To the Wedding

13

I smell muted ammonia, damp hair, and lacquer. I hear the whirr of a big hairdryer and the singsong exchange of women speaking in Slovak. Among them, Zdena.

I want a few glints, Zdena says, not everywhere, just where it falls here.

She’s talking to a young woman who is wearing a black T-shirt and white trousers. The girl’s black hair, brushed to the top of her head, is flecked with white as an ermine is flecked with black.

A shade like this? the girl asks with the voice and accent of somebody from the country.

Exactly, no more, says Zdena, closing her eyes, while the young woman pulls plastic gloves over her large hands.

I’m called Linda, says the young woman. It’s the first time you’ve been here, I think?

Yes, the first time.

Since 1991 several new hairdressing salons have started up in Bratislava with a new style which at first shocked everyone except the young. The earlier hairdressers, run by the state, were like untidy kitchens and specialised in permanent waves. The new ones pretend to the chic of car display rooms.

You’re going to a party tonight? asks Linda.

I’m going to a wedding.

Very carefully with her gloved fingers, because it’s the first lock she has combed the white paste on to, Linda arranges the silver foil for it.

A wedding. Lucky you. Tomorrow?

With great concentration she treats the second lock. It is the white paste which smells of ammonia.

Tomorrow?

The day after tomorrow in Italy.

There’s a country I want to go to!

With her separated white locks laid out on silver foil and her eyes shut, Zdena begins to resemble some emblem of the moon.

We don’t need a visa any more, do we? says Linda.

Not for Italy, we don’t.

You must have decided what to wear?

Yes, a dress of my mother’s.

Your mother’s!

She had it made in Vienna before the war. She wore it when she gave concerts.

Just tilt a little to the left … so you’re a musician?

No, I’m not, it was my mother who was a pianist for a little while.

I’d like to hear her play.

I’m afraid she’s dead.

Have you checked for moths? The dress, I mean. We can leave this now.

It’s deep green and gold, with lace, says Zdena.

That kind of dress is coming back today. If I was going to get married, I’d have a dress like yours. If it ever happens, maybe you could lend it to me?

If you like.

We’re about the same size. You look taller because of your shoes. With this job you have to wear sandals, otherwise you don’t last. We have a twelve-hour day. You mean it? You would lend it to me?

Yes.

Not that I have a man in mind, far from it. There, all we have to do now is to wait. You’re right of course, it’s better these days to marry abroad.

Linda leaves Zdena with her eyes closed and a silver aureole around her head.

I look disgusting. What will Gino say? Like an old potato brought out of a cellar in the spring. Foul sweet taste when boiled. Puffy skin. Cold sore on the lip, circles under my eyes. And my hair, what a mess. Maybe I have it tinted? A flicker of emerald. Fuck it. If I pull it out? Pull it out, tug it out like a widow! Aiee! Aiee! Look! Drawn back tight, it’s not bad, is it? Held tight, dog tight, so it’s shiny, with the profile of Nefertiti and the way I hold my head. I need a velvet ribbon, an elastic band will do for now.

Linda comes back and lifts up and examines minutely one of the treated locks. Then she begins to remove the tin foil. We can wash, she says. I have a girl friend from Teplice and she’s been lucky. Like you, she’s found a foreigner, a German from Berlin. A chance in a thousand. Is that comfortable for your neck? Things are bad up there in Teplice, really bad, worse than here. She and several of her mates did the autobahn. You know … for longdistance lorry drivers. Particularly for Germans, they have the money. She’d been doing this since about a month and she falls on this man Wolfram. A chance in a thousand. The same night, he says to her: Come to Berlin. She goes. Is the water too hot? We have to rinse it four times. And there in Berlin he tells her he wants to marry her! Why not? she asks me on the phone, I think Wolfram loves me. A chance in a thousand.

With her strong fingers, Linda is rubbing Zdena’s scalp.

What does your friend from Teplice feel about him? asks Zdena.

Using her nails like a comb, Linda says: What do you feel about your Italian?

It’s not — Zdena stops in mid-sentence — as if the effort to clear up the misunderstanding would be too great. I think I love him, she says.

Of course, says Linda now drying Zdena’s hair briskly with a towel, you’re not the same age and it makes a difference, I mustn’t forget that, but not so much, somewhere it’s the same problem, isn’t it? She starts the dryer and they can’t talk any more.

After the final touches, Zdena examines the effect in the mirror.

It’s really subtle, says Linda, it’s not too gold, I couldn’t have done less.

She holds up a second mirror in the form of a triptych with a golden frame, so that her client can see the sides and back. She touches one curl by the still youthful nape of her client’s neck.

So much better, Zdena says very softly. By this she means: The better I look, the less I will give Ninon to worry about.

And Linda, smiling, replies: I wish you with your Italian all the best in the world, I really do!