The Electric Michelangelo (49 page)

With almost no effort at all on nature’s part and before Cy knew it, it was September again. That time of year when powerful news was broken to unsuspecting Lancashire lads and the clash of seasons brought unrest in the nether regions of the human spirit. A time when the women Cy had loved most dearly in his life had taken a step back into themselves in preparation for solitary struggles and departure. But he was as far away on the calendar from the anniversary of Eliot Riley’s demise as he could be and that was a favourable place to be. Cyril Parks was not unhappy. The days had that blue hue to them, with the rush of water along their sides, and they were refreshing. A storm in the night had tossed up timber and treasure in his dreams and he had seen his old booth spinning on the alleyway, oversized chess pieces were dancing with each other in Varga, Reeda was smoking an opium pipe made from a shell at the Bayview’s kitchen table with Riley, Jonty was kissing nurses in the war. And he had seen Grace, on horseback, riding fast across the open sands of the bay, standing up in her stirrups as if she might leap from the horse as she rode on into the ocean. His blood had been exhilarated when he woke, fiery, like electricity. And he felt young again. That morning he had walked along the path by the ravine, feeling the wind kiting his coat, pushing back against him, pushing him upright and straightening the bend in his long spine. His leg had not hurt so very much when usually it provided nothing but a deep dull ache in the steel-shanked bone. The air had been saturated with that unmistakable salty tonic that only coastal regions have, and he drew deep lungfuls down into him, laughing because it was unnecessary, because he didn’t have tuberculosis. He thought of Grace on the walk, the dark borders of her against which the lighter colours and aspects shone. He thought of her dark hair with its red undertraces, her hands gently pushing against the tattooed ship on his stomach as if she was launching what it carried, a heart pierced by a tall mast, and the way she always called him by his moniker, as if identity was only a matter of choice. He thought of her eyes, both real and tattooed, and he knew that she had never truly left him, not in the way old loves are eventually reconciled or abandoned. Somewhere in the world she was still living perhaps, still raging, and though he wouldn’t like the job of painting it, the world was getting smaller by the day, the corners around which she might walk were getting closer. She was subjective and brief and random in his life, but she was still strong in him, and interlocking, like crystal in stone, like roots in the earth. And his heart was densely occupied and his soul was lying fallow. It was why he had never married, it was why whenever his apprentice told him some unkown lady had called for him in the shop, his stomach always dropped and lurched. And it was why he had never taken away that empty chair of Nina’s remarking, even while courting others, even while getting near to that honest place where he should think about the possibilities of dying.

When he returned home he looked through some of his stored possessions, usually it made him feel old to do so, but not today. There was a dime entry ticket to Luna Park, some old British money, photographs, a sentimental beer mat from the pub where he and Morris Gibbs had taken tea together after he first arrived back in the town, and then he had come across his oldest mermaid. She was brown around the edges and the ink was fading so that her fins appeared orange-tipped, not red, and the green of her tail was dappled. He could remember making her with his set of school paints, keeping her flat in a book through all the years that Riley would not allow her up, and he could remember the skin of the men, and some women, on to which she had finally been transferred by his needle. He had said over and over that she was unique but he did not really know if she was so very different from the others.

In the afternoon he opened the shop, though business was very slack off season, and it was dark as deliverance in the parlour. Nina arrived wearing a parka with fake-fur trim on the hood. Overnight her hair had gone from peroxide blonde to a burnt crab-cake brown. He could never keep up with her. She was carrying a bunch of candles.

– Leccy’s gone off. There’s a pylon down from the wind by Moffat Ravine.

– I know, I saw it this morning.

– So, there’s no power for any of the equipment. What now?

She kicked the door closed behind her and the bell jangled emphatically. Cy took the candles from her and began to insert them into the branches of the menorah which was still adorning the windowsill above the metal tools and cartridges on the counter. Then he bent down and took out a box from his bottom cupboard containing a bamboo shaft and a hammer and he began to roll up his trouser leg.

– Well, I’ll tell you one thing for certain. They won’t be asking us to switch the lights on this year, will they Nina, my dove? 

Thanks to the professionals. To Kevin Preston at Advanced Tattoo Clinic in Morecambe for his generous and colourful insights into the craft of tattooing. To Scott Harrison at Fat Cat Tattoos in Astoria for his steady hand and humour. And to Jonathan Shaw at Fun City Tattoo for first terrifying me in the East Village years ago. Yours is a beautiful and terrible art.

Thanks to the Brits and Europeans. To Roger K. Bingham for his fascinating and illuminating book
Lost
Resort?.
To Adam Ferguson for his extensive bad language, his entrepreneurial heart, and for the borrowed days. To Ashleigh Martin for breaking her plastic spade and bucket on Morecambe’s shore, and remaining happy all the while. To James Stamper for some bits and bobs which he’ll deny. To Mat Fahrenholz for his translations, his constructions and and his profoundly inspirational art work. To György Abelovszky for his translations and that last-minute lucky star. To Fiona Renkin for her translations and for just being a rock from the local quarry. And to Elizabeth and Anthony Hall for their continued support, their assistance with research, and for not screaming blue murder over their daughter’s tattoo.

Thanks to the Americans. To Jessie Berger for sharing his Coney Island anecdotes and boardwalk memories. To Joshua Berger for his amazingly efficient parking skills, his ability to locate obscure warehouse museums and his creative tinkering. To Lawrence Wakin for the accent, the slang, and for being the human
Encyclopedia
Brooklynia.
To Dick and Marie Wood for their transatlantic recollections and the spirit of gin-hidden speakeasy America. To Jane Kotapish, without whose grace I would be the poorer, without whose eyes I would never have seen New York tipping just so against the light. And to EMR, endlessly, for the brighter side.

Thanks again to Lee Brackstone for his help milling the grain. And thanks to Trevor Horwood for the final spit and polish.

The
Electric
Michelangelo
is a work of fiction. Characters, events and organizations are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, not necessarily portrayed with historical accuracy.

Sarah Hall was born in Cumbria in 1974. She received a BA from Aberystwyth University, Wales, and a MLitt in Creative Writing from St Andrews, Scotland. She is the author of
Haweswater
, which won the 2003 Commonwealth Writers Prize for Best First Novel, a Society of Authors Betty Trask Award, and a Lakeland Book of the Year prize. In 2004, her second novel,
The Electric Michelangelo
, was short-listed for the Man Booker prize, the Commonwealth Writers Prize (Eurasia region), and the Prix Femina Etranger, and was long-listed for the Orange Prize for Fiction. Her third novel,
The Carhullan Army
, was published in 2007, and won the 2006/07 John Llewellyn Rhys Prize, the James Tiptree Jr. Award, a Lakeland Book of the Year prize, and was short-listed for the Arthur C. Clarke Award for science fiction. Her fourth novel,
How to Paint a Dead Man
, was longlisted for the 2009 Man Booker Prize.