For Roberto, that moment—when he laid his hands on a woman—was a moment of both triumph and sorrow. And it was about to happen again, because they had arrived. A smell that had nothing to do with filthy clothes or sooty huts found its way into his nose. It was the smell of the women themselves. The sour tang of armpit sweat, the metallic residues of fresh or dry menstrual blood, scabbed skin oozing decay.
The cheap soap the women used did little to make the patchwork of odors more bearable. Now and then, he met a woman who still gave off the scent of youth. Or perhaps the lingering perfume of lilies of the valley was just from a nicer soap a lover had given her some time ago. Roberto was tired of thinking about such things.
From inside, his gaze wandered longingly out through the small, grimy windows, where, above the summits, the sun shone and the snow draped a virginal veil over the ridges and mountains of the Piedmont. So much beauty out there. Yet here the people seemed locked in, almost as if buried alive.
Michele impatiently cleared his throat, drawing Roberto out of his thoughts. Roberto looked at the group gathered around the open fire, and four pairs of eyes looked back, expectant and fearful. Three daughters, aged from eighteen to twenty-four, and their mother. Roberto guessed the woman was no older than forty-five, though she was as careworn and haggard as an old nonna. It was the mother who spoke first.
“Do women give up their hair in other villages, too? Just like that?”
Roberto and Michele nodded in unison. “The women are happy to be able to earn money in a simple, honest way,” said Roberto. “Hardship is everywhere, signora. Please believe me when I say that no one must feel ashamed of that. Poverty has many faces, but none as beautiful as those here in your house.” He insinuated a bow to the three daughters, who giggled in embarrassment at the gesture.
“We pay good money,” Michele added to entice the women. He cast a quick glance at the father of the three young women. He was sitting in one corner, smoking his pipe in silence by the stove. A woman’s hair was a woman’s concern. But the mention of easy money was never out of place if the man of the house was present. “Money you can put to good use. Enough to buy some sacks of rice or rolls of cloth. Tools. Shingles to fix the roof. New shoes, lamp oil . . .You know best what to spend your money on.” With an extravagant motion, Michele pulled something shiny out of his bag. “But such practical matters aside, why not a beautiful necklace for the signorine?” He dangled the necklace of Murano glass beads seductively before the daughters’ eyes, then he put it in the oldest daughter’s hand. Instinctively, he and Roberto had already identified her as the one they needed to convince; the other two took their cues from her.
“Necklaces like this are in style all over Italy right now,” Roberto said, underscoring his words with a pompous flick of his hand. “We’ve heard many a young woman say that with all this glitter, the men now only look at her bust, and not at her tatty old dress. Hiding one’s poverty is an art in itself, isn’t it?”
The three young women cooed over the necklace, and even their mother glanced furtively at it. Then they took turns putting it on and rolling the glass beads with their fingers.
Roberto leaned back on his hard chair. He had all the time in the world. A hut as full of daughters as this farmhouse in a remote corner of Piedmont was a rare gift. The only other locations with so many women in one place were the gloomy nunneries high in the mountains. More often than not, all the brothers found in the houses they visited was an old woman. Of course, they still took her thin gray hair, but they could earn far more with the beautiful tresses of young women like those in front of them now! Best of all: two of them were ash blond, the most popular color of all.
The oldest daughter, a stalwart, pretty woman with thick dark-brown hair, handed the necklace back to Roberto. “But isn’t our hair also a jewel that we can wear with pride?” she asked with an undertone of defiance, and she ran one hand over the thick braid pinned close to her scalp.
Roberto nodded slowly. “The most beautiful jewel of all. And because of that, we pay so well. Ten lire for one braid, imagine that! So much money, so easily,” he said almost devoutly, as if impressed himself.
“And hair grows back quickly,” Michele added. “When we come back in two or three years, you’ll have it all back. And in the meantime . . .” Once again, he dug into his bag, this time retrieving a stack of colorful cotton headscarves with different patterns. “In the meantime, you simply wear one of these as a headdress. A gift from us.”
The mother and her daughters exchanged a long look. “If we were to agree . . . what will become of our hair?”
That was the moment when Roberto knew that they had won. As if reading Roberto’s mind, Michele said, “We’ve got them,” in Occitan, the old language of Piedmont, a language hardly anyone except the hair traders still understood. It was the secret language of the caviè. Roberto glanced at him, annoyed: don’t unsettle these three beauties any more than they already are. He looked at the women with large, honest eyes.
“First, we take all the braids we’ve bought to Elva, our hometown. It’s a small village high in the Maira Valley,” he explained. Experience had taught him that the more information he gave, the more trustworthy he appeared. “Then my sisters and my mother sort the hair by color and length. And then we sell the hair to a dealer, who sells it to wigmakers all over Europe.” His expression grew concerned as he said, “Not every woman has been as blessed by God as the three of you. You have inherited your mother’s beauty. Other young women are heir to more than a hooked nose.” He made a face and formed an extra-large nose with his right hand. The three young women and their mother giggled. “Others have large warts on their faces.” He tapped one finger at his cheeks and forehead. “And the worst thing of all is that some women are not only ugly, but also have practically no hair on their heads at all. Their husbands revile them and call them ‘baldy.’ They are beaten and humiliated, and many are abandoned by their husbands.”
The women were watching Roberto curiously, but he also could see there was some satisfaction: there were women in this world who were worse off than they were, there, on their little farm.
Roberto looked for the words to really put the icing on the cake, but nothing occurred to him, and Michele, too, was silent.
Instead, rather weakly, Roberto finished with, “Those poor women are endlessly grateful if they can buy a wig. But for that they need women like you, who are prepared to sacrifice their hair.”
“You would be doing something good, and earning a lot of money at the same time,” Michele added. The brothers were a good team.
“But . . . if you cut off my hair, I’ll be a ‘baldy’ myself!” said the youngest of the sisters nervously. She had the loveliest hair of all—as if spun from the finest gold, a heavy blond braid hanging past her hips. “Who will look at me at the spring festival then? I’ll shrivel up like an old maid and never find a husband!”
Roberto and Michele, used to such objections, smiled mildly. “Signorina, nothing could disfigure your beauty. Just look at yourself.” Roberto produced a small mirror and held it up to the girl’s face. “Your perfect lips, your beautiful pink cheeks, your violet eyes . . . Nothing will change you. The young men at the spring festival will be fighting to have the first dance with you.” Roberto was glad to see that the young woman smiled, albeit uncertainly. Tears at the decisive moment only made his work harder.
He leaned forward and tugged a few strands of hair free from her thickly woven braid. The girl, he was relieved to note, was one of those who smelled of lilies of the valley. “Look. All this hair on top will still be yours. We only cut the hair from the back of your head. If you wear a scarf, no one can see what is missing . . .”
With determination, he pulled a pair of scissors out of his bag. Now or never.
“Who’ll be the first?”
Michele held up the colorful scarves, but unlike the necklace, he did not hand them over. Not yet. “Whoever’s first gets first cho
ice of these fine cloths.”
For a long, tense moment, no one spoke. The father cleared his throat nervously.
“I’ll do it,” said the mother. She wore a sorrowful expression on her weather-beaten face, but she was determined. “Our last harvest let us down. Money is tighter than ever. And our roof leaks. When it rains, I have to put out five buckets to catch the water. If we can repair that . . .” She looked over at her husband. He shrugged almost imperceptibly.
“A wise decision!” Roberto praised. It was a start.
Michele let the woman choose a scarf while Roberto positioned a chair so that her daughters did not see the devastation he would wreak with a few snips.
With some hesitation, the woman sat down. “Not every woman has the opportunity to earn money so easily,” Roberto repeated, and his scissors made a soft ripping sound. No dandruff, no lice, very good. “So many times, we have to go away empty-handed because the woman’s hair is far too thin. Or so curly that one would suspect it came from some other part of the body. Who would want to wear a wig like that?”
As expected, the women shrieked with laughter. A dirty joke now and then never hurt, in Roberto’s experience. He made use of the moment to make another snip with the scissors. It was important to cut the hair very close at the nape to preserve the braid in all its fullness.
“Done!” With a flourish, Roberto immediately tucked the cut-off hair inside his traveling case. It was not necessary for the women to see it again.
Michele, positioned beside him with the headscarf in his hands, now tied the cloth expertly around the mother’s head. Then he held the mirror up for her. “Take a look, bella signora. Nothing unusual to be seen.”
The woman examined herself critically in the mirror. It was true: her gray fringe still showed from beneath the scarf, and the silky hair at her temples, too. She nodded.
“And here is your ten lire. You’ve earned this for yourself.” With a grand gesture, Roberto began to count ten coins into the woman’s hand. As he did, he sensed the unease that now spread among her daughters. Who would put her hand up next?
A short time later, the brothers were on their way with four braids in their bag. They had turned down the mother’s invitation to stay for dinner. Misery would descend the moment that one of the women lifted her headscarf, and neither of the brothers wanted to be there when that happened.
“Four perfect braids. I’d call that a good day!” Satisfied, Michele clapped Roberto on the shoulder. “If the father hadn’t been squatting there in the corner, we’d have got even more. The middle daughter had her eye on me . . .”
“Women are all the same in that regard. A few pretty words and they’re all yours,” said Roberto. None of the young women had appealed to him particularly. He had seen some true beauties during his travels, and both brothers had experienced his share of what women had to offer.
Michele laughed. “When I think about that girl in Murassone . . .” He sighed. “You know, we have the best job in the world! We can do what we like, and no one at home ever finds out. We don’t have to buy any expensive supplies or carry any heavy tools with us, like a blacksmith or a knife grinder. And we see a lot of the world. All we need is this little bit of magic!” Triumphantly, he took his scissors out of the bag and made a few snips in the air with them.
Roberto found himself smiling. He could not completely comprehend his older brother’s enthusiasm, but he liked to listen to him. When Michele told a story, any story, a thousand sparks glittered in his eyes. Hardly a woman they visited could resist his charm, and he made a good impression on most of the men they met. But Roberto was not second to Michele in any way. On the contrary—compliments came even easier to him. Not that he would ever lie through his teeth to the women he met. That would have been beneath him. But a long time ago, Roberto had realized that compliments that possess a grain of truth are far more effective than exaggerated flattery. If he looked closely, he could find something beautiful in any woman, so when he offered his compliments, he believed them himself. Maybe that was the true art.
It didn’t hurt that the two brothers were very good-looking. They were tall and fit. Michele had brown eyes and dark, unruly hair, while Roberto had straw-blond hair and dark-blue eyes. The Totosano brothers were a successful team.
“How many braids have we cut this season?” asked Roberto. Although he thought he knew the number, he wanted Michele’s confirmation.
“Two hundred and a few more. This will give us a decent profit. I estimate at least four thousand lire, assuming the Sorris have brought home the amount they usually do. Papa will be proud of us.”
At the mention of their father, Roberto’s mood darkened. “The Sorris! I can’t believe Papa still works with them. It’s absurd! There probably isn’t another partnership like it anywhere, and if you ask me, it’s unfair and unjust. It makes me so angry!” At the thought that, in just a few days, the two families would meet to settle their accounts for the year together, Roberto balled his hands into fists in his jacket pockets.
“Calm down! You know it’s an old tradition in Elva that our families divide the hair trade,” said Michele, unconcerned. “And frankly, I think that’s good. When the hair goes into one big pile at the end of the season, we know what work the Sorris have done, and vice versa. No one can fool anyone.”
“And do you also think it’s good that we have to split the profits, although the two of us bring home more braids than Federico, Martine, and Antonio put together?” The three Sorri sons were not only lacking in good looks, but they had no charm at all. No wonder they convinced fewer women to give up their hair.
Michele shrugged. “What’s a few lire more or less? At least there’s no envy or resentment. I, for one, don’t want trouble with my father-in-law. And if you marry Gaia soon, you’ll see things the same as I do. Everything stays in the family one way or another.”
Roberto stopped walking. “Who says I’m marrying Gaia? She’s a nice girl, but that’s all. Is Papa making deals with Lorenzo for that? If he is, he’d better not count on me. I won’t let anyone force me into anything, never!”
“Roberto,” Michele said calmly. “Take it easy. No one wants to force you to do anything. But you have to admit that you should have been married long ago. You’re twenty-eight. And Gaia is very attractive, even prettier than my Marta. She looks up to you, and I think she might even be a bit in love with you. What would be wrong with marrying her? We all have to go through it sometime, don’t we?”
Roberto said nothing, but the brothers started walking again. It was not that he was fundamentally against marriage. Or that there was anything not to like about the younger of the Sorri daughters. What gnawed at him was the fact that his father and Lorenzo Sorri shared a conviction that they could decide the fates of everyone and everything around them. Yes, he was twenty-eight years old, a grown man and a good businessman—but he had no more say in things than a schoolboy. How long would the reign of the two powerful fathers last? And who would succeed his father? Michele, perhaps?
Roberto reached up to his collar and opened the top button of his shirt, as if to get a little more air to breathe. So he was supposed to marry Gaia . . . and that would weave the net of mutual control a little tighter.
“So far, Papa only made one small remark, just before we left. Nothing’s been decided yet. Just forget I said anything at all,” said Michele, as if he could read Roberto’s thoughts. “What would you say if we try to convince Papa not to sell the hair to that agent in Dronero, but to go out and sell it on the market ourselves?” Michele asked. “Our profits would be much higher, and we could go off traveling again in summer instead of breaking our backs in the fields.”
Surprised by the question, Roberto gave his brother a sidelong look. “I wanted to suggest just that to Papa. Not that I think he’ll go for it. We know him better than that—now don’t go messing with the old customs . . .” Roberto’s voice carried mockery and scorn.
“Still, it’s wort
h a try,” said Michele. “You’ll see, it will all work out.”
Roberto mumbled something he knew Michele would take as agreement. There was no need to start arguing on the last day of their travels. His brother was as caught up in the whole system as he was. Perhaps the occasional affair, the betrayal of his wife—Lorenzo Sorri’s older daughter—that Michele allowed himself when they were out in the country was his way of defying the power others had over their lives. Roberto still had not found anything like that for himself. But didn’t they say that thinking was free? That was something, at least.
Tomorrow, they would head home. The very thought made it harder for Roberto to draw breath. He stopped walking again.
“We’ve done well today. Why don’t we stay somewhere decent to mark the occasion? Enough sleeping in barns and eating dry bread for supper. On our way here I saw a guesthouse that looked good, with a lot of carriages parked in the yard. Let’s celebrate!”
The Queen of Beauty (The Century Trilogy Book 3) Page 12
