The Bat Tattoo

16 Sarah Varley

That hand would not let go of me. That a remnant of a masterfully carved crucifixion should be among the rubbish in that box was unsettling; this fractional representation of real suffering had some importance and it laid on me the responsibility to do the right thing by it. How many miles and how many years had it travelled to get to me?

There’s a fair amount of ignorance among market traders; most of us know a little and a few of us know a lot but Dermot and Vernon at the Jubilee Market were the only ones who I thought might have a clue as to the provenance of this fragment. Dermot thought it was Italian; Vernon thought it was German; both of them guessed seventeenth century or earlier.

Sometimes I have little premonitions: I expect to see someone and they appear. Roswell Clark was a woodcarver and I thought he might turn up and shed some light on the crucified wooden hand. About half-past ten suddenly there he was. ‘Hi,’ I said.

‘Hi.’ He looked haggard and preoccupied.

‘How’s it going?’

He shrugged. ‘Hard to say.’

‘Anything wrong? Bad news of some kind?’

‘Oh, no, nothing like that. Nothing especially wrong and no news of any kind.’ He looked as if he hoped there’d be no more questions. ‘How’ve you been?’ he said.

‘Much the same. I’ve got a recent acquisition I’d like to show you.’ I took the hand out of the box under my table and held it out to him. He stepped back, folded his right forearm over his stomach, leant his left elbow on the back of his right hand, and rubbed his chin thoughtfully with his left hand while regarding me suspiciously.

‘Was it something I said?’ I asked him.

‘No,’ he said. He was still looking at me. ‘Do you ever get the feeling that the world is trying to tell you something?’

‘Frequently, and mostly I don’t know what the message is.’

‘That’s how it is with me.’ He took the wooden hand from my hand. ‘Where’d you get it?’

‘At an auction.’ I never say too much about my sources when I’m surrounded by fellow traders. ‘It was in a box of treen.’

‘What’s treen?’ He held the piece to his nose and sniffed it.

‘Small wooden articles; I got a whole box of things in a lot I paid forty-five pounds for. Can you tell anything by smelling it?’

‘No. Anything else of interest in the box?’

‘No. I’ll get my money back but that’s about all unless that hand is worth something. Any idea where it comes from?’

‘I’m not any kind of expert but I’ve seen a hand like this in a photo of a crucifixion by Tilman Riemenschneider. Do you know his work?’

‘No, I’ve never even heard the name till now. German? Austrian?’

‘German, born in Heiligenstadt in 1460. The crucifixion this reminds me of would probably have been done between 1500 and 1520. One of the experts at Christie’s or Sotheby’s would be able to tell you more.’

‘If this fragment is by Riemenschneider, how valuable might it be?’

‘I’ve no idea, really. Since it’s only the hand and you can’t show where it’s from and when and for whom it was done I shouldn’t think you’d get much for it.’

‘I don’t know why I asked; I wouldn’t want to sell it; all the same, I don’t feel too comfortable having it around.’

‘Why not?’ While we were talking the usual scattering of buyers and lookers were busy picking things up and putting them down. The buskers in the Apple Market were doing La Traviata, that aria that she sings after her first meeting with Alfredo, ‘E strano!’. So young and beautiful and doomed to die so soon! The sky was grey and it had begun to rain.

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘It’s what it is and it seems to require something of me.’

‘What?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe it wants to be with you.’

He stepped back as if I’d made a grab for his private parts. ‘What made you say that?’

‘I don’t know. You’re a woodcarver, you’re sort of related to whoever did this hand.’

‘Great, and what will it require of me?’

‘I have no idea. Nothing beyond your capability, I’m sure.’

‘There you go again!’

‘There I go again what?’

‘Making gnostic statements.’ He seemed quite bothered.

‘Gnostic statements! I’ve never been accused of that before. Discuss.’

We were interrupted by a woman of sixty or so: long white hair in a ponytail and black leather motorcycle gear. She picked up a delicate ruby necklace ticketed at one-fifty. ‘What’s your best price on this?’ she said.

‘I can do one-twenty-five.’

‘Done.’ She took a wad of banknotes out of a black leather pocket and peeled off six twenties and a five. I was going to put the necklace in a bag for her but she shook her head, put the necklace round her neck, and stomped off in her black leather boots. The soprano in the Apple Market began Violetta’s Act III aria in which she bids farewell to the dreams of the past: ‘Addio, del passato bei sogni ridenti …’

‘Why are you crying?’ said Roswell as I wiped away the tears.

‘I have an arrangement with Verdi: when he does that I do this. We were talking gnostic.’

‘Gnostic, yes: you speak as if you know something that I don’t know: you say maybe it wants to be with me and it won’t require anything beyond my capability. Do you do palm readings too?’

‘Goodness! If I’d known you were that easily upset I’d have confined myself to No-Stik statements instead of gnostic ones. Let me buy you coffee and pastry and maybe we can get back to where we were before I went gnostic.’

That got a laugh and he loosened up a little. ‘Sorry to make such a scene,’ he said. ‘It’s not your fault — I’m under pressures that make me a little irritable.’

‘Not all pressures are bad.’

‘Thank you, Dr Varley.’

‘No, really — Bach was under pressure to have his music ready for Sunday services, and I should think Riemenschneider was under pressure to deliver his crucifixions by a certain date. Did either of them have a nervous collapse?’ I wasn’t wagging a finger at him but my voice was.

‘Deadline pressure on a specific project is something else; I’m talking about non-specific pressure from people who want you to live up to their expectations.’

‘Have you no expectations of your own?’

He looked away, then back at me uneasily. ‘You make me feel as if I’m a kid at school and you’re the guidance counsellor.’

‘Sorry, but I really would like to know.’

He rubbed the back of his head and shuffled one foot backwards and forwards before answering. ‘Maybe I’ve lost my savour.’

He startled me with that one and I couldn’t help laughing. ‘That’s a strange thing to say,’ I said. ‘I don’t think one’s savour is that easy to lose. You seem pretty salty to me.’

He shrugged.

‘What do you do with yourself when you’re not busy with private commissions? How do you spend your time?’

‘Hard to say, really: one day follows another and I guess that’s all there is. Listen, Sarah, I think it’s time for me to go. Thanks for sharing my inadequacy with me.’

‘I never said you were inadequate. Don’t be angry, stay and have coffee with me.’

‘Thanks, but I don’t feel up to it.’ He turned to go.

‘Wait!’ I said. ‘The hand!’ I held it out to him.

‘I don’t want it,’ he said with something like a snarl.

‘Maybe it wants you.’

‘No.’

‘Please, it doesn’t belong with me and I don’t want to sell it or give it to anyone else. Maybe you don’t want it but I need to give it to you. Please?’

He bared his teeth, shook his head, took the hand, put it in his pocket, and walked away as Violetta expired in the Apple Market.