So, my dear MacLuhan, love has triumphed. Leona and I will shortly return to my beloved Seattle, where she will rent the suite next to my own. I feel that very soon we will take the great step of abandoning carezza and confronting true physical satisfaction. If all goes well then, I will propose marriage! And then, perhaps, even children.
In any case, I promise you, you will be the first to know.
Yours as always,
de K.
JACK DANN
Tattoos
One of the most respected writer/editors of his generation, Jack Dann began writing in 1970, and first established his reputation with the critically acclaimed novella “Junction,” which was a Nebula finalist in 1973; he has been a Nebula finalist nine more times since then, and twice a finalist for the World Fantasy Award. His short fiction has appeared in Omni, Orbit, Playboy, Penthouse, New Dimensions, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, Shadows, Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, The Berkley Showcase, and elsewhere. His books include the novels Starhiker and Junction, and Timetipping, a collection of his short fiction. As an anthologist, he edited one of the most famous anthologies of the seventies, Wandering Stars, a collection of fantasy and SF on Jewish themes; his other anthologies include More Wandering Stars, Immortal, Faster than Light (co-edited with George Zebrowski), and several anthologies co-edited with Gardner Dozois: Future Power, Aliens!, Unicorns!, Magicats!, Bestiary!, and Mermaids!. His most recent books are the critically acclaimed novel The Man Who Melted; a major new anthology of Vietnam stories, edited in collaboration with Jeanne Van Buren Dann, called In the Field of Fire; and two more anthologies co-edited with Gardner Dozois, Sorcerers! and Demons! Upcoming is another new novel, Counting Coup, and a critical chapbook called The Work of Jack Dann, edited by Jeffrey M. Elliot, from Borgo Press. He is currently at work on two new novels, The Economy of Light and DaVinci Rising. Dann’s story “Blind Shemmy” was in our First Annual Collection, and his “Bad Medicine” was in our Second Annual Collection. He lives with his family in Binghamton, New York.
Here he explores a strange subculture and a stranger kind of sacrifice, as well as giving us a scary look at some very sinister tattoos.…
TATTOOS
Jack Dann
We are never like the angels till our passion dies.
—Decker
For the past few years we’d been going to a small fair, which wasn’t really much more than a road show, in Trout Creek, a small village near Walton in upstate New York. The fair was always held in late September, when the nights were chilly and the leaves had turned red and orange and dandelion yellow.
We were in the foothills of the Catskills. We drove past the Cannonsville Reservoir, which provides drinking water for New York City. My wife Laura remarked that this was as close to dry as she’d ever seen the reservoir; she had grown up in this part of the country and knew it intimately. My son Ben, who is fourteen, didn’t seem to notice anything. He was listening to hard rock music through the headphones of his portable radio-cassette player.
Then we were on the fairgrounds, driving through a field of parked cars. Ben had the headphones off and was excited. I felt a surge of freedom and happiness. I wanted to ride the rides and lose myself in the arcades and exhibitions; I wanted crowds and the noise and smells of the midway. I wanted to forget my job and my recent heart attack.
We met Laura’s family in the church tent. Then Laura and her mom and sister went to look at saddles, for her sister showed horses, and Dad and Ben and I walked in the other direction.
As we walked past concession stands and through the arcade of shooting galleries, antique wooden horse race games, slots, and topple-the-milk-bottle games, hawkers shouted and gesticulated at us. We waited for Ben to lose his change at the shooting gallery and the loop-toss where all the spindles floated on water; and we went into the funhouse, which was mostly blind alleys and a few tarnished distorting mirrors. Then we walked by the tents of the freak show: the Palace of Wonders with the original Lobster Man, Velda the Half-Lady, and “The Most Unusual Case in Medical History: Babies Born Chest to Chest.”
“Come on,” Dad said, “let’s go inside and see the freaks.”
“Nah,” I said. “Places like this depress me. I don’t feel right about staring at those people.”
“That’s how they make their money,” Dad said. “Keeps ’em off social services.”
I wasn’t going to get into that with him.
“Well, then Bennie and me’ll go in,” Dad said. “If that’s all right with you.”
It wasn’t, but I wasn’t going to argue, so I reached into my pocket to give Ben some money, but Dad just shook his head and paid the woman sitting in a chair outside the tent. She gave him two tickets. “I’ll meet you back here in about ten minutes,” I said, glad to get away by myself.
I walked through the crowds, enjoying the rattle and shake of the concessionaires, all trying to grab a buck, the filthy, but brightly painted oil canvas, the sweet smell of cotton candy, the peppery smell of potatoes frying, and the coarse shouting of the kids. I bought some french fries, which were all the more delicious because I wasn’t allowed to have them. Two young girls smiled and giggled as they passed me. Goddamn if this wasn’t like being sixteen again.
Then something caught my eye.
I saw a group that looked completely out of place. Bikers, punkers, and well-dressed, yuppie-looking types were standing around a tattoo parlor talking. The long-haired bikers flaunted their tattoos by wearing cut-off jean jackets to expose their arms and chests; the women who rode with them had taken off their jackets and had delicate tattoo wristlets and red and orange butterflies and flowers worked into their arms or between their breasts. In contrast, most of the yuppies, whom I assumed to be from the city, wore long-sleeved shirts or tailored jackets, including the women, who looked like they had just walked out of a New England clothes catalogue. There was also a stout woman who looked to be in her seventies. She had gray hair pulled back into a tight bun and she wore a dark pleated dress. I couldn’t help but think that she should be home in some Jewish neighborhood in Brooklyn, sitting with friends in front of her apartment building, instead of standing here in the dust before a tattoo parlor.
I was transfixed. What had brought all these people here to the boonies? Who the hell knew, maybe they were all from here. But I couldn’t believe that for a minute. And I wondered if they were all tattooed.
I walked over to them to hear snatches of conversation and to investigate the tattoo parlor, which wasn’t a tent, as were most of the other concessions, but a small modern mobile home with the words TAROT TATTOO STUDIO—ORIGINAL DESIGNS, EXPERT COVER-UPS painted across the side in large letters with red serifs through the stems. Then the door opened, and a heavy-set man with a bald head and a full black beard walked out. Everyone, including the yuppies, were admiring him. His entire head was tattooed in a Japanese design of a flaming dragon; the dragon’s head was high on his forehead, and a stream of flame reached down to the bridge of his nose. The dragon was beautifully executed. How the hell could someone disfigure his face like that? I wondered.
Behind the dragon man was a man of about five feet six wearing a clean, but bloodied, white T-shirt. He had brown curly hair that was long overdue to be cut, a rather large nose, and a full mouth. He looked familiar, very familiar, yet I couldn’t place him. This man was emaciated, as if he had given up nourishment for some cultish religious reason. Even his long, well-formed hands looked skeletal, the veins standing out like blue tattoos.
Then I remembered. He looked like Nathan Rivlin, an artist I had not seen in several years. A dear friend I had lost touch with. This man looked like Nathan, but he looked all wrong. I remembered Nathan as filled out and full of life, an orthodox Jew who wouldn’t answer the phone on Shabbes—from Friday night until sundown on Saturday, a man who loved to stay up all night and talk and drink beer and smoke strong cigars. His wife’s name was Ruth, and she was a highly paid medical te
xtbook illustrator. They had both lived in Israel for some time, and came from Chicago. But the man standing before me was ethereal-looking, as if he were made out of ectoplasm instead of flesh and blood. God forbid he should be Nathan Rivlin.
Yet I couldn’t keep myself from shouting, “Nate? Nate, is it you?”
He looked around, and when he saw me, a pained grin passed across his face. I stepped toward him through the crowd. Several other people were trying to gain Nathan’s attention. A woman told me to wait my turn, and a few nasty stares and comments were directed at me. I ignored them. “What the hell is all this?” I asked Nathan after we embraced.
“What should it be, it’s a business,” he said.” Just then he seemed like the old Nathan I remembered. He had an impish face, a mobile face capable of great expression.
“Not what I’d expect, though,” I said. I could see that his arms and neck were scarred; tiny whitish welts crisscrossed his shaved skin. Perhaps he had some sort of a skin rash, I told myself, but that didn’t seem right to me. I was certain that Nathan had deliberately made those hairline scars. But why…? “Nate, what the hell happened to you?” I asked. “You just disappeared off the face of the earth. And Ruth too. How is Ruth?”
Nathan looked away from me, as if I had opened a recent wound. The stout older woman who was standing a few feet away from us tried to get Nathan’s attention. “Excuse me, but could I please talk to you?” she asked, a trace of foreign accent in her voice. “It’s very important.” She looked agitated and tired, and I noticed dark shadows under her eyes. But Nathan didn’t seem to hear her. “It’s a long story,” he said to me, “and I don’t think you’d want to hear it.” He seemed suddenly cold and distant.
“Of course I would,” I insisted.
“Excuse me, please,” interrupted the older woman. “I’ve come a long way to see you,” she said to Nathan, “and you’ve been talking to everyone else but me. And I’ve been waiting…”
Nathan tried to ignore her, but she stepped right up to him and took his arm. He jerked away, as if he’d been shocked. I saw the faded, tattooed numbers just above her wrist. “Please…” she asked.
“Are you here for a cover-up?” Nathan asked her, glancing down at her arm.
“No,” she said. “It wouldn’t do any good.”
“You shouldn’t be here,” Nathan said gently. “You should be home.”
“I know you can help me.”
Nathan nodded, as if accepting the inevitable. “I’ll talk to you for a moment, but that’s all,” he said to her. “That’s all.” Then he looked up at me, smiled wanly, and led the woman into his trailer.
* * *
You thinkin’ about getting a tattoo?” Dad asked, catching me staring at the trailer. Ben was looking around at the punkers, sizing them up. He had persuaded his mother to let him have a “rat-tail” when he went for his last haircut. It was just a small clump of hair that hung down in the back, but it gave him the appearance of rebelliousness; the real thing would be here soon enough. He turned his back to the punkers with their orange hair and long bleach-white rat-tails, probably to exhibit his own.
“Nah, just waiting for you,” I said, lying, trying to ignore my feelings of loss and depression. Seeing Nathan had unnerved me. I felt old, as if Nathan’s wasting had become my own.
* * *
We spent the rest of the day at the fair, had dinner at Mom and Dad’s, watched television, and left at about eleven o’clock. We were all exhausted. I hadn’t said anything to Laura about seeing Nathan. I knew she would want to see him, and I didn’t want her upset, at least that’s what I told myself.
Ben fell asleep in the back seat. Laura watched out for deer while I drove, as my night-vision is poor. She should be the one to drive, but it hurts her legs to sit—she has arthritis. Most of the time her legs are stretched out as far as possible in the foot well or she’ll prop her feet against the dashboard. I fought the numbing hypnosis of the road. Every mile felt like ten. I kept thinking about Nathan, how he looked, what he had become.
“David, what’s the matter?” Laura asked when we were about halfway home. “You’re so quiet tonight. Is anything wrong. Did we do anything to upset you?”
“No, I’m just tired,” I said, lying. Seeing Nathan had shocked and depressed me. But there was a selfish edge to my feelings. It was as though I had looked in one of the distorting mirrors in the funhouse; I had seen something of myself in Nathan.
Ben yelped, lurching out of a particularly bad nightmare. He leaned forward, hugging the back of the front seat, and asked us if we were home yet.
“We’ve got a way to go,” I said. “Sit back, you’ll fall asleep.”
“I’m cold back here.”
I turned up the heat; the temperature had dropped at least fifteen degrees since the afternoon. “The freak show probably gave you nightmares; it always did me.”
“That’s not it,” Ben insisted.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with your grandfather,” Laura said. “He had no business taking you in there. He should have his head examined.”
“I told you,” Ben said, “it had nothing to do with that.”
“You want to talk about it?” I asked.
“No,” Ben said, but he didn’t sit back in his seat; he kept his face just behind us.
“You should sit back,” Laura said. “If we got into an accident—”
“Okay,” Ben said. There was silence for a minute, and then he said, “You know who I dreamed about?”
“Who?” I asked.
“Uncle Nathan.”
I straightened up, automatically looking into the rearview mirror to see Ben, but it was too dark. I felt a chill and turned up the heat another notch.
“We haven’t seen him in about four years,” Laura said. “Whatever made you dream about him?”
“I dunno,” Ben said. “But I dreamed he was all different colors, all painted, like a monster.”
I felt the hairs on the back of my neck prickle.
“You were dreaming about the freak show,” Laura told him. “Sometimes old memories of people we know get mixed up with new memories.”
“It wasn’t just Uncle Nathan looking like that that scared me.”
“What was it?” I asked.
He pulled himself toward us again. But he spoke to Laura. “He was doing something to Dad,” Ben said, meaning me.
“What was he doing?” Laura asked.
“I dunno,” Ben said, “but it was horrible, like he was pulling out Dad’s heart or something.”
“Jesus Christ,” Laura said. “Look, honey, it was only a dream,” she said to him. “Forget about it and try to go back to sleep.”
I tried to visualize the lines on Nathan’s arms and neck and keep the car on the road.
I knew that I had to go back and see him.
* * *
Monday morning I finished an overdue fund-raising report for the Binghamton Symphony with the help of my secretary. The three o’clock meeting with the board of directors went well; I was congratulated for a job well done, and my future seemed secure for another six months. I called Laura, told her I had another meeting, and that I would be home later than usual. Laura had a deadline of her own—she was writing an article for a travel magazine—and was happy for the stretch of work-time. She was only going to send out for a pizza anyway.
The drive to the fairgrounds seemed to take longer than usual, but that was probably because I was impatient and tense about seeing Nathan. Ben’s crazy dream had spooked me; I also felt guilty about lying to Laura. We had a thing about not lying to each other, although there were some things we didn’t talk about, radioactive spots from the past which still burned, but which we pretended were dead.
There weren’t as many people on the fairgrounds as last night, but that was to be expected, and I was glad for it.
I parked close to the arcades, walked through the huckster’s alley and came to Nathan Rivlin’s trailer. It was dusk, and
there was a chill in the air—a harbinger of the hard winter that was to come. A few kids wearing army jackets were loitering, looking at the designs of tattoos on paper, called flash, which were displayed under Plexiglas on a table secured to the trailer. The designs were nicely executed, but ordinary stuff to attract the passersby: anchors, hearts, butterflies, stylized women in profile, eagles, dragons, stars, various military insignia, cartoon characters, death-heads, flags, black panthers and lions, snakes, spiders; nothing to indicate the kind of fine work that had been sported by the people hanging around the trailer yesterday.
I knocked on the door. Nathan didn’t seem surprised to see me; he welcomed me inside. It was warm inside the trailer, close, and Nathan was wearing a sixties hipple-style white gauze shirt; the sleeves were long and the cuffs buttoned, hiding the scars I had seen on his arms yesterday. Once again I felt a shock at seeing him so gaunt, at seeing the webbed scars on his neck. Was I returning to my friend’s out of just a morbid fascination to see what he had become? I felt guilty and ashamed. Why hadn’t I sought out Nathan before this? If I had been a better friend, I probably would have.
Walking into his studio was like stepping into his paintings, which covered most of the available wall space. Nathan was known for working on large canvases, and some of his best work was in here—paintings I had seen in process years ago. On the wall opposite the door was a painting of a nude man weaving a cat’s cradle. The light was directed from behind, highlighting shoulders and arms and the large peasant hands. The features of the face were blurred, but unmistakably Nathan’s. Beside it was a huge painting of three circus people, two jugglers standing beside a woman. Behind them, in large red letters, was the word CIRCUS. The faces were ordinary, and disturbing, perhaps because of that. There was another painting on the wall where Nathan had set up his tattoo studio. A self-portrait. Nathan wearing a blue worker’s hat, red shirt, and apron, and standing beside a laboratory skeleton. And there were many paintings I had never seen, a whole series of tattoo paintings, which at first glance looked to be nonrepresentational, until the designs of figures on flesh came into focus. There were several paintings of gypsies. One, in particular, seemed to be staring directly at me over tarot cards, which were laid out on a table strewn with glasses. There was another painting of an old man being carried from his deathbed by a sad-faced demon. Nathan had a luminous technique, an execution like that of the old masters. Between the paintings, and covering every available space, was flash; not the flash that I had seen outside, but detailed colored designs and drawings of men and animals and mythical beasts, as grotesque as anything by Goya. I was staring into my own nightmares.
The Year’s Best Science Fiction: Fourth Annual Collection Page 47