He covered the plaster cast with graffiti of his favourite bands. The names were still legible. Guns N’ Roses. Red Hot Chili Peppers. The Doors, The Cure. Marie put the cast back into the carton containing Leon’s old magazines, the topmost one showing a Burt Reynolds lookalike with a thick moustache, a strappy leather thing on his bare torso.
‘Help me, Mopoke,’ she groaned to the cat. She carried the carton to the garage, the gay porn glowing like a fresh wound in her mind. Of course it was her who had saved these things, including that copy of Colt. She remembered the hot shame when first coming across it secreted behind Leon’s desk after he moved out. It had altered her fantasy life forever, and these shaggy-haired, smooth-skinned men of the 1980s rushed back now like old lovers. She took the Colt up to her room with the pile of National Geographic and the psychology books.
The flames took two four-hour sessions to complete: the first session the outline and darker reds; the second the oranges, yellows and touch-ups. Marie lay back watching Rhys carve curves into her belly. On the wall was a sign saying DON’T MOVE KEEP STILL, next to it metal shelving crammed with books. Sometimes Marie shut her eyes against the pain. There was the tattoo whirr, the tear of paper towels, occasional voices. Below the window a boom box transmitted community radio, crossing every two hours to another language or genre. Marie lay there not wanting translation, letting the emotion of the music wash through her as the needles injected dye into her flesh. She came away from these sessions purged and exhilarated. By the second hour the pain had alchemised and she reclined peacefully, eyes opening every now and then to see Rhys’s intense face below.
‘Fantastic skin. Soaking it up. You were born to be tattooed, Marie.’
Marie grimaced as Rhys wiped the seeping tattoo.
‘Breathe.’ Rhys switched on the iron again.
Halfway through they had a break. Rhys took out her contact lenses and leant back to receive drops in each eye.
‘My middle child has trouble with her contact lenses,’ Marie remarked. ‘Have you tried the new non-allergenic ones?’
‘I’ve tried everything.’ Rhys blinked, hands moving over the benchtop. She pressed a tissue to her eyes then put on glasses. ‘Is she your favourite?’
‘Pardon?’
‘There’s always a favourite. Usually the middle child.’
Marie didn’t want to answer, but there was nothing peremptory in Rhys’s manner and in this room her usual defences seemed unnecessary. ‘My youngest is my favourite, but he’s gay.’
‘But?’
Marie sighed. ‘I’m a hypocrite ... I don’t like my rose.’
‘Sorry?’
‘The rose tattoo on my shoulder blade. I don’t like it.’
‘What brought that on?’
‘It’s just not me. Do you think I should have it removed?’
‘Laser treatment’s expensive and I don’t really believe in it. But you shouldn’t wear something you’re uncomfortable with.’ Rhys sat on her stool, boots hooked on rungs, shadows under her eyes. Marie realised how tired she must be. Two other jobs already today. She had mentioned a child. ‘An alternative is doing something over it. You’ll still see it slightly, like a ghost.’
After her first tattoos Marie had felt like leaping into the air, but these longer sessions made her at once giddy and lucid, as though the leap had been made, the border crossed. Downstairs, while her payment went through, she looked at the photograph of the girl with snake arms.
‘I’m glad you like the photos,’ said Rhys. ‘We didn’t want just the usual flash.’
‘Who is she?’
‘Isn’t she beautiful? She’s a Kalinga girl from Luzon island in the Philippines. A tattoo like that could take months to complete. A wall of pain.’
‘She doesn’t look much older than twelve.’
‘It was a preparation for womanhood. A woman was considered more desirable if she’d endured that sort of pain. They were headhunters. Rob put her up. He has Filo blood.’
‘When was it taken?’
‘I don’t know. Early twentieth century? Their forests have nearly all gone now. Logged or burnt.’
Rhys indicated the photo over the stairs, which Marie still averted her eyes from. ‘I know. He freaks some people out. But he’s like our Moses.’
It was a mummified body with the macabre protrusion of skull through parchment flesh, the clavicles and ribs rising like a mountain range in an eroded landscape. In the corner was a closeup of blurred stripes and crosses. ‘This is the Iceman they found in the Alps, remember? He had about fifty-eight tiny tattoos. They think they were done to treat some sort of back pain, and probably a stomach disorder. He had whipworm.’
Marie thought of her stomach ulcers. The knife unsheathed inside, the constant shifting around its point. She disliked people who spoke of their ailments. ‘Acupuncture,’ she said vaguely.
‘Well, acupuncture supposedly didn’t begin until about three thousand years ago in China. Otzi’s Italian and five thousand years old. But most of the tattoos were on meridians and it looks medicinal.’
‘Did he die of his worms?’
‘He had an arrowhead embedded in his chest. He was shot in the back, but I don’t know if that killed him. Anyway, I like to tell myself that tattooing heals. I’m a believer.’
The sessions began in the afternoon, the room in sunlight enormous around them, diminishing over the hours to a bright cone from the lamp Rhys positioned over the tattooed area. From ribs to pubis was her canvas, Rhys a quiet worker, gliding on the office chair to decant more ink, returning to Marie’s side before Marie even knew she had gone. Then it began again, the searing cut, the graze of paper, the cut, the graze, the whine of the iron.
Marie was trying to visualise stomach ulcers. Did they resemble blisters on the epidermis? Spongy pustules filled with mucus? Or did the aqueous interior give them another structure? She wondered how pliable they were, whether they resided in one spot, suckered to the fleshy lining, or moved through the viscous bile of the abdominal cavity. She lamented her ignorance of the body. She sensed she must begin preparations for the hunt.
Rhys began to score alizarin at the base of the flames. Stung awake, Marie became aware of every perforation, the stark tent of lamplight, the tree outside deepening to silhouette, the mournful keening of Bulgarian women on the radio. And in the moments of acute pain when the interior burning surfaced like a fin through the ocean of tattoo, she was stranded again. She needed distraction.
She read the spines of Rhys’s books. Parrots of Australia. Edo Japan. Bad Boys and Tough Tattoos. She mentally listed household tasks. The garden was in shape, the rooms cleaned out, she had only the guttering to do. The horizon was clearing and she saw a simple yet radical possibility: she could go back to university and finish her psychology degree. A whole new world could come from that; a smile spread across her features. And it came to her also while lying there that she would engage Hugh to sell the house. All the tortured cogitation associated with this fell away, and the decision made, she withstood the pain easily.
She questioned Rhys about her tattooing. Gradually Rhys relinquished details. She had dropped out of art school and fallen in love with a young tattoo artist. ‘He practised on me, and I stayed with him mainly because I loved being tattooed. Then I got critical of his draughtsmanship; I started thinking I could do better. But I was such a good little girlfriend, it took me another two years to leave him and find my own teacher. I didn’t want to threaten him. My boyfriend, that is.’
‘We’re like that with our men, aren’t we. I was like that with my ex-husband.’
‘I’m not anymore.’
‘Good for you. And what was your first tattoo?’
‘A snake.’
‘Whereabouts?’
Rhys shrugged, not looking up.
Marie closed her eyes and slipped back down to the half-world of endorphins.
Rhys was all there and yet somehow absent, her only visible tattoos the h
ypnotic gauntlets, and even these were mostly concealed by gloves. Marie dozed through the final flames, the pain all around her a hot red flood.
Christmas Day was unnervingly quiet. There was nobody here apart from Leon, and he slept in. A sense of impermanence made the house feel to Marie like a holiday rental, the languorous hot weeks stretching ahead filled with the sounds of the beach; her continuing her motherly tasks of cleaning, organising and providing; the inevitable packing up at the end. The inevitable end.
She had a swim in the cove then went into the kitchen to begin preparing food, Leon eventually joining her. Clark arrived late, taking the dishes he had made straight to the table. There was a ham at one end; at the other, the cloth was held down by a breadboard covered in a baguette and a parmigiana. There were green beans with basil, olive oil and garlic; a potato salad with capers and anchovies; a green salad; and spicy chick peas. Lastly, Marie brought out a dish of tuna steaks and turned on the barbecue. There was barely enough room for all the food.
Marie began to sear the tuna.
‘Tuna instead of turkey this year?’ said Clark.
‘I couldn’t stand poultry,’ Leon said. ‘I pass a chicken farm when I go to my nursery on the outskirts of Brisbane. It’s this huge tin shed in a paddock, baking in the sun. The bush stinks of death for miles around from the birds that die in there. They just leave them to rot in the cages with the living ones.’
‘Are turkeys farmed too? Or are they all organic?’
‘I don’t know.’ Marie served the tuna. ‘We used to see chickens slaughtered in Avalon, you know. There was a Chinese market gardener next door who kept fowl. We saw our Christmas turkey slaughtered and plucked nearly every year.’
‘That’s good. We’re so removed from the animals we eat and how they’re killed, we don’t take responsibility.’
‘I didn’t take responsibility, Leon. I was a child sneaking a look through the fence.’
‘Witnessing is a form of responsibility.’
‘My mother hated us seeing it. She smacked us if she caught us. Me and Judy used to hide in the passionfruit vine.’
Clark ate, watching her. ‘So you liked seeing them slaughtered?’
‘I don’t know.’ Marie remembered Judy, three years older, digging her fingers into her shoulders to make sure she didn’t run away when the hatchet came down. She remembered the spurting, jerking bodies. ‘Judy forced me. I cried.’
‘The tuna is great by the way,’ said Leon.
‘Market gardens in Avalon,’ said Clark. ‘Hard to imagine now, isn’t it.’
‘We’re fishing the seas to death too,’ Leon added mournfully.
Clark fussed over his mother, carving the ham, filling her glass. It was a still, hot day, and they ate slowly, hunched over the abundant table, the low liquid hum of the harbour all around them. The sky wore a glary sheath that gagged the cicadas. From the zoo across the water came the indignant cries of peacocks, and from next door those of the Hendersons’ grandchildren playing in the pool.
‘They use the pool much, Mum?’ Leon asked.
‘This is the first time I’ve noticed anyone in it.’
‘We should go for a swim after lunch,’ said Clark. ‘I’ve started swimming in the mornings.’
Leon moved his chair away from the table, arm muscles tightening. ‘Must be beautiful, Bondi in the mornings.’
‘Where d’you swim in Brisbane? D’you drive to the ocean?’
‘Not much. I miss it. I just keep fit gardening. Cabbage tree needs a haircut, Mum. You got a good tree surgeon?’
‘Another thing to add to the list,’ Marie groaned.
Clark tried not to look at his brother’s muscles and resolved to increase his lap count. When Leon put his hands behind his head you could see the edge of a tattoo around his left bicep. Clark suddenly remembered his conversation with Blanche — how could he have forgotten that Leon had a tattoo? One of those pseudo-primitive things, all sharp curves. He believed Blanche about his mother now, and wanted to see them. He dropped his napkin and took his time picking it up off the floor, but his mother’s feet were tucked backwards so her ankles were invisible. He sat up and fixed his eyes on her while Leon talked on about cabbage tree palms. Clark couldn’t concentrate on the conversation; he burnt with a need for explanation and positioning. It was as though things had been rearranged in his absence; he felt adrift. Marie looked over and saw him staring at her.
‘When’s the house going on the market?’ he said quickly.
‘It’s a miracle it’s survived this long.’ Leon was finishing a sentence. ‘Alone and unprotected like that.’
‘I’ll be talking to Hugh when they get home,’ Marie said to Clark.
Leon grinned and raised his eyebrows.
‘So you’ve decided on him definitely?’ Clark tried to sound neutral.
‘Yes.’ Marie gave him a flinty look.
He sensed she wanted him to challenge her but he wouldn’t allow himself to be baited. His mother didn’t seem to be drinking as much as usual, but he didn’t know what she’d had before he arrived.
‘God.’ Leon patted his stomach. ‘Didn’t exactly scrimp on the food, did we? Can we wait till later for the pudding?’
‘I thought I was cooking less. Why don’t you stay the night, Clark? Watch the boats go out in the morning? And at some stage you both have to clean out your rooms and take your televisions and the things I’ve left for you in the garage.’
‘More televisions?’
‘Your televisions.’
‘I never watch TV anymore,’ said Leon. ‘They must be ancient.’
Clark flicked through a quick inventory of what he could do if he stayed here. He could read, go for a swim, watch the test match tomorrow. He could get a look at his mother’s tattoos. He ran his tongue along his upper lip and tasted sweat. He was too full to move right now. ‘Okay then.’
‘Look behind you.’ His mother pointed.
On the recliner beneath wrapping paper was a shallow wooden box, the size of a plate, with a glass top. Clark picked it up and gasped. ‘This?’ Beneath the glass was an enormous butterfly, emerald green with jaffa underwings, almost as wide as his hand. The iridescent body was the size of his ring finger. ‘It’s beautiful!’
‘It’s from Leon. I think it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.’
Looking closely, Clark could make out the cruel speck of a pin’s head in the insect’s back. ‘You killed this? That’s not like you, Leon.’
‘I found it. It died after laying its eggs.’
‘Is it rare? What’s it called?’
‘I don’t think so. It’s a Splendid Ghost Moth.’
‘How did you preserve her?’ Marie asked.
There was a pause. ‘I didn’t actually. I didn’t know how. I guess it’ll kind of ... disintegrate.’
‘You should put it somewhere special.’ Clark held it up to the light.
‘That’s exactly what I’m going to do. I’m going to get a tattoo of it on my back.’
Clark put down the box. ‘Pardon?’
Marie was giving him that same look of challenge as when announcing that Hugh was to be the agent for the sale.
Leon snorted softly over his plate.
‘By the same artist who did my flames.’ Marie lifted her shirt to show him a portion of the tattoo.
‘Oh no don’t,’ said Clark in a strangled voice. He reddened and turned away. Blanche had only mentioned ankles. ‘Why?’
‘Because I want to. Why don’t you ask Leon about his?’
Leon remained hunched over his plate, not looking at either of them.
‘But Leon’s half your age!’
‘So what?’ Marie said cockily, looking over to Leon, whose eyes were widened in innocence.
What a stupid woman. She was acting like a teenager. She honestly thought it was funny. That sly look she got when lifting her shirt, like a little girl proud of pooing in her pants. The way she tried to draw Leon in
, god, the way she flirted with him. Maybe he was in on it. The tattoo looked like an open wound. The fact of its permanence appalled Clark. But, hey, it was her body, like he was going to lose sleep over it? Really. An uncomfortable silence descended. Unable to contain his hurt, Clark began to collect the dirty dishes then walked into the house with them.
Marie followed him to the kitchen with more dishes. He stood over the bin scraping plates, barking when she joined him, ‘Leave it, Mum, please. I’ll clean up.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Clark. Calm down. It’s Christmas Day.’
She heard Mopoke miaowing and found her outside on the patio, looking expectantly at the house. ‘Oh my poor darling, locked outside on Christmas Day.’ Mopoke walked in a semi-circle to the left then to the right, nudging Marie’s legs. ‘Come on, Mo, tuna for you!’ Marie took her into the kitchen and scooped the scraps onto her plate.
She left Clark sulking over the washing-up and tramped down to the bottom of the garden with the compost. God, he was such a little prig. It only made her want to lift her shirt higher and dance on the table, just to scandalise him. He was like the nuns at school, or her parents. Why was he like this? Hadn’t she kept religion away from her children to avoid this very problem? Not for them the lifelong injuries sustained by an upbringing in the torture chamber of the Catholic Church. Not that she hadn’t recovered. Still, it felt naughty lifting her shirt like that. It made her laugh now just to think of it. She could see his figure at the window from down here. She had a schoolgirl urge to hurt him even more, then a schoolgirl guilt for her cruelty; then all she was left with was the bitter aftertaste of their disconnection. And Leon who sat there saying nothing. Oh, fuck both of them. Sometimes, when she looked back at her past, all Marie could see was childhood followed by marriage with nothing in between. So starved of adventure, so habituated to authority that she sought it in her sons.
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