Slightly shell-shocked, she thanked Magda and went to pay. On her way across the salon, she caught the woman in the ugly blue sweater, the assistant to the editor of The Early Bird, looking in her direction. The woman smiled. Natalie smiled back.

Natalie considered her cynicism about conformity in DC, about how Badem was like some kind of female indoctrination facility where individuality was leeched out from the roots of your hair on down. Now she was aware of what she’d missed, the undeniable current of power in the salon. As if here, tucked unobtrusively in the White House’s backyard, was a potent nexus of influence. One that decidedly did not smell like a men’s locker room. The Treatment was almost like a badge of solidarity.

Albeit one that was going to take out its practitioners young through early onset scalp cancer. Which meant she’d better get going.

11

Solitary Colors

It was still early in Colorado. Anita Crusoe didn’t want to reach for the phone to check the time but she assumed it had to be close to 6 a.m. She was lying in bed, her mind racing, imagining what that poor girl, Sonia Barbaro, a compatriot, must be thinking. Was she up, too, trying to make sense of the world, grasping for steady ground? She was desperate to reach out to her, just reassure her. To say, I know. I know what it is to be disbelieved or worse, muzzled. Your truth brings us trouble so you’ll have to swallow it. No seas difícil. Don’t be difficult.

But that was impossible. A call could be taped or tapped or simply leak. It would trigger international headlines, then an international incident, and then what?

Her mind turned to her husband. This was his fault. He was putting her in an impossible situation. He had to appreciate what it would stir in her. What it would unleash. She felt a welt of anger rise. She knew he could be cold, calculating, but she’d had no idea he had the capacity for this depth of cruelty.

The memories she’d worked so hard to push down, lock away, were now rushing to the surface, clamoring for her acknowledgment. She rolled onto her stomach, pressing her face into the pillow, trying to hold it all back. But it was no use. They came tumbling in. The acrid smell of his sweat. The ravenous look in his eyes. The stillness of everything in the world except his body. But what haunted her most from that night were the sounds. The hungry, defiant groans. They say it’s about power not pleasure but like everything they tell you, it’s not the whole truth. There was pleasure for him. She’d heard it.

Ese cerdo.