Indelible Ink (3 page)

A little bark of amusement from Marie. ‘Short and blonde? Big tits?’

‘There’s nothing I can say when you’re like this. Listen, why don’t I buy you a lamp. Let’s go and get a lamp to go with the lounge suite.’

‘He’s got himself another me. I suppose I should be flattered!’

‘I didn’t mean it like that.’

Susan moved away; Marie followed her. They ebbed towards an uninhabited corner of the shop, bright with scores of lights. They had entered during the last hour of daylight and the street outside
was growing dark. Again Marie recognised items from her past — a mushroom-shaped lamp with orange head and white stalk; others on stands sprouting lights at intervals, like lilies. One of
those would come in handy. She was again confused by similarities with furniture from the history of her home, as though her home had only ever been a retail outlet. The air became progressively
still and muggy. Susan began to fan herself with a catalogue. The catalogue whirred louder and louder, inside Marie’s ears a giddy thrumming, then she was tripping over an electrical cord,
grabbing on to a lamp, on her hands and knees, skirt up her thighs and Susan was saying, ‘Oh god, Marie, oh god,’ and the assistant was rushing towards them as Marie vomited her lunch
of Pinot Grigio and scampi linguine across the floor.

When she looked up, she saw Susan scarlet-faced, tearing tissues from a small packet. Marie struggled to her feet and wiped her face, clouded with shame. But in the distance glimmered a feeling
of levity, even exultation. The man in beige chinos looked at her in horror then left the shop, steering his woman in front of him. The assistant was frozen, hand over mouth. Desire for the lounge
suite slaked Marie: she couldn’t imagine leaving the shop without it. Her house would be empty, bereft, and she would have nowhere to rest.

Susan fluttered some tissues over the winey vomit. ‘Don’t worry about the lamp,’ she was saying to the assistant. ‘I’ll pay for the lamp.’

Marie got out her Visa card and walked towards him determinedly. ‘I’ll sign for that lounge suite now.’

‘And then,’ Susan whispered, ‘I’m putting you straight into a taxi.’

It was Saturday night out there. She was fifty-nine, divorced, with money in her wallet, and she had never been out alone on a Saturday night. She told the taxi driver to head
back up to the Cross instead of over the bridge. She had gone to a bar there years ago, on top of a building, with a view across the city and harbour. She was angry, bored, and her mouth was dry.
Marie needed a drink.

Halfway up William Street, the traffic slowed to a crawl and Marie looked out the window, fascinated by the gaudy scene. A woman as big as a man stood near a building’s entrance like a
fruit vendor, offering her enormous breasts to the passing cars. A prostitute half her age and size teetered past in spike heels to a companion propped against a pylon, head lolling. They leant
against one another, slivers of cardboard with fluff for hair, trying not to blow over in the wind. Part of the road had been torn up and construction barriers lined each block. A group of English
boys lurched down the footpath, shouting drunken songs. All of this had to be endured like a thicket of lantana grown across the path. The taxi struggled onwards. The rawness of the street, not two
blocks from that sumptuous bar with deep chocolate lounges and tinkling piano, amazed Marie. As the taxi paused at a red light, some Aborigines sauntered up from Woolloomooloo screaming with
laughter, then stopped to stare directly through the window at her.

Inside the bar, safely seated before the million-dollar view, Marie ordered a glass of Cape Mentelle. It was hours since her last drink. She swallowed the wine quickly and ordered another, then
noticed a man at the bar staring at her. Tall and slim with thick grey hair, he was picking peanuts out of a dish and tossing them into his mouth with languid precision. Marie sat facing the
window, watching his reflection in the glass. She turned to catch the waiter’s eye, meeting those of the man at the bar in the elegant suit.

He turned away to exchange a word with the barman. She hoped he was ordering another drink; he could have been paying for hers. She was the only single woman over here; a party of loud shiny
Americans and Australians spread across the couches beside her. She uncrossed and recrossed her legs around the cut she had sustained in the homewares shop. Checked the angle of her face in the
glass, sucking in her cheeks for more bone structure as she ordered her wine.

Oh, we love coming here
, said one of the Americans.
It’s so beautiful, and the people are so friendly.

Marie moved into their meeting, the first touch of his hand, the shape of him seated in the chair opposite, as the waiter gave her order to the barman. She went into the first months, the
initial electric offering of bodies, discovery, compromise. They argued and reconciled, settling into companionable silence by the time her wine arrived, thinking so far into their life together
that she only noticed at the last minute the man paying his bill then leaving, shattering an ancient intimacy. She sat there humiliated, sipping her wine, staring at the city lights.

Have you been to Bondi?
said one of the Australians.
Oh yeah
, came the reply.
It’s beautiful
.

Why would he have been looking at her anyway? The homage of glances she had once known had been withdrawn. Menopause seemed to have hit overnight, dragging down her comely jowls. Marie
couldn’t avoid the sight of herself in the lift mirrors, repeated in nightmare triptych. Her navy skirt and linen jacket, lipstick cracking off dry lips. She wasn’t exactly dressed for
a night on the town. How much could she have improved this body anyway? These sagging breasts, this broadened arse, hands cracked with fish emulsion and years of confinement inside the hardened
pigskin of gardening gloves. She exited onto Darlinghurst Road.

So here she was, on the street, an object of scrutiny just like those she had scrutinised an hour before. She stood on the corner waiting for the lights to change, a snake of cars sliding past.
A finned red Pontiac paused before her, engine throbbing. Inside were four swarthy youths, a screen hanging over the front seat. None of them was paying much attention to the movie. They were
looking out at her, smirking. One of them wound down the window, just as Marie realised the movie was a close-up of frantic copulation. The car took off and a yell hung in the air.
Faggot!

Next to Marie, waiting to cross, was a man in a leather waistcoat, staring at the sky. The lights went red and Marie stomped across the road. At the entrance to the train station a busker was
playing ‘Blowin’ in the Wind’
.
A couple unnervingly similar to her, in age and dress, smiled as they walked past. Marie had thought that a walk through the Cross would be a
testing odyssey, but the street was surprisingly bright and short. She slowed down to make it last. There was a 7-Eleven from which spilt travellers garbling in a Nordic language. Cars cruised in
both directions, bumper to bumper. She passed a disco with a luridly lit façade, manned by a huge Islander who looked at her blankly. A woman in track pants staggered across the footpath,
nearly crashing into Marie. Everywhere was the blare of music, car horns, sirens, spruikers.

‘Hey sis!’ someone was shouting in the plaza to the left. ‘Sista girl!’

Marie turned to see a large black woman in a black t-shirt with
Treaty!
emblazoned across it in red.

Catching her eye, the woman started enthusiastically towards her. ‘Got a smoke, sis?’

‘Sorry, I don’t smoke,’ said Marie, hurrying away, handbag clutched tight to her side.

She rounded the corner past a Deco apartment building, brass nameplates gleaming. You would have to be quite wealthy to own something there, thought Marie. So much for the seedy Cross, the
people here aren’t exactly
poor
. She marched over to the fountain, a floating ball of liquid light. A boy and girl were sitting on its edge and, as Marie passed, the girl turned to
throw up in the water. A parmesan smell of vomit arose, reminding her of the shopping trip, and she wondered if it was on her clothes. Rock’n’roll charged out of a bar. Suburban
teenagers stood outside, the girls in stilettos nervously smoking and flicking their hair. Aren’t they too
young
? But wasn’t I their age when I met Ross? Nothing returns, thought
Marie, walking on. Nothing twice.

There was a lump of rags in a doorway, slumped forward at an acute angle as though trying to lick his shoe. My god, is he alive? Is he a he? A group of bikies stood around their Harleys, fat
oozing between waistcoat and jeans. One with white hair, slurping on a can of Solo, looked like their leader. Outside Stripperama stood a girl in tight jeans, sports bag slung over her shoulder.
Nooo
, she was saying into a mobile.
You
’
re joking
. Marie stopped at a fast-food place and bought a piece of pizza that tasted like melted plastic on cardboard. She ate it
walking, realising soon that she had left the Cross, and nothing had happened. She tripped on the kerb. She turned down William Street.

She walked looking over her shoulder for a taxi, but all the vacant ones were streaming up the other side of the hill into the Cross. She continued down, gnawed by disappointment, pawing with
aggression. Why should she have to go home anyway, when the rest of the world was just warming up? She felt like she had been sloughed off and washed away. And isn’t it just like you, Marie,
to give up and go home? Ahead was the serpentine signage of a tattoo parlour. Marie paused to look through the window. The room was empty. And why shouldn’t she be allowed into places like
this? she thought, checking over her shoulder with furious resentment. But nobody had looked at her the entire night.

She pushed the door open and walked in. Surrounded by walls of designs, she felt for a minute like she was inside a giant comic book. A tall man with small eyes and long grey-brown hair emerged.
A drooping moustache covered his mouth, and stubble the rest of his face. He had a tentative, distracted air. It was him in the photograph on the corkboard behind the counter, straddling a
motorbike, two toddlers perched on the chrome body between his thighs, his inked arms stretched around them to the handlebars. He stood in front of her expectantly.

‘I want to get a tattoo,’ Marie said.

‘Righto. Know what you want?’

‘I have absolutely no idea!’ She hung on to the counter and laughed.

He pushed some portfolios towards her and indicated the walls. ‘Plenty of choice.’

She didn’t want to put on her glasses. She felt idiotic enough in here as it was. Too old, too fat, definitely too dowdy. There was thrashing guitar music coming from the back room,
strangled by a tiny speaker. Marie wanted to be away from the window so nobody could see her. Impatiently, she flicked through the portfolio, chose a red rose, then placed her credit card on the
counter.

‘Cash only.’

She emptied her wallet with five dollars to spare.

‘Neil.’ He pointed to himself as he led her through.

‘I’m Marie.’

‘My sister’s called Marie!’ His voice was high, with a slight quiver, as though he were trying not to get upset.

On the vinyl couch in the back room, it occurred to Marie for the first time that tattoos hurt, and she began to be afraid. The music crescendoed to a chorus, Neil whistling something unrelated
over the top. A sudden desire to laugh hysterically racked Marie. She braced her stomach and looked at the pictures on the walls. A busty girl in denim, a Chinese dragon, a rock band. Body parts
livid with fresh designs like offcuts in a forensics laboratory. The tattooist was busying himself with stainless steel dishes and sealed packages. Her heart began to flutter like a moth against
the light.

‘Where’re we gonna put it?’ Neil turned to her.

‘I don’t know,’ Marie replied, almost indignant.

‘Want people to see it?’

He had placed gold-rimmed glasses on the end of his nose and rolled up his flannelette sleeves. She supposed he saw all sorts in here. A cavalcade of criminals, sluts and rock stars sauntered
through her mind. A look of impatience ran across his face. She said, ‘Somewhere on my back?’

The door of the parlour burst open and voices filled the shopfront. Neil walked out, said, ‘Twenny minutes,’ then walked back in. ‘Shoulder blade?’

‘Alright then.’

She unbuttoned her shirt. There was the cool sting of a swab, then something pressed to her skin. A wave of nerves washed through her, leaving her gelid and sweaty. ‘Is it sterile?’
she barked.

‘You kidding?’ He laughed. ‘Get sued for farting in public toilets these days.’

Well, that was a detail she didn’t need to hear. A whirring began behind her ear.

‘So what’s the occasion?’ Neil asked.

Marie had to think. ‘I don’t know. My freedom. I’m free for the first time in forty years.’

‘To your freedom, then.’

The needles entered her skin.

From the mirror the rose stared slick and shiny as though painted on with oils. It radiated a memory of pain like an ember. In the sunlight, Marie could see every detail. The
curl of petals, serrated leaves and thorns, the entire area raised red. It made the surrounding skin look even more tired and damaged.

She had never liked her skin: she lived inside it like a captive. Imported, unsuitable, over-reactive, it kept no secrets. Everything transmitted: spicy meals, tears, anxiety, another long day
in the garden. Every ultraviolet hour of her life was written across it, every drink taken. Yet now, finally, here was a mark she had chosen. She had planted her own flag in her own country.

She washed the tattoo, then anointed it with the cream Neil had sold her. A large bloody mary for breakfast to settle her stomach, then a taxi into town to fetch her car from the parking
station. She sat inside staring at the repetition of bays in dull concrete. Why did everything have to be the same? Why this preference for neutrality over colour? She reached into the glove box
for an indigestion mint and thought about what to do for the rest of the day. She wasn’t needed anywhere. When she leant back against the seat, the pleasant, painful reminder of the tattoo
lit her flesh. She set off reluctantly in the direction of home, then an arm came down out of the sky and, like a stormchaser, Marie was speeding back to the parlour, trawling the narrow streets
behind William Street for a park.