5 Adelbert Delarue
Always it is interesting, is it not? to look rearward from the present moment to those earlier present moments from which it has arisen. If one perspicaciously from effects to causes traces the development of anything, one sees with clarity how infallibly one thing leads to another. And yet sometimes it is easier from the present to look forward and predict an outcome than it is from an outcome to look backward and determine a cause. But at every moment of every day and in the night as well, like newly hatched turtles racing to the sea, causes are hurrying to their effects. To me it seems that each of us is the effect of past causes and the cause of new effects.
And who am I? Herewith I introduce myself: Adelbert Delarue at your service, patron of the arts and champion of the insufficiently recognised. The events of this history have in these pages not yet run their course but in reality they are already in the past and I have been asked to make my small but I hope useful contribution.
May I speak briefly of guilt? Who is there without it? Guilt can be inherited like money and I have been living comfortably on the interest of what was left to me. One makes one’s arrangements. My name was not in the beginning Delarue, no. I was christened Adelbert von Peng. Ha ha, what a funny name. Peng means bang in German, and my father was Ludwig von Peng who was, three guesses, yes? a munitions maker. Ho ho. Such fun. From these roots a little distance is not a bad thing, is it? My fortune is discreetly deployed in many places: I don’t even know where all of it is but I employ those who do the deploying and they know where to find it.
Art! What is there more wonderful? From the acorn grows the oak and from talent comes maybe a real artist who from nothing makes something, who from here, there, out of the air, plucks an idea that takes us all to a place where we never before have been. Crash-dummies, what a conception, truly. What a metaphor.
6 Roswell Clark
It was a day full of bright sunlight, the kind that makes you blink when you come out of a cinema matinée with nothing but reality ahead of you. I was standing in front of the Fulham Tattoo Centre. Jesus, I thought, is this really me about to go into a tattoo parlour? Although beautiful young models and other sleek and chic people now sport tattoos, often in places somewhat off the beaten track, I am old enough to associate tattoo parlours with drunken sailors, neon signs with missing letters, and pawnshops offering knuckle-dusters and flick knives. It isn’t like that now: nothing nocturnal, the Fulham Tattoo Centre stood in the respectable broad daylight of the Fulham Road between a continental grocer and a launderette. Writ large on the windows in red outlined with yellow were the words TATTOO, BODY PIERCING, and the telephone number. Body piercing, I reflected, has been celebrated by Christianity for centuries in paintings and sculpture and I have seen Sacred-Heart tattoos from time to time. Peoples with other gods do both and turn up in National Geographic.
WARNING, said a sign in the window:
NO
PERSON TATTOOED
UNDER THE
INFLUENCE OF
DRINK OF DRUGS.
Inside there were further admonitions:
IF YOU ARE IN
A RUSH DON’T
EXPECT ME TO BE.
A GOOD
TATTOO
TAKES TIME
TO DO.
And:
TATTOOS LAST
A LIFETIME, SO
MAKE SURE YOU
GET THE BEST.
A lifetime! What about me? Was I going to last a lifetime? The tattoo would have to take its chances with me.
The walls were decked with dragons, devils, daggers, hearts, flowers, skeletons, Chinese ideographs and abstract repeat patterns that you might see in a typographic catalogue. There was a display case containing a variety of ornaments meant to be attached to or passed through the wearer’s flesh. There were large colour photographs of a naked oriental woman whose body was completely covered with what appeared to be either one long story or a series of colourful abstractions. My attention was diverted by two young black women, one tall and pretty, the other short and plain, both with studs in their noses. They were perusing floral designs.
‘Where?’ said the pretty one.
‘Where would you do it?’ said the plain one.
‘Here.’ She put her hand just above the pubic area. ‘What about you?’
‘I’d do mine a little higher up,’ said the plain one.
A large white man with a broken nose came in. He was wearing a T-shirt, had a Union Jack on his right arm and nothing on his left. He stood for a while in front of a red devil design, then left looking thoughtful. SOOTTAT, said the red-and-yellow letters on the window as I looked out. This is all there is, said the Fulham Road.
‘Mr Clark,’ said Mick Corbett, the tattoo artist, as he emerged from that part of the studio where the work was done, ‘I’m ready for you now.’ A tall man in his thirties, serious-looking, he had a very small dark moustache and a beard that was little more than a chin-outliner; the close-cropped receding hair on top of his head was equally minimal. I’d asked him earlier how he came to take up tattooing.
‘My older brother had tattoos,’ he said, ‘and I wanted to get tattooed too but I was only twelve then and I was too young. When I was fifteen I went back and got a tattoo and after that I kept coming in for more until they were sick of the sight of me. They said, “Why don’t you save up and get the tools and learn how to do it yourself?” So I did and it took me five years before I was ready to do it for money.’
‘Where did you go to learn it?’ I asked him.
‘I just practised on myself and my friends for the first three years.’
‘On yourself!’
‘Yes. Most tattoo artists have terrible-looking legs because that’s where you practise when you’re learning. You put your leg up on a chair and it’s easy to work on.’
His arms were illustrated so copiously that the designs merged in a jungle of pattern and colour from which faces, or perhaps not, peeped indistinctly. I followed him into the STRICTLY PRIVATE area and we went into a little fluorescent-lit room that looked very medicaclass="underline" a white enamel instrument table, glass shelving for more instruments and a tall shelf unit for coloured inks. An Anglepoise lamp gave additional light to a towel-covered arm rest; I’d given him a photo of the bowl with my bat a couple of days ago and he’d done an enlarged copy of the bat on tracing paper. Laying the tracing on carbon paper with the carbon side up he’d gone over the outline to prepare the tracing for transfer to my skin.
He put on latex gloves, sprayed my shoulder with antiseptic liquid, then shaved it, went over it with an alcoholic stick, and applied the transfer. When he lifted the tracing paper there was the dark-blue outline of my bat, about two and a quarter inches from wingtip to wingtip. After a few minutes for drying there was more antiseptic, then Vaseline to lubricate the skin. He prepared the disposable caps for the two inks, a light red and a dark red, and dipped the outlining machine into the dark red. Then I placed my arm on the arm rest, the gleaming little machine buzzingly approached my shoulder, the needle pricked my skin, and the eighteenth-century bat of the Yongzheng period taxied down the runway into the new century on me. Would it get me off the ground? I was paying for the tattoo but was I a legitimate passenger or a stowaway?