The Braid

by Laetitia Colombani

  First came denial, then incredulity. Then anger, an uncontrolled rage that possessed her utterly. And after the rage, defeat, like a vast, immeasurable expanse of desert offering no escape.

  Sarah had always been the master of her own choices, her direction in life; she was the archetypal executive: “A person having administrative or supervisory authority in an organization, who makes decisions and puts them into action.” But now, she was being subjected to other people’s decisions. She felt betrayed, disowned, like a woman scorned, one who has fallen short of expectations and been judged inept, inadequate, useless.

  She had broken through the glass ceiling, only to hit the invisible wall that separated the healthy and the sick. She was in the second camp now, weak and vulnerable. Johnson and his fellow partners were burying her alive. They had tossed her body into a ditch, and now they were covering her slowly with shovel after shovel of smiles and false sympathy. Professionally, she was dead. She knew it. As if in a nightmare, she was the helpless spectator of her own burial. She could shout and scream that she was there, alive and kicking inside the coffin, but no one was listening. Her torment felt like a hideous waking dream.

  Every last one of them was lying. They told her to “be strong,” that she “would get through this,” but their actions said the exact opposite. They had dropped her. Like a broken piece of furniture left out for collection. She was blacklisted.

  She had sacrificed everything for her work, and now she was the sacrificial victim, on the altar of cost-efficiency and performance. Here, it was sink or swim. She could go right ahead and drown now.

  Her plan had failed. Her wall had collapsed, undermined by Inès’s naked ambition. She had been overtaken on the inside by Curst, with Johnson’s blessing. She had thought he at least might have been on her side, or have tried to help her, but he had deserted her without a second thought. He had taken from her the one thing that had kept her on her feet, the one thing that had given her the strength to get up each morning: her place in society, her professional life, that feeling of being somebody in this world, of belonging.

  The thing she dreaded had finally come to pass: Sarah had become her cancer. She was her own tumor personified. No one saw the brilliant, elegant, high-performance, forty-something woman, only the embodiment of her illness. To them, she was no longer a lawyer who happened to be ill, she was a walking illness that happened to be a lawyer. It was an important difference.

  Cancer scared people, it isolated them, pushed them away. It stank of death. People preferred to turn away, holding their noses.

  Untouchable: that was what Sarah had become. Relegated to the margins of society.

  And so no, she would not go back there, to the arena that had condemned her to death. They wouldn’t see her fall. She wouldn’t make a spectacle of herself, offer herself up to the lions. She still had one thing—her dignity. The power to say “no.”

  That morning, she hadn’t touched the breakfast tray that Ron had prepared for her. The twins had come to kiss her before school, they had snuggled next to her in bed. She hadn’t even responded to the touch of their small, warm, supple bodies. Hannah had begged her, trying everything to get Sarah up and out of bed: she had encouraged her, threatened her, made her feel guilty. But nothing worked. She knew she would find her mother in exactly the same place when she came home.

  Sarah spent her days in a morbid, lethargic state; she felt increasingly numb. She drifted far away from the world. She thought back over the past few weeks in her mind, wondered what she might have done to change the course of things. Nothing, very probably. Play had gone on without her, and now it was game over. The end.

  She had thought she could convince herself and everyone else that everything was fine, that nothing had changed. She had thought she could carry on as usual, stay on course, stand her ground, pretend. She had thought she could manage her illness, handle it like a new case, apply herself to the task methodically, and with determination. But it hadn’t been enough.

  In a waking dream, she pictured her colleagues’ reactions to the news of her death. A macabre thought, but it pleased her, like choosing to listen to a sad song when you’re feeling unhappy, just to feed your mood. She could imagine their tearful faces, their feigned sorrow. The tumor was malignant, they would say; or, She knew this was the end. It was too late, they would say, assigning the blame to her. She waited too long to go to the doctor. They would find her guilty of hastening her own end. But the truth was quite different. The thing that was killing Sarah Cohen, consuming her like a slow-burning fire, was not merely the tumor that had taken possession of her body and was leading her now in this dance of death, with its cruel, unpredictable twists and turns; no, the thing that was killing her was her desertion by the people she had considered her peers, in the firm whose reputation she had helped build. The firm had been her life’s work, her reason to get out of bed in the morning, her ikigai, as the Japanese called it. Without it, Sarah no longer existed. She was a hollow creature, empty of substance, a weak, sick body.

  Still, she was amazed at her own credulity. She, who had feared her illness might unsettle things at work, was forced to confront a crueler reality: the firm was doing just fine without her. Her parking space would be reassigned, together with her office. People would fight for it hand over fist. And the thought destroyed her.

  Concerned, her doctor had prescribed antidepressants. News-of-a-serious-illness-can-often-spark-depression-in-a-patient, he said. And depression-can-impact-negatively-on-the-evolution-of-a-patient’s-cancer. Idiot, Sarah thought. She wasn’t the only one who was sick. Society as a whole was in need of urgent treatment. The weak, the people that society ought to protect and support, were the very people it turned its back on, like the oldest elephants, left behind by the herd, condemned to a lonely death. She had read something once, in a children’s book about animals: “Carnivores are useful in the natural world, because they eat the weakest and sickest animals.” At this, her daughter had begun to cry. Sarah had consoled her, telling her that humans didn’t live by the same rules. She had thought she was behind the barricade, in the civilized world. But she had been wrong.

  They could prescribe as many pills as they liked, it wouldn’t make the slightest difference, or hardly any. There would still be the Johnsons and Cursts of this world to push her back under.

  Bastards, all of them.

  The children had left for the day, the house was silent once again. Sarah got out of bed. Walking to the bathroom was all she could manage that morning. In the mirror, her skin was paper white and so thin it looked almost translucent. Her ribs jutted out; her legs looked like sticks, ready to snap if she tripped even slightly. Before, her legs had been shapely, her backside had been firm and round, encased in well-cut, slim-fitting suits; her neckline had been an acknowledged weapon of mass seduction. It was a fact: Sarah Cohen was highly attractive. Few men could resist her. She’d had a few flings, a few affairs, and she’d been in love twice—her two husbands, especially the first, the man she had loved so much. Who would find her attractive now, with her pale face and emaciated body, in the tracksuit that hung off her like a ghostly shroud?

  The disease was sapping her strength. Soon, she would resort to wearing her daughter’s things. Twelve years of age—that was all she’d be able to wear, children’s sizes. Whose flame would she kindle then? At that moment, Sarah thought she would give anything to have someone take her in their arms. To feel like a woman, for a few more seconds. A woman in a man’s arms. That would be sweet indeed.

  Minus one breast—at first, she hadn’t wanted to admit it, the pain, the sorrow. She had done what she always did and drawn a veil over it, in a vain attempt to distance herself, to push it back behind a screen. It was nothing, she had repeated to herself, plastic surgery can work wonders. But it was an ugly, dissembling word: mastectomy. Really, it was an amputation, a mutilation, an aberration. Perhaps, if she was lucky, it was a path to healing, too? Who could promise her tha
t? When Hannah had heard the news of her mother’s illness, she had looked very sad. She had thought for a moment, and then she had said: Mom, you’re an Amazon. Sarah had smiled. Not long before, her daughter had written a school project on that very topic. She had corrected it herself. She remembered it now:

  The word “Amazon” comes from the Greek mazos or mammary, preceded by “a,” meaning “deprived of.”

  The Amazons were women in the ancient world who cut off their right breasts so that they would make better archers. They were a nation of warriors, both feared and respected. They reproduced with men from neighboring tribes but raised their children alone. They employed men as domestic servants. They fought in many wars and were often victorious.

  Sarah was anything but certain she could win this war. The body she had pushed, ignored, neglected, even starved over the years—no time to eat, no time to sleep—was taking its revenge now, cruelly reminding her of its existence. Sarah was a shadow, a pale copy of her old self, reflected pitilessly, there in the mirror.

  Her hair saddened her the most. It was coming out in handfuls now. The oncologist had warned her, like some grim oracle: it would start falling out after the second round of chemo. Sarah had found dozens of hairs strewn like fallen warriors over her pillow. She dreaded this more than anything. Hair loss was the embodiment of the disease. A bald woman was a sick woman, no matter if she sported a beautiful sweater, high heels, the latest must-have bag. No one would notice. That was all there was: the bald head, an admission, a confession, a symbol of suffering. A man with a shaved head could be sexy, but a bald woman would always be ill.

  And so the cancer had robbed her of everything: her job, her looks, her femininity.

  She pictured her mother, defeated by the same disease. She could go back to bed and slip away in silence, join her down there where she lay in the earth, share her eternal rest. It was a morbid yet comforting thought. It was soothing, in a way, to think that everything had an end, that the most unbearable torment could cease tomorrow.

  When she thought of her mother, it was her elegance that she remembered. Even when she was ill and weak, her mother never appeared without makeup, her hair and nails always immaculate. Nails were an important detail, she had often said: always take care of your hands. Many would dismiss it as pointless preening, but to Sarah, like her mother, it was a symbol, a significant gesture: I still take time to look my best. I am a super-busy, working woman, I have responsibilities, three children (one cancer), I am consumed by my daily routine, but I haven’t given up, I haven’t disappeared, I’m here, still here, feminine and perfectly groomed, whole: see the tips of my fingers. I am here.

  Sarah was here. In front of the mirror. She gazed at her damaged nails, her thinning hair. At that very moment, she felt something resonate deep inside her, as if some tiny part of her refused the death sentence. No, she would not die. She would not give up.

  She was an Amazon, a warrior, a fighter. An Amazon would never “let herself go.” She would fight to her last breath. She would never give up.

  She must return to the fight, take up the struggle once more. In her mother’s name, in her daughter’s name, and in the names of her sons, who needed her. In the name of all the wars she had waged. She must carry on. She would not lie down in that bed, not let herself sink into the arms of death. She would not be buried alive. Not today.

  She dressed quickly. To cover her head, she grabbed a knitted hat from the cupboard—a child’s hat that lay forgotten, with a superhero badge on the front. Never mind, it would keep her warm.

  She left the house, dressed just as she was. It was snowing outside. She had thrown on a coat, over three sweaters piled one on top of the other. The clothes made her look tiny, like a Highland sheep staggering under the weight of its tangled fleece.

  Sarah left the house. Today was the day, she had decided.

  She knew exactly where to go.

  Giulia

  Palermo, Sicily

  Italian people want Italian hair.

  The phrase dropped like a butcher’s cleaver. In the living room of the family house, Giulia had just set out to her mother and sisters her plan to import Indian hair and save the workshop.

  She had worked tirelessly to develop the project over the preceding days. She had studied the market, prepared a dossier for the bank—they would need money to invest in the scheme, obviously. She had worked day and night, barely slept, but she hadn’t cared: she was on a mission, driven by a quasi-religious zeal. She had no idea where this newfound confidence, this sudden burst of energy, had come from. Was it Kamal’s benevolent presence at her side? Was it her father, deep in his coma, passing his strength and conviction to her? Giulia was ready to move mountains, from the Apennines to the Himalayas.

  She wasn’t spurred by the prospect of wealth, she cared nothing for the millions the English businessman boasted of. She didn’t need a swimming pool or a helicopter. All she wanted was to save her father’s workshop and keep a roof over her family’s head.

  It won’t work, said Mamma. The Lanfredi have always bought their hair in Sicily. The cascatura is an ancestral custom here. Challenge tradition at your peril, she admonished.

  Tradition will lead us to ruin, replied Giulia. The accounts are perfectly clear: the workshop will close in a month, at most. We need to rethink the production process, open it up to supplies from elsewhere. Accept this changing world and change with it. Family firms that refuse to move with the times are shutting down one after the other in Sicily. We need to expand our horizons, look further afield, it’s a matter of survival! Adapt or die, there is no other choice. Speaking these words, Giulia felt wings sprouting at her back, as if she were suddenly a lawyer at the bar of a great courtroom, in an important trial. It was a profession that had always fascinated her—but a profession reserved for cultivated people, from the upper echelons of society. There were no lawyers in the Lanfredi clan, only workers. But she would have loved to defend important causes in a court of law, to be a powerful, distinguished woman. She thought about it sometimes, and the thought joined all the others, in the limbo of her forgotten dreams.

  Giulia spoke forcefully, enthusiastically. Indian hair had superb qualities, she said, a host of experts agreed. Asian hair is stronger, African hair is the most brittle, but Indian is best, for its texture, and its capacity to take color. Once the hair was discolored and dyed, it looked exactly like European hair in every way.

  Francesca joined the discussion: she agreed with their mother, it would never work. Italians wouldn’t want imported hair. Giulia was unsurprised. Her sister was one of the great skeptics of this world, the people for whom everything was black and gray, who always answered “no” before even considering “yes.” Who always spotted the ugly detail in a landscape, the tiny stain on a fresh tablecloth; the people who pored over the surface of life in search of something to pick at, made it their reason for living, delighting in disaster. She was the opposite of Giulia, a true negative image: Giulia’s light was her darkness.

  If Italians don’t want Indian hair, we’ll open up to other markets, said Giulia. The Americans, the Canadians. It’s a big world out there, people need hair! Implants, extensions, and wigs were a fast-growing sector. They must catch the wave and ride it, not go under.

  Francesca made her doubts—her resistance to the whole project, in fact—abundantly clear. She was the older sister, and she didn’t mince her words. How was Giulia planning to go about it? She had never left Italy, never even been on a plane! Her world barely extended beyond the Bay of Palermo—how did she think she could pull off this extraordinary feat, this miracle?

  But Giulia wanted to believe. The internet had made the world a much smaller place. Distance meant nothing; the world fitted in the palm of their hands today, like the globe lamp they had been given when they were children. India was so close—a whole subcontinent on their doorstep. She had studied the prices at length, she knew what to pay and what to charge, her scheme was workabl
e. All it took was courage and faith. She had both.

  Adela said nothing. She sat in a corner and watched her sisters argue—she remained neutral in any situation, indifferent to the world and everyone in it. A typical teenager.

  We must close the workshop and sell the building, Francesca insisted. That would pay off part of the loan secured on the house. And what will we live on? demanded Giulia. Did she think it would be easy, finding another job? And their workers? Had she thought about them? What future for the women who had worked for them all for so many years?

  The discussion was turning into a confrontation. Mamma knew she would have to intervene and separate her daughters, whose raised voices were echoing through the house. They had never understood one another, she thought bitterly. Their relationship had been a series of clashes, of which this was the biggest. She must speak, and make a decision, to settle the matter.

  It is true, we must think of the workers, she said, that is a question of honor and respect. But Francesca is right on one point: Italian people want Italian hair.

  Mamma’s words sounded the death knell for Giulia’s plan.

  She left the house, utterly defeated. She had known she would have to justify the scheme, but she hadn’t imagined meeting such fierce opposition. She felt like the morning after a party—sick and hungover from the heady intoxication of the night before. She could do nothing for the workshop without the agreement of her mother and sisters. They had demolished her castle in the air. Her tremendous enthusiasm had been eroded, and fear and doubt—the enemies of good judgment—had taken its place. She would take refuge at the hospital, at her father’s bedside. What would he have said? What would he have done? She wanted so much to shelter in his arms, to cry for ages like a little child. Her faith was deserting her; she no longer knew what to do, whether to persevere with the plan or bury it, burn it on the altar of reason, in the name of traditions that were slowly dying. She felt beaten, exhausted, so tired from her sleepless nights that she could fall asleep there and then, on the hospital bed, next to Papà. She could sleep for a hundred years, like him. Yes, that was what she wanted.