They must all face the truth. According to the accounts, the workshop could carry on for another month, at most. With no hair to treat, the women would be made redundant. The workshop was unable to pay them, the business would have to file for bankruptcy, and close.
Giulia felt crushed at the very thought. For decades, her whole family had lived on the income from the workshop. She thought of her mother, too old now to work, and Adela, in her last years of school. Her older sister, Francesca, had young children and did not go out to work; she had married a good-for-nothing who squandered all his wages on gambling—and Papà had often topped up their account at the end of the month. What would become of them? Papà had secured a loan against their family home: everything they owned would be seized. As for the workers, they would be unemployed. Theirs was a highly specialized trade; there was no other workshop like it in Sicily now that might hire the women. What would they do—that band of sisters, with whom she had shared so much?
She thought of Papà, down at the hospital, in a coma. Suddenly she froze. An appalling image sprang to mind: her father on his Vespa that morning, overwhelmed, distraught, riding fast, faster, and faster, on the steep roads . . . She drove the cursed thought from her mind. No. He could not have done such a thing, he would not have left them—his wife, his daughters, his employees—ruined, abandoned. Pietro Lanfredi had a highly developed sense of honor. He was not a man to flinch in the face of misfortune. And yet Giulia knew that his pride and joy, his success, the very essence of his existence, was the little workshop in Palermo that his father had run before him and that his grandfather had founded.
Could he have borne to see his staff laid off, his business liquidated, his life’s work going up in smoke? She felt a cruel, gnawing doubt at that moment, like gangrene in a wounded limb.
A sinking ship, thought Giulia. And they were all on board: her, Mamma, her sisters, the women from the workshop. It was the Costa Concordia. The captain was gone and they all faced certain death by drowning. There were no lifeboats, no rings, nothing to cling on to.
The voices of her colleagues in the main workshop interrupted her thoughts. Like every morning, they were getting ready, talking about anything and nothing. For a second, Giulia envied their carefree mood—they had no idea what lay in store. She closed the drawer slowly, like an undertaker placing the lid on a coffin. She turned the key. She hadn’t the heart to tell them today. Nor could she lie. She couldn’t set to work alongside them as if nothing had happened. She sought refuge up there under the eaves, in the laboratorio. She sat facing the sea, just as her father had done. He could spend hours like that, gazing out at the horizon. He said it was a spectacle he never tired of. Giulia was alone now, and the sea cared nothing for her sadness.
At noon, she joined Kamal in the cave where they always met. She said nothing about her fears. She wanted to drown her sorrow in the texture of his skin. They made love, and for a moment, the world seemed less cruel. Kamal said nothing when he saw her cry. He kissed her, and their kisses tasted of salt water.
In the evening, Giulia returned home. She had a migraine, she said, and went upstairs to shut herself in her room and huddle under her sheets.
That night, her dreams were filled with strange images: her father’s workshop broken up, their house emptied of its contents and sold, her mother drawn and distraught, the workers out on the street, the strands of hair scattered, flung into the sea, a whole stormy, tossing sea of hair . . . Giulia twisted and turned. She wanted to empty her mind and think of nothing, but the images kept coming, relentless, like an endlessly repeating dream she was powerless to escape, a sinister strain of music playing over and over again, stuck on a hellish loop. She was delivered from her torment, at last, when the dawn came. She rose and felt as if she hadn’t slept, as if her head were clamped in a vise. Her feet were ice-cold; her ears buzzed.
She stumbled to the bathroom. A hot or cold shower would banish the nightmare, she hoped, and shock her exhausted body awake. She moved toward the bath and stopped.
There was a spider, right there in the bottom of the bath.
A small spider, with a slender body and graceful legs, like stitchwork on lace. It must have climbed up through the pipes and out into the white immensity of the enameled cast-iron bath, trapped there with no way out. At first, the spider would have struggled, tried to climb up the icy white walls, but its lacy legs would have slipped, sending it back down to the bottom. It knew now that it was pointless to struggle and stayed where it was, awaiting its fate, motionless, hoping for another way out. But which?
And then Giulia began to cry. Not at the sight of the black spider on the white enamel—though she had a fear of spiders and bugs; they provoked instant revulsion, uncontrolled panic. No, it was the certainty that, like the creature in the bath, she was caught in a trap from which there was no escape. And no one was coming to save her.
She was tempted to go back to bed and stay there forever. It would be so easy just to disappear. The prospect was enticing. She was at a loss to deal with so much sorrow, helpless against the great wave that had engulfed them all. One day, as a child, she had almost drowned on a family trip to the seaside at San Vito Lo Capo. The sea, usually so calm, had been rough. A wave bigger than all the others had knocked her off her feet, and for a few seconds she had felt cut off from the world, rolling in the surf. Her mouth had filled with sand; she remembered that to this day: a mixture of grit and tiny pebbles. For a moment she had no idea which way was up. Tumbling between earth and sky, the contours of the real world were obliterated. The powerful current had dragged her down, as surely as if she had been pulled under by her feet. In the semiconscious state that accompanies all accidents and falls, those moments when reality moves faster than thought, it seemed she would never reach the surface. That it was all over for her. She had almost resigned herself to the idea, when her father’s hand had gripped her and pulled her back up to the surface. She had come to her senses, surprised, shocked. Alive.
But this tide will drag her down forever.
Fate held the Lanfredi in its grasp, thought Giulia. It was remorseless, like the earthquake that had struck at the heart of Italy again and again, always in the same place.
Her father’s accident had left them badly shaken. But the death of the workshop would take them all down with it.
Sarah
Montreal, Canada
Sarah could sense it: something had changed in the firm. Something very slight, indefinable, almost imperceptible, but it was there.
She noticed it first in a look, the pitch of a voice in greeting, a certain over-keenness when people asked how she was doing—or didn’t ask. And that tone of embarrassment, that way of looking at her. The forced smiles, or the avoidance of eye contact altogether. None of it was natural.
At first, Sarah wondered what the matter was with everybody. Was there something wrong with her outfit? A detail she had neglected? But, as always, she was impeccably turned out. She remembered, as a child, how her schoolteacher had arrived one day clutching a garbage bag. She had placed it on her desk quite naturally, before realizing that she had thrown her handbag into the trash on her way out of the house that morning. She had got as far as school without noticing anything out of the ordinary. Of course, the children had burst out laughing.
But today, Sarah’s appearance was perfect. She stared at herself for a long time in the bathroom mirror. Apart from her tired features, and her increasingly thin frame, which she had managed to hide, her illness had so far passed unnoticed. So why this hesitation, this new reserve in her dealings with colleagues? A curious sense of distance had established itself insidiously over the past few days, a distance that was not her doing.
It took just a few words from her secretary for Sarah to understand.
I’m so sorry, she said in a low voice, and her expression was sad and sympathetic. For a moment, just a moment, Sarah wondered what she was talking about. Had there been some disaster, a terror attack that
she hadn’t heard about yet? An unexpected storm, an accident, a death in the firm? It wasn’t long before she realized that she herself was the bad news. Yes, she was the victim, the casualty, the one shrouded in grief.
Sarah stood openmouthed.
If her secretary knew, then everyone knew.
Inès had told them. She had broken their pact from one day to the next, without warning. She had revealed Sarah’s secret. The news had blazed through the firm like a lit spark on a trail of gunpowder, down the hallways, into the offices, all around the conference rooms, the cafeteria, even up to the topmost floor, the pinnacle of the hierarchy, to Johnson himself.
Inès, whom Sarah had trusted. Inès, the valued assistant she had chosen and recruited herself. Inès, who smiled at her each morning, with whom she shared her caseload. Inès, whom she had taken under her wing. Inès, yes, Inès had stabbed her in the back in the cruelest way imaginable.
Tu quoque, fili mi.
Inès had confided their secret to the person most likely to divulge it: Gary Curst, the most jealous, the most ambitious, the most misogynistic of all the partners, the man who had nursed a visceral loathing of Sarah since her arrival. Inès, the traitor, would say she had acted in the best interests of the firm. I’m so sorry, she would say, though her contrite expression revealed otherwise. Sarah didn’t believe for one second that Inès regretted what she had done. She should have known: Inès was subtle, she was political—that elegant expression which meant “knowing on which side your bread is buttered.” Political meant “unafraid to use low cunning.” Inès would go far. Yes, as Sarah had said once: she stacked the odds in her own favor.
Inès had been to see Curst, thinking to act for the best; she had told him that Sarah had made mistakes in the case they were handling—the Bilgouvar case, which was crucial for the firm’s long-term financial health. Her blunders were perfectly understandable, of course, given her condition.
Sarah had never committed a single blunder. True, she had been finding it harder to concentrate since beginning her treatment, she was less focused, she forgot the odd detail, a name, or a term that had been used in conversation, but never in any way that had affected the quality of her work. She never missed a meeting with a client or colleagues. She felt weak and shrunken inside, but she tried harder still to make sure nothing showed. She had committed no blunders or mistakes, as Inès knew full well.
So why? Why betray her? Sarah understood too late, and the thought made her blood run cold. Inès wanted to take her place. She wanted to make partner. There were few chances of promotion in the firm. Juniors were seldom bumped up the ranks. A weakened partner was a door left ajar, an opportunity not to be missed.
Curst was serving his own interests, too. He had always envied Sarah’s close, trusting relationship with Johnson. She was clearly his next-in-line for managing partner. Unless something—or someone—blocked her rise . . . He, Gary Curst, pictured himself in that seat, at the top of the pile. A long illness, as people said. A vicious, pernicious disease that attacked you, weakened you, a disease that could come and go, the ideal murder weapon, a fatal blow to an old enemy. Curst would come through it all spotless, with not a drop of blood on his hands. The perfect crime. Like a game of chess. A pawn falls; everyone moves one square forward. And the pawn was Sarah.
One word was all that was needed. One little word in a receptive ear, and the damage was done.
It was official now, everyone knew: Sarah Cohen was sick.
Sick—which meant vulnerable, fragile, likely to drop out in the middle of a case, to fail to see a piece of work through to the end, to take extended leave.
“Sick” meant unreliable, not to be counted upon. Worse, someone who might leave forever in a month, or a year. You never know. Sarah heard the dreaded phrase, barely whispered, in the hallway one day: you never know.
Sick was worse than pregnant. At least you knew when a pregnancy would end. Cancer was sneaky; you might enter a period of remission, but then it might come back. It was there, like the sword of Damocles over your head, a black cloud that followed you wherever you went.
Sarah knew only too well that a good lawyer must be brilliant, effective, always on the offensive. A lawyer should reassure her client, persuade, seduce. In a big commercial firm like Johnson & Lockwood, there were millions of dollars at stake. She imagined the questions everyone would be asking. Could they count on her now, and for how much longer? Could they entrust her with the big accounts, the long-term cases that might stretch out for years? Would she even be there by the time they came to court? Would she be able to give up her time—the white nights, the weekends at work. Would she even have the strength?
Johnson called her into his office on the top floor. He seemed annoyed. He would have preferred the news to come from Sarah herself. They had always trusted one another—why hadn’t she said anything? For the first time, Sarah realized that there was something in his voice that she disliked. That note of condescension, the pseudo-paternal tone he took with her—the tone he had always used, come to think of it. It made her sick. She wanted to tell him that it was her body, her health, she didn’t have to keep him informed. That was the one thing she could still control: she could choose not to talk about it. She could tell him to fuck off, with his expression of false concern. She knew perfectly well what was worrying him: not how she was feeling, nor even whether she would still be there in a year’s time, no, what really interested him was what she could still do; that was it, whether or not she could handle her caseload like before. In a word, whether she was still worthwhile.
But of course, she said nothing of the kind. She kept a cool head. With considerable aplomb, she tried to reassure Johnson: no, she wouldn’t be taking extended leave. She wouldn’t even take scraps of time off. She would be there. Ill, admittedly, but there. She would do her job and follow all her cases through.
Listening to herself speak, she felt suddenly as if she were standing before the judge and jury at a bizarre trial that had just got under way: her own. She was the accused, casting about for arguments to prop up her defense. But why? What was she guilty of ? Had she done anything wrong? Why was she the one who had to justify herself ?
Back in her office, she tried to tell herself that nothing would change. But she knew she was wrong. Deep down inside, she knew that Johnson was already looking around for alternatives.
Perhaps Curst—even M.—wasn’t her worst enemy, after all.
Smita
Uttar Pradesh, India
Smita runs through the sleeping countryside, with Lalita’s tiny hand in hers. She has no time to talk, to explain to her daughter that she will remember this moment for the rest of her life as the moment when she made a choice, changed the course of their destinies. They run in silence, so as not to be seen or heard by the Jatts. When they wake up, Smita hopes that she and Lalita will be far away. There is not a second to lose.
Hurry!
They must reach the main road. Smita has hidden her bicycle there, in a bush beside the ditch, with a small bundle of provisions. She prays that no one has stolen it. They must travel several miles to reach National Highway 56, where they can get a bus, one of the famous green-and-white state buses that can be boarded for just a few rupees to Varanasi. They are uncomfortable, and unsafe—at night, the drivers are often high on bhang—but the ticket price can’t be beaten. It’s less than sixty miles to the holy city. From there, they will find the station and board a train for Chennai.
Dawn breaks. The first rays of sunshine appear on the horizon. Already, on the main highway, the trucks are roaring by, and the din is terrifying. Lalita shakes like a leaf. Smita senses her fear: the little girl has never ventured far from the village. Across the road lies the unknown, the world, danger.
Smita pulls the branches away from her bicycle. It’s still there. But the bundle of provisions lies torn apart in the ditch, a little farther away—a dog or hunger-stricken rats have eaten their fill. There is nothing, or alm
ost nothing, left. They will have to continue on empty stomachs. There is no other choice; Smita has no time to find something to eat. Soon, the Brahmin’s wife will lift the jar of rice before she sets off for the market. Will she suspect Smita right away? Will she raise the alarm with her husband? Will they hurry after her? Nagarajan will know they are gone, already. No, there is no time to find anything to eat, they must press on. The water bottle is intact, they have that at least for their breakfast.
Smita sits Lalita on the bag rack and climbs onto her bicycle. With her arms around her mother’s hips, the little girl clings like a terrified gecko—the tiny green lizards that are so common in the houses here, and so beloved of children. Smita is determined that Lalita will not feel her mother’s body shake. Tata trucks—of which there are a huge number on this narrow road—overtake them with a deafening racket. There are no rules here: the biggest, most powerful vehicle has priority. Smita trembles, gripping the handlebars—any fall would be catastrophic. She must pedal hard: a little farther, and they will join the NH56 that connects Lucknow to Varanasi.
Now they are sitting by the side of the road. Smita wipes a cloth over her daughter’s face, and her own. They are covered in dust. They have been waiting for the bus for two hours. Will it come at all, today? The timetables are erratic, even hypothetical, here. When the vehicle comes into sight, at last, a dense crowd presses around its doors. The bus is already full. Getting on board is a tough business. Some prefer to climb up onto the roof and travel in the open air, clinging to the bars along the side. Smita clutches Lalita’s hand and manages somehow to pull herself up inside. They find half a seat for them both, right at the back. It will do. Now Smita tries to fight her way back down the bus to fetch her bicycle, which she has left outside. It’s a risky undertaking. Dozens of passengers cram the aisle. Some have nowhere to sit, some holler angrily at one another. A woman has brought chickens on board, sparking fury from a neighboring passenger. Lalita shouts, and points at the bicycle through the window: a man is riding it away, pedaling hard. Smita is pale-faced. If she chases after him, the bus will leave without her. The driver has just fired the ignition; the engine is roaring. Smita is forced to return to her seat, dead at heart. She watches the rickety frame that she bought a lifetime ago disappear. She had planned to sell it for food.
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