The Braid Page 7

  She said nothing to anyone, not at work, not at home. She told the children she would be undergoing “a procedure”; “nothing serious,” she added, so as not to worry them. She arranged for the twins to go to their father that week, and Hannah to hers—she had objected but gave in eventually. Sarah told them they wouldn’t be able to visit her in the hospital—children weren’t allowed, she said. A little white lie, she told herself, to ease the viselike grip on her heart. She wanted to spare them the horror of that place, the white hell with its bitter odor. The smells, more than anything else, were the reason she hated hospitals: the mixture of disinfectant and bleach that tied a knot in her stomach. She didn’t want the children to see her there, like that: weak and vulnerable.

  Hannah was especially sensitive. She trembled like a leaf in the tiniest breath of air. Sarah had noticed this about her daughter very early on—the impulse to empathy. She resonated with the suffering of the world, took it on board and made it her own. It was like a sixth sense, a gift. As a little girl, Hannah would cry whenever she saw another child hurt or scolded. She cried at news reports on TV, at cartoons. It worried Sarah at times: how would Hannah cope with that heightened sensitivity, being completely exposed to life’s highs and lows, its joys and sufferings? Sarah wanted to tell her: protect yourself, arm yourself, it’s a tough world, life is cruel, don’t let yourself be touched or damaged, be like others, be selfish, insensitive, unmovable.

  Be like me.

  But she knew Hannah’s sensitive soul. Sarah would have to accept that. And so no, she couldn’t tell her. At twelve years old, Hannah would understand all too well what the word “cancer” meant. She would guess, above all, that the battle was far from won. Sarah couldn’t burden her daughter with that—with the anxiety that went hand in hand with the disease.

  Of course, she couldn’t lie forever. Her children would ask questions eventually. She would have to talk, explain everything to them. The later the better, Sarah thought. She was taking a few steps back—ready to make the leap when the time came—but that didn’t matter, it was her way of coping.

  She didn’t say anything to her father or her brother, either. Her mother had died of cancer twenty years ago. She wouldn’t put them through that all over again, the emotional assault course, the roller-coaster ride: hope, despair, remission, relapse; she knew only too well what all those words meant. She would fight this alone, and in silence. She reckoned she was strong enough for that.

  At the office, no one noticed a thing. Inès thought she seemed tired: You’re pale, she said when Sarah returned from leave. Luckily, it was winter: bodies were hidden under shirts, sweaters, coats. Careful not to wear anything low-cut, Sarah simply applied a little more makeup than usual and the illusion was complete. She perfected a code for her diary: “CA” for appointments with her consultant, and “lunch T” for her tests at the hospital, which she always booked between midday and 2:00 p.m. Her colleagues would think she was having an affair. And she rather liked the idea. Sometimes, she found herself fantasizing that she was meeting a man on her lunch breaks. A solitary man, in a town by the sea. A sweet, gentle affair. Inevitably, her daydreams stopped right there; reality dragged her back to the hospital, the treatment, the tests and examinations. Speculation was rife among the juniors at work: She’s out again today . . . and part of the afternoon yesterday . . . She switches off her cell phone, yes . . . Did Sarah Cohen have a life outside the office? Who was she meeting over lunch, in the morning, and sometimes during the afternoon? Was he a colleague? A partner? Inès reckoned he was a married man, someone else suggested a woman. Why would Sarah take so many precautions otherwise? She came and went regardless. Her plan seemed to be working. For the moment, at least.

  One tiny misstep would be her undoing, as so often happens in crime novels; the devil was in the detail, lying in wait for the murderer. Inès’s mother was ill. Sarah should have known. And thinking about it, she had been told, some time ago—last year. Sarah had said she was sorry, and then she had thought no more of it. The information was lost in the ether of her over-worked brain. Who could blame her? There was so much to think about. If she had taken the time to stop by the coffee machine, to roam the hallways, or sit down to lunch with her colleagues—which she never did—she might have heard it mentioned again. But the fact was, her exchanges with the others were limited to the bare, strictly professional, essentials. Not out of dislike or hostility, just a lack of time—she was never free. Sarah revealed nothing about her private life and didn’t try to find out about other people’s. Everyone was entitled to their own secret garden. In a different context, another life, she might have engaged more with her colleagues, even made friends. But in this life, there was no room for anything but work. Sarah was always courteous, but she was never familiar.

  Inès was like her. She gave nothing away, never talked much about her life. It was a quality Sarah appreciated. In Inès, she could see the young lawyer she had once been. She had chosen her, when the firm was interviewing for the junior positions. Inès was hardworking, precise, and highly efficient. She was a brilliant lawyer, the best of her group. She would go far, Sarah had told her one day, if she stacked the odds in her own favor.

  And so how could she possibly have known that Inès would be bringing her mother to the hospital that very day for a checkup?

  Sarah had noted “CA” in her diary. Not the initials of her mystery lover, not Carl Asselin, the handsome lawyer on the neighboring team, with his uncanny resemblance to a young George Clooney. No, the “consultant’s appointment” was with Dr. Haddad, Sarah’s oncologist, who was not, alas, noted for his Hollywood looks.

  When Inès had asked her, last week, for an exceptional day’s leave, Sarah had agreed, made a mental note, and promptly forgotten. Things had a habit of slipping her mind lately, doubtless due to how extremely tired she was.

  Soon, the two women would meet in a waiting room of the oncology ward at the university hospital. The same expression of surprise would register on both their faces. Sarah would be rendered speechless. And Inès would cover the awkwardness of the situation by introducing her mother.

  “This is Sarah Cohen, the partner I work with.”

  “Delighted to meet you, madame.”

  Sarah would be polite and give nothing away. It wouldn’t take Inès long to figure out what her boss was doing there, in the middle of the afternoon, on a weekday, in a corridor of the oncology department, with a sheaf of X-rays under her arm. One moment from now, everything would come crashing down: the supposed affair, the lovers’ lunches, the secret rendezvous, the late-afternoon trysts.

  Sarah would be unmasked.

  She tried to save face by claiming she had got the wrong waiting room, that she had come to visit a friend. She knew Inès wouldn’t be fooled. Her colleague would quickly piece everything together: her two-week absence last month, which had surprised everyone, the string of out-of-office meetings that she had attended lately, her pallor, her weight loss, her collapse in court. Clues that now became proof, material evidence.

  Sarah wanted to disappear, to dissolve, to soar into the air like the all-powerful superheroes the twins loved so much. Too late.

  She felt suddenly stupid, trembling at the sight of a junior staff member, as if she had been caught red-handed, like a criminal. She didn’t need to justify herself to Inès; she owed her nothing. Not her, nor anyone else.

  Scrambling to break the uncomfortable silence that had settled over them all, Sarah greeted the young woman and her mother, then left with what she hoped was a confident stride. One question bothered her as she walked back to the waiting taxi: What would Inès do with the information? Would she divulge it? Sarah was tempted to go back, to catch up with Inès in the corridors and beg her to say nothing. But she stopped herself. To do so would be to admit her vulnerability and give Inès a measure of power, a lever.

  She adopted a different strategy. Tomorrow, when she arrived at work, she would call Inès in and offer to
make her second-in-command on the Bilgouvar case, the latest “hot” brief for the practice’s most important client. Promotion—an unexpected offer to a young colleague who was sure to accept. Inès would be flattered; she would be in Sarah’s debt. Better still, she would be dependent on her. One way of buying her silence, guaranteeing her loyalty. Inès was ambitious. She would understand that it was not in her interest to speak out and draw the ire of her senior partner.

  Sarah left the hospital, reassured by the plan she had just devised. It was almost perfect.

  She had forgotten just one thing: something her many years in the business had taught her. If you swim with sharks, best not to spill your own blood.

  My work progresses slowly

  Like a forest silently growing.

  Mine is a demanding task,

  A task that nothing should ever interrupt.

  And yet I don’t feel alone,

  Shut up here in my workshop.

  I leave my fingers to their strange ballet.

  And reflect on lives I will never live

  Journeys I never made

  Faces I never saw.

  I’m a link in the chain.

  A humble link, but no matter,

  It seems to me my life is here

  In the three strands stretched out before me,

  In the hair dancing at the tips of my fingers.

  Smita

  Badlapur, Uttar Pradesh, India

  Nagarajan has fallen asleep. Lying beside him, Smita holds her breath. His first hour of sleep is always restless; she knows she must wait if she is not to wake him up.

  She is leaving tonight. She has decided. Or rather, life has decided for her. She never thought she would put her plan into action quite so quickly, but the chance has presented itself, like a gift from heaven. The Brahmin’s wife has an abscess on her tooth and was forced to consult the village doctor that very morning. Smita was emptying their foul latrine when she saw the woman leaving the house. She had only a few seconds in which to act: such an opportunity would never come again. Cautiously, she had slipped into the storeroom near the kitchen and lifted the big jar containing their stock of rice, beneath which the couple kept their savings. It was not theft, she told herself, just the return of her rightful dues. She took back the exact amount they had paid to the Brahmin for Lalita’s schooling, not a rupee more. The thought of stealing even one coin from another person, however rich, went against all her principles: Vishnu would show his anger. Smita was not a thief. She would rather die of hunger than steal so much as an egg.

  She had slipped the money inside her sari and hurried home. Feverishly, she had gathered a few things, the strict minimum; she must not take too much. She and Lalita were both small and frail, they must not burden themselves. A few clothes and some rice for the journey, hurriedly prepared while Nagarajan was out in the fields. Smita knew he would not let them go. They have discussed her plan, and she knows where he stands. She has no choice but to wait until nightfall, praying that the Brahmin’s wife will not notice anything before then. The moment she realizes the money is missing, Smita’s life will be in danger.

  She kneels before the small altar to Vishnu and begs for his protection. She asks him to watch over her and her daughter on their long journey, the nearly 1,500 miles they will cover on foot, by bus, by train, to Chennai. An exhausting, dangerous journey the outcome of which is unknown.

  Smita feels a hot current pulsing in her veins, as if millions of Dalits were kneeling with her, praying with her, there before the small altar. She makes Vishnu a promise: if they manage to get away, if the Brahmin’s wife fails to notice anything, if the Jatts don’t catch them, if they reach Varanasi, if they manage to get aboard a train, and if they finally reach the South alive, then they will pay tribute to him, in the Tirupati Temple. Smita has heard talk of this legendary place in the hill town of Tirumala, less than 150 miles from Chennai: the biggest pilgrimage site in the world. Millions come there every year, it is said, to make offerings to Shri Venkateswara, the Lord of the Mountain, one of Vishnu’s holiest forms. Her god, the protector god, will not abandon them, she is sure of that. She takes the small, dog-eared image before which she prays—a colored picture of the god with his four arms—and tucks it against her body, beneath her sari. Nothing can harm her if he is with them. Suddenly it is as if an invisible mantle has settled around her shoulders and enveloped her, protecting her from danger. Wrapped in its folds, Smita is invincible.

  The village is swathed in darkness. Nagarajan’s breathing is regular now. He is snoring gently through his nose. Not an aggressive rasp, more a soft purr, like a baby tiger nestled against its mother’s belly. Smita feels a sharp pain in her heart. She has loved this man, become accustomed to his reassuring presence. She resents his lack of courage, the cloak of bitter resignation that he has thrown over their lives. She had so wanted to leave with him. She stopped loving him the moment he refused to fight. Love is fleeting, she tells herself, sometimes it leaves as quickly as it came, in the beat of a wing.

  She pushes back the cover and feels suddenly dizzy. Is she mad to undertake this journey? If only she was not such a rebel, so unruly, if only the butterflies would stop fluttering in her stomach, then she could give up, accept her fate, like Nagarajan and their Dalit brethren. Go back to bed and await the dawn in a dreamless torpor, like an invalid waiting for death.

  But she cannot go back. She has taken the money from under the Brahmin’s rice jar; she cannot turn back time. She must throw herself body and soul into this journey that will take her far from here, or perhaps nowhere. She is not afraid of death, or even of suffering—she fears nothing for herself, or very little. But for Lalita, she is scared of everything. She reassures herself by repeating, over and over: my daughter is so strong. She knew it the day she was born. The child had bitten the village’s birth attendant during her postnatal examination. He had laughed—the tiny, toothless mouth had left a minuscule mark on his hand. She’s a tough character! he said. This six-year-old Dalit girl was barely taller than her schoolteacher’s stool, and she had said no to the Brahmin. In the middle of the classroom, she had looked him in the eyes and she had told him, “No.” Courage is not given solely to those who are well born. The thought gives Smita strength. No, she will not condemn Lalita to clear filth, she will not deliver her into that cursed dharma.

  She bends over her daughter. The sleep of a child is a miraculous thing, she thinks. Lalita looks so peaceful, she feels guilty for rousing her. Her features are relaxed, regular, adorable. When she sleeps, she seems younger, almost still a baby. Smita wishes she didn’t have to wake her in the dark and run away. The child knows nothing about her mother’s plans; she does not know that tonight she has seen her father for the last time. Smita envies her innocence. She has long since lost that escape into sleep. Her nights offer nothing but a bottomless abyss, dreams as dark as the filth she cleans. Perhaps it will be different down there, in the South?

  Lalita clutches her only doll tight against her, a present for her fifth birthday: a little “Bandit Queen,” Phoolan Devi herself, with her red bandanna. Smita has often told her the story of the lower-caste woman, married at the age of eleven and famous for rebelling against her fate. As the leader of a band of dacoits, she defended oppressed peoples and attacked wealthy landowners who raped lower-caste girls on their land. She took from the rich to give to the poor and was a heroine of the people, considered by many to be an avatar of the war goddess Durga. Accused of forty-eight murders, she was arrested, imprisoned, then eventually freed and elected to parliament, before being assassinated by three masked men, in the middle of the street. Lalita loved her doll. All the little girls here loved Phoolan Devi. Her doll was sold at all the markets.

  Lalita.

  Wake up.

  Come!

  The child wakes from a dream known to no one but herself. She stares at her mother through sleep-filled eyes.

  Don’t make a sound.

  Get dressed.<
br />
  Quickly.

  Smita helps her to get ready. Her daughter shows no resistance. She looks anxiously at her mother. What has come over her in the middle of the night?

  It’s a surprise, Smita whispers.

  She hasn’t the courage to tell her they’re leaving and will never come back. It’s a one-way ticket to a better life. Never again the hell of the village in Badlapur, Smita has promised herself that. Lalita won’t understand; she will probably cry, make a fuss. Smita cannot risk ruining her scheme. And so she lies. A little white lie, she reassures herself, to sweeten the bitter reality.

  Before leaving, she takes a last look at Nagarajan; her tiger is sleeping peacefully. Beside him, in her place, she has left a piece of paper. Not a letter—she has never learned how to write. Just the address of her cousins in Chennai, laboriously copied out. Perhaps their departure will give Nagarajan the courage he lacks today. Perhaps he will find the strength to join them down there.

  Who knows.

  With a last look around the hut, at the life she is leaving with no regrets—or so few—Smita takes her daughter’s frozen hand and hurries out into the dark countryside.

  Giulia

  Palermo, Sicily

  Giulia had expected anything but this.

  The contents of the drawer were spread out in front of her on Papà’s desk: summonses from the bailiffs, final demands for payment, dozens of letters sent via recorded delivery. The truth struck her like a slap in the face. It could be summed up in a single word: bankruptcy. The workshop was crumbling under the weight of its debts. The House of Lanfredi was ruined.

  Her father had said nothing. He had confided in no one. If she thought hard enough, she could remember one time, and one time only, when in the course of a conversation he had mentioned that the Sicilian tradition of cascatura was disappearing. Modern life, he had told her. Hardly any Sicilians kept their cut hair now, he had said. It was a fact. No one took care to keep anything anymore. People threw everything away and bought everything new. Giulia remembered their discussion around the table at a big family meal: soon, he had told her, their raw material would be in very short supply. In the sixties, the Lanfredi workshop had fifteen competitors in Palermo. They had all closed. He was proud to be the last. Giulia had known the workshop was experiencing difficulties, but she had never imagined bankruptcy was imminent. The possibility had never even occurred to her.