The City Under the Skin

30. MARILYN GIVES AN INCH, ROSE SCARLATTI TAKES A FOOT

“Thanks for coming with me,” said Marilyn.

“Thanks for calling,” he said, and realized this sounded a bit weak. “I’d have called you, but I didn’t want to seem … whatever.”

“You did the right thing. After a night like the one we had, I needed a little space.”

“And now you need me again.”

“I need you to be supportive, anyhow.”

“I don’t feel very supportive. I really don’t know what you’re doing here.”

“Yes, you do, Zak. I’m going to get Rose Scarlatti to tell us more of what she knows about the compass rose tattoos, and why she reacted the way she did.”

Yes, he did know that, of course.

They were standing outside the lobby doors of the Villa Nova apartment building, waiting to be let in. Rose Scarlatti was being a little slow to answer the bell, though in Marilyn’s eagerness they were a little earlier than the agreed time.

“And you really think that getting a tattoo from her is going to help?” said Zak.

“That’s what she said last time. And if you can’t trust an old lady tattooist, who can you trust?”

The lock on the building’s front door buzzed and opened at last. The apartment door was already open when they got to Rose’s floor, forbidding as much as inviting. Rose did not greet them. She was all business: her tattoo equipment — old-fashioned, workaday, looking like a gangly robot arm — was set up next to a hard, narrow daybed that had been moved to the very center of the living room. Her latex gloves were already on, the inks and needles laid out on a marble-topped table; a freshly lit clove cigarette was lodged tightly in the corner of her mouth.

“This is Zak,” said Marilyn. “He’s here to be supportive.”

“Fabulous.” Rose looked at Zak the way she might have looked at a suspicious stain on the bathroom floor, then said to Marilyn, “No second thoughts?”

“No,” said Marilyn.

“And you only want a compass rose?”

“Right.”

“Nothing more ambitious, more tribal? A mandala? A burning lotus? Scenes from the life of Elvis?”

“No,” said Marilyn. “As agreed. Just a compass rose.”

Marilyn seemed more nervous, more tense, than Zak would have expected. While she carefully, anxiously arranged herself on the daybed, he tried not to wear his resentment too conspicuously, tried not to alienate Rose still further, tried not to get in the way. He looked around the apartment, and despite himself, he could see the fascination of the clutter, of all the souvenirs and exhibits. If things didn’t work out in the map business, he wondered if there was a living to be made buying and selling antique tattoo memorabilia. No doubt there was, though probably not for him. He reckoned you’d need some extensive ink on your body before customers took you seriously.

“How about your man there?” Rose said to Marilyn. “Does he need one too?”

Zak thought it best to speak for himself.

“No thanks,” he said. “I had a grandfather in the navy. He had a ship tattooed on the back of his hand. He said it was the worst decision he ever made in his life.”

“Must have led a very tame life,” said Rose; then to Marilyn, “And you’re dead sure you want it on the top of your foot?”

“Certain,” said Marilyn.

“And which way do you want north to be?” Rose asked. “Pointing up the leg or down?”

“Down,” Marilyn said. “That way I can point my toes toward the North Pole.”

Marilyn had already removed her boot, now she rolled off her sock and raised her long, lean, pale right foot. Zak didn’t think its appearance would be improved one bit by the addition of a tattoo, but he was well aware that his personal tastes were not being pandered to here.

“At least a tattoo on the foot shows some commitment,” said Rose. “It’s going to hurt like hell, you know that? Top of the foot’s just skin and bone, no muscle, no flesh.”

“I know,” said Marilyn. “You told me.”

“And I don’t want you wriggling, jumping around, making involuntary movements.”

“I won’t wriggle,” said Marilyn. “Involuntary movements I can’t do much about.”

“You’ll be just fine,” said Rose, and she allowed herself the first smile of the day.

The tattoo machine buzzed into life. Rose cradled Marilyn’s foot in one taut, nubbled hand, yet for all her talk of arthritis and unsteadiness, once she concentrated on the job, she was as sure and steady as a surgeon, or at least a pedicurist. She held the foot firmly and delicately, as though it were some small, nervous creature that needed to be soothed and calmed. She didn’t use flash or a stencil, didn’t even draw the design in advance: she was going freehand.

Rose’s face showed determination and pleasure as the needles cut their first line into the flesh, drew their first ooze of blood. Zak found himself feeling just a little queasy as he watched, but fought against it: he was man enough not to throw up in the tattooist’s living room. Marilyn felt as if her foot were being stung by an unusually active and persistent jellyfish, or perhaps by carefully aligned cactus spikes: she had no direct, personal experience of either, but she could imagine. She felt as though tiny licks of flame were sparking from her foot up her leg and into her core, but she managed to be a good subject, to keep her body still and controlled. She could even hold a conversation.

“Rose,” she said, “did you ever tattoo a treasure map on anybody?”

“How’s that?”

“You know x marks the spot, buried treasure, pieces of eight, gold doubloons.”

“Like Long John Silver?”

“That kind of thing,” said Marilyn.

“Can’t say I ever did. But I would have if anybody had ever asked me to, though it seems kind of illogical to get somebody else to tattoo a treasure map for you. It means there’s at least one extra person who knows where the treasure’s buried. Why wouldn’t they go and grab the treasure for themselves?”

“Unless the map is coded,” said Marilyn.

It took a small effort on Zak’s part not to insist that all maps are coded, but he knew he’d feel better for not saying it.

“A coded map?” said Rose. “What the hell is that? Still working on that ‘project’ of yours, are you? How’s it going?”

“It’ll be going a lot better when you tell me what you promised to tell me.”

“Oh, you drive a hard bargain.”

Rose Scarlatti was silent for a good long time, and it did cross Marilyn’s mind that the old lady might be about to welsh on the deal. It was too late for new negotiations: her foot already had some significant markings.

“Oh well,” said Rose, “maybe it’s nothing. It means something to me, but it might not mean anything to you. A long time ago, there was a kid, a weird little kid…”