The City Under the Skin (21 page)

He thought of buying a map and hiding it—his was the kind of home where it wasn't hard to hide things—but he didn't, because somehow that would have been cheating. And naturally he got lost once in a while, but never completely lost, and eventually he never got lost at all. Wherever he was in the city, he belonged there. And even if he couldn't have told you the name of the street or the neighborhood he was in, it was only a matter of taking certain bearings, tuning into the geography, feeling the contours of the city, noting the direction of the light, the angles of the skyline, and then he knew exactly where he was: right at home.

And as he walked he
looked
. He observed the various changing natures of the city, the characteristics of neighborhoods and communities, how people lived and
why
they lived that way, together or separately, in houses and hovels, in apartment blocks and tenements, richly or desperately, with dignity or defeat. He saw the clustering of life, of separate fates, the back and forth, the aggressions, the forms of symbiosis and parasitism, the flow, the exchange, the
business.
And although he was just a kid, and although he couldn't quite understand it all, and certainly couldn't have articulated what it meant, he knew that he wanted to be a part of it, and at the top of it, and that sooner or later he would be.

Increasingly he saw no reason to hurry back to his mother. He began to get into trouble, to make trouble for himself. It toughened him even more, and he reckoned that was the plan too. This wasn't an exercise in keeping a clean nose. It was about taking the long way home, digging himself into holes, then digging himself out, deciding what needed to be done, surviving, flourishing.

Trouble came in different forms. There was the obvious stuff that he couldn't help doing: minor theft, shoplifting, a bit of pickpocketing. He learned a lot from it, especially about the separation of cause and effect, the unpredictable nature of consequences. He'd go into a store and lift half a dozen CDs, or go into a comic-book store and steal as much as he could hide under his coat, and despite the cameras and the alarms and even the security guards, he'd get away with it completely. Other times he'd take a single apple from a market stall and find himself chased halfway around the neighborhood by some deranged stallholder. This was useful knowledge.

Adults were less of a problem than other kids. A boy on his own, even a tough-looking little kid, not from the neighborhood, that was an affront that couldn't go unchallenged. He had to be taught that he was in the wrong place. He was yelled at, taunted, tripped up, shouldered off the sidewalk, told to hand over his money. He always made them regret it. It wasn't that he always won the fights, yet somehow he had the knack of always making them feel like they'd lost. And when he had to, he ran. He saw no shame in running, and he wasn't a bad runner, though he knew he had his limits.

He found those limits one afternoon when he was thirteen years old. It happened on a bleak winter day, huddling under a furred gray sky, with the threat of snow in the air, and there on a corner were five kids who looked like fair game. They were foreign, very foreign, skins purple black, wearing the wrong clothes. They seemed out of place, and they'd have seemed out of place anywhere in this city. They were improbably tall, elongated, their limbs seemed to have too many segments. They were standing against a graffiti-tagged bus shelter, slouching, heads hanging, and still they towered above him: even so, he just couldn't walk past without doing or saying something.

Afterward he wondered if maybe they were young marathon runners in exile, but at the time that didn't seem very likely: they were smoking hand-rolled cigarettes. And as he walked by them, he said, couldn't help saying, “Hey, boys, don't smoke. It'll stunt your growth.” And really, how bad a thing was that to say? But they reacted as if he'd said something filthy about their mothers.

All five boys straightened up, seemed to unfold simultaneously. They didn't say anything, either to him or to one another, but something in them changed, so that they now looked regal and infinitely dangerous, and he could tell they had plans to do something terrible to him. One of them showed him a brief glimpse of a knife blade. He made an immediate break for it. He started to run more determinedly than he'd ever run before. Why was he so scared? Was it because they were black? Maybe. Certainly it was because they were so alien. He didn't know what rules they'd play by if—when—they caught him.

They ran beautifully: even in his panic, looking back over his shoulder, he could see that. He felt himself to be a tangle of arms, legs, and lungs working at odds, but these guys were fluid, effortless, their spindly legs scarcely touching the ground. He didn't think they were even trying very hard; they were just toying with him. They could have pounced whenever they wanted to, but they didn't want to, not yet: for now they were just wearing him out, exhausting him for the fun of it. He kept going as long as he could. It wasn't a bad effort, but he knew he was running out of juice. Sooner or later, one way or another, the chase would come to a certain end.

He needed to get off the street, find some protected space, a shop, a café, maybe even a bank, somewhere they wouldn't follow and where they wouldn't dare attack him even if they did. His eyes were watering with the cold and the exertion, and the street around him looked blurred and grubby, but if there was going to be salvation, it would have to be here. There was a row of small shops: a liquor store, a head shop, a place that sold old-fashioned stationery. He didn't like the look of any of them, and careened past, and then he'd run out of all options but one. There was only one door, one store left. He had to go for it, whatever it was.

He dashed up to the glass front door, didn't even look inside, opened it just enough to slide through, then slammed it shut behind him and leaned up against it, gulping for air. His mind was empty and he didn't know what he'd walked into. He blinked about him. It was very bright and still in there, and his first thought was he might have come into a dentist's office. There was a noise coming from the back of the room that sounded like a dentist's drill, and there was definitely somebody laid out back there, a woman who seemed to be suffering.

However, the person doing the drilling didn't look at all like a dentist. It was a woman with long black hair and tight jeans and bare arms, one of which had a sleeve of tattoos. She stopped what she was doing, looked up casually, and said, “What's the matter, kid? Hellhound on your trail?” and that didn't sound like the kind of thing a dentist would say. Then he noticed there were pictures all around the walls, bright colors and clear lines: skulls, hula girls, dice, hot rods, devils. He was in a tattooist's studio.

“No,” he said seriously, between breaths, “not hellhounds,” and he looked out through the window and saw that the five tall, thin black kids had regrouped on the other side of the street and were now waiting, pacing up and down, displaying a chilly patience.

“Are those guys giving you trouble?” the tattooist said.

He wasn't a squealer, but in this case he didn't need to be. It was obvious what was going on. The tattooist said to the woman on the table, “Hold on there, babe,” rummaged in a metal cabinet, and produced—he could hardly believe it—a crossbow. It appeared ultramodern, with a frame of brushed metal, a telescopic sight, and a rifle stock. It was a terrifying thing even to look at: he liked that.

The tattooist went to the door, opened it, cocked the crossbow, inserted a stubby arrow, and fired it across the street. She didn't seem to be aiming at anything in particular, and yet the arrow sliced a harsh, flat trajectory through the air, missing two of the boys by fractions of an inch, and lodging neatly, perfectly, in a telephone pole, making a sound like a bass string being thwacked. Alarmed and furious, the boys shouted something in an unrecognizable tongue and then sloped off, their composure and dignity re-forming around them as they went.

The tattooist shouted after them, “Fuck off, you little racists.”

Back in the tattoo studio, the kid was very, very impressed, and just a little confused. He'd needed help, and a woman had come to his aid. That was very weird. And why did it feel so good?

“Come on, kid. Come over here and watch an artist at work.”

Rose returned to her customer, to her tattooing. The woman on the table was lying prone with her arms bare and raised high above her head. There was a length of yellow silk draped across her breasts, though she didn't seem much concerned with modesty. Her eyes were open, but they weren't looking at anything. She was moaning quietly to herself, but the kid couldn't tell if it was pain or something else.

“Is she all right?” he asked.

“Yeah. She's fine,” said Rose. “She's full of endorphins.”

“What's that?”

“Chemicals. When you're in a lot of pain, the body releases these things called endorphins. They make the pain feel good after a while. Got that?”

“I think so,” he said, though he wasn't sure he had.

“This young lady is in the middle of an endorphin rush,” said Rose. “That's because I'm tattooing her armpits. That hurts like fuck, doesn't it, babe?”

“Oh yes,” said the woman on the table. “Oh yes.”

The kid peered into her left armpit, then the right. In the left, the tattoo was already complete, while the right was still a work in progress. When finished, the tattoos would be identical whirlpools of blue and purple foam, something both gothic and American Indian about them. They weren't the woman's only tattoos: she had swallows, poppies, butterflies, jungle creepers twining their way up her arms, a winged heart peeping out above the yellow silk, but the kid found himself transfixed by the armpit tattoos, the sheer weirdness of them. Why would she choose so much pain for a tattoo that so few would ever see?

“So come on,” said Rose, “what's your story?”

While she continued with her work, the kid told her why he was there, about the “game” his mother made him play. Rose listened, and asked one or two questions, because at first she thought he might just be making it up, but the more it went on, the more sure she was that he was telling the truth.

“And your mother is doing this why?” she said.

“To make a man of me.”

“You poor little devil,” said Rose.

The tattooing went on for a long time, and although the kid could see it was a delicate, painstaking process, after a while the work itself wasn't so fascinating to watch. The woman's face, however, that was something else, something special. Within a frame of thick, tangled blond hair, her features were mobile and alive, alternating between certain pain and uncertain pleasure: lip-biting, tears in the eyes, a trembling mouth that was close to laughter but not close enough.

He stayed till the very end of the process, until Rose had finished and the woman was thoroughly inked and wiped down. She sat up and held a mirror to her armpits. He couldn't tell if the tattooing was any good or not, but maybe that didn't even matter. He was far more intrigued by how pleased the woman was, how happy Rose was with her own handiwork, how much it meant to them both.

“Can I have one?” he asked.

“What? A tattoo?” said Rose.

“Yeah.”

“No, you can't.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don't want to go to jail. Tattooing kids is still illegal in this city.”

“Oh go on,” said the newly tattooed customer.

“Are you trying to get me into trouble?”

“Always,” the woman said, “but you could just do something really small, something nobody would ever see.”

“Like in my armpit,” the kid suggested.

“I don't think so.”

“Go on, Rose,” said the woman.

It seemed that Rose had a hard time saying no to her.

“Okay, but not the armpit. Kid, gimme your hand.”

Eagerly, he extended his right hand, balled into a fist. He was already picturing a Viking or a fireball or a winged serpent emblazoned across his knuckles, but Rose grabbed the hand, rolled it over, and opened it up, and as quickly and as perfunctorily as possible, she tattooed a cluster of small, blue-black ink marks on his palm: a circle, and a pair of crossed lines, one of them an arrow marked with an
N
for north.

“What's that?” he asked.

“That's a compass rose,” she said. “And if anybody asks, you did it to yourself.”

“Okay,” he said. But nobody did ask. He went home, went back to his mother, didn't say anything about the chase, or about Rose or the tattoo, and neither his mother nor anybody else ever said to him, “What's that on your palm?” No doubt there were other kids whose lives included the inspecting of hands, for cleanliness, honesty, maybe even punishment, but he had none of that. He kept his hand to himself. He looked at it only when he was alone, when he was sure nobody else was looking. Still, that was often enough to realize, all too soon, after just a couple of weeks, that the tattooed marks were fading.

At first he felt disappointed, then cheated. Rose must have known this would happen, that the marks would disappear. Later, he learned that's what always happens to tattoos on the palm of the hand: they won't stick, they just fade away. Rose had tricked him, treated him like a child. That really pissed him off. But then he started to feel differently about it. Maybe Rose had been pretty smart. She'd done the job, done what he and her friend had asked of her, and yet she'd also allowed for a reversal, for a kid's change of heart, and, of course, she was protecting herself too.

He needed to talk to her about this, and off he went, threading his way into the city to find her again, attempting to retrace the route that had taken him to her studio that day. Naturally, he'd had other things on his mind at the time, but even so, he was amazed how unfamiliar the whole area now looked, how hard it was to find a landmark that told him he was anywhere near the right place. He was pretty sure he'd found the bus stop where he first encountered his pursuers, and he had a sense of the direction he'd gone from there, so he headed that way now, but immediately he started to think he must be mistaken. The shapes of the buildings looked wrong, the streets weren't this narrow, he didn't remember that church or that convenience store. Perhaps he hadn't come this way at all. The kid who never got lost suddenly felt adrift and a very, very long way from home. He spent a whole afternoon covering the district, back and forth, pacing the grid, looking for clues, even buying a map from a corner gas station. And he also kept a lookout for five tall black kids who were good at running and might be eager for revenge. But he found nothing. He was both sadder and angrier than he could understand.