They cross and suddenly it is upon them, the moment when she must let go of her daughter’s hand on the other side of the road. There is so much Smita wants to say: be happy, you won’t have my life, you’ll have good health, you won’t cough like me, you’ll live longer and better than I have, you’ll have respect. You won’t carry the foul smell, the cursed, indelible scent. You’ll have dignity. No one will throw their scraps to you, like a dog. You will not lower your head, or your eyes. Smita badly wants to tell her all this. But she’s not sure how to say it, how to tell her daughter about her wild hopes and dreams, about the butterflies fluttering in her stomach.

So she bends over her, and says simply: ‘Go.’

Giulia

Palermo, Sicily

Giulia woke with a start.

She had dreamed of her father in the night. As a child, she used to love going with him on his rounds. They would set off together on his Vespa, early in the morning. She never rode behind, but in front, on her father’s knees. She loved the wind in her hair, the dizzying sensation of infinite space and freedom that comes when you travel at speed. She was never afraid, her father’s arm was tight around her waist, she was completely safe. She cried out in joy and excitement when they hurtled downhill. She saw the sun rise over the Sicilian coast, the early morning bustle of the neighbourhoods, life waking up and stretching to greet the new day.

More than anything, she loved ringing at people’s doors. ‘Good morning! It’s for the cascatura,’ she would announce proudly. Sometimes, the women would give her a sweet, or a picture postcard, along with their sachets of hair. Giulia would proudly collect the booty and hand it to her father. He would reach into his bag and take out the small set of cast-iron scales he carried everywhere, handed down from his father, and his father before him. He would weigh the strands, estimate their value and present the women with a few coins. In the past, they had exchanged their hair for matches, but when cigarette lighters came in, the trade soon died out. Now the women were paid in cash.

Often, her father would chuckle at the old people, who were too weak to come down from their bedrooms but would still drop down a basket of their hair on a rope. He would wave, take the strands and put the money in the basket, ready to be pulled back up.

Giulia remembered that: how her father laughed when he told her about it.