Page 29 of The Strawberry Thief
‘You didn’t scare him away,’ she said. ‘It was only the first of our meetings. I always insist on at least two before I agree to take on a job.’
‘Oh.’ I was a little surprised.
‘Tattooing is serious business,’ she said. ‘A mistake can never be cleanly removed. And, however good the cover-up work, the client will always remember where the old work used to be, and feel its itch in the darkness.’
Like marks on the soul, I thought, and felt a sudden shiver of unease. Surely an inappropriate comparison, I thought. Christ erases everything.
‘I’m glad you take it so seriously,’ I said. ‘I see so many young folk who seem to take more care over choosing their clothes than their skin art.’
She smiled again. In fact,mon père, the young people I had just described had been mostly on television, and something in Morgane’s expression told me that she knew this perfectly well.
‘I think you’re unfair on young people,’ she said. ‘And I make sure that all of my clients are aware, both of the transaction we’re making, and of what their design will mean to them.’
Transaction. An odd choice of word, I thought, invoking deals with the Devil. I wondered what it must be like to carry such a mark on the skin, and what that mark might reveal.
She indicated the pattern of leaves rising from herdécolletage. ‘Some themes are universal. Nature themes can help connect us with our world, and alter the way we perceive it.’ She looked at me, suddenly serious. ‘For you,mon père, something simple,’ she said. ‘Something radical and pure. Maybe something to do with fire.’
I flinched. ‘Fire?’
She knows, mon père. A newcomer here and already, somehow, she knows.For a moment I felt sick, panicky with the certainty that she had somehow looked inside me and shone a light into the dark. Then, shrugging aside the ridiculous thought, I managed a laugh and said: ‘I doubt my congregation would approve if I turned up to Mass with a flame tattoo.’
She smiled. ‘Oh, you’d be surprised how many people have tattoos. They don’t all choose to display them. Sometimes, a tattoo is so personal that even the family doesn’t know. Some people take them to the grave.’
Like unforgiven sins, I thought.
‘Would you like a drink,mon père? You suddenly don’t look very well.’
I sat. It must have been the mirrors, but I found myself feeling nauseous. She handed me a cup of coffee before opening the blinds. The light from the street was dazzling, but my nausea abated.
‘A little overwhelming in here,’ I said.
‘Some people find it so.’ She sat opposite me on one of the chairs, and I saw that she was wearing purple boots underneath her opulent velvet. ‘Feeling better?’
‘Yes, thank you.’ I drank. The coffee was good, stronger than I make it. ‘So,’ I went on, trying to take the conversation into more normal channels. ‘Is there much money in tattooing?’ On the whole, I imagined not. In my experience, the kind of people who want tattoos are not often people with money.
She smiled, as if I’d spoken my thoughts. I felt my face colour a little. ‘I manage,’ she said. ‘I ask that my customers pay what the art is worth tothem, rather than asking for a set fee.’
‘Oh.’ It sounded quite absurd. And yet the woman was serious. I was oddly reminded of Vianne Rocher, in the days of the firstchocolaterie. I almost expected her to say:Try me. I know your favourites.
Absurd, of course. She is nothing like Vianne. And yet the unease she makes me feel is, strangely, very familiar. I imagine she and Vianne have already made friends: I cannot imagine Roux trusting her otherwise. Of course Roux alreadyhastattoos: I imagine the decision to be more meaningful when dealing with unblemished skin.
I tried to look at Morgane’s face. Unseemly to keep looking at those tattoos in herdécolletage. And yet – speaking objectively – they are beautiful. Tendrils of stylized foliage, each tipped with three tiny flowers. It took me a moment to understand where I’d seen the design before: they are from the print by the door, that looked like English wallpaper. Looking now, I could see how cleverly one element of a more complex design had been taken and adapted to suit the tender curve of the collarbone. In spite of the clean, almost formal line, I found it unexpectedly erotic.
I raised my eyes to hers, and saw that she was smiling.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t mean to stare.’
‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘That was my first.’
‘Your first tattoo?’
‘My very first. Most tattooists start with a leg. Somewhere easy, that can be hidden away under clothing if the design goes wrong. But I had the confidence of youth. And I’ve always preferred working with mirrors.’
‘You mean you did this workyourself?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Morgane. ‘Some people use volunteers as practice. But I always thought that was dishonest. Tattooing is about honesty. I wanted my clients to know that.’
I tried to imagine the process of tattooing one’s own skin using mirrors. ‘Honesty,’ I repeated.
