, which Norma had torn apart searching for her mother’s last message. The Scandinavian hair stuck in the zipper. No chance of children, lots of grapefruit juice, too much aspirin, classic home remedies for infertility.
This roller bag was not the luggage of a hair dealer. The hairs were not extensions. They were missing the taint of silicon and chemicals. Earlier Norma had thought Marion’s almost daily work meetings had to do with wholesalers from the large network Alla had created. But Marion joked around with the Nigerian braiders, and she seemed lighthearted whenever she went to the warehouse. Norma picked up the hairbrush from the suitcase. It proved the same thing: the meetings Marion had gone to with this bag made her nervous.
Norma slammed the suitcase shut. Although the evidence covered a long period of time, there was no mistaking Marion’s complicity in the clan’s surrogacy operations. They were all the same.
She had fifteen minutes until her next customer. Norma returned the roller bag to the trunk, then glanced at the jackets hanging in the car—they were still in their dry cleaning bags and wouldn’t provide anything inte
resting. Then she went back inside and put the car keys on the floor under the counter where Marion usually kept her purse.
—
The customer with the tangled hair was one of those who dreamed of a career in Hollywood, who found Finland stuffy and narrow-minded. For some reason, every one of these types was sure that a career path would open up in America just so long as they had the basics sorted out, meaning white teeth and long, shiny hair full of body. This one was too short for the catwalk, but she was certain she could succeed as a lingerie model. She had already spent her inheritance from her grandmother on silicone. She had gone to Tallinn to get them with her mother.
Enduring the girl’s chatter was more difficult than usual today. A one-minute clip from her mother’s pink vacation camera played in Norma’s ears: “After the baby, I go to America. America after the baby.” The Asian girl in another clip was in bad shape and had no English. The room looked like a hospital, and she was in hospital clothing. She was late in her pregnancy, and her wrists were cuffed to the bed. Norma’s mother showed the girl pictures and also flashed them at the camera. Norma recognized only two of the men in the pictures, Alvar and Lambert. “Have you seen any of these men here? Have you been talking to any of these men?” The girl nodded toward Lambert’s photo and spat at it.
The contents of her mother’s vacation camera and the glimpse of Alla on Kristian’s widow’s video proved that the livelihood of the Lambert clan was not simply a story that could be chalked up to Helena’s insane ramblings. But getting mixed up in it was insane. Norma couldn’t afford that.
Norma removed all the videos from her mother’s computer that referenced hair, the straightening irons of Harlem, and the extra-strength hairnets Eva used. She removed the video in which her mother ordered her to go to Bangkok if anything happened. She removed all mentions of Grigori. The talk about Helena’s accent was true, she couldn’t erase that, and she left most of the clips that included Helena herself. The cigarette in Helena’s hand looked normal, so it could stay, as could the pipe that Helena seemed to carry with her everywhere. The scenes with too much Finnglish in Helena’s speech went into the recycling bin, as well as the ones where madness or drug-induced stupor was too obvious in her eyes. That didn’t leave much, but there was enough.