Beautiful

As if you were on fire from within.

The moon lives in the lining of your skin.

                                                                           Pablo Neruda

“Cold weather we’re having, isn’t it?”

She asked me while writing out the invoice for the steel I had just purchased. The small office was crammed with boxes and pieces that awaited collection. A dirty poster against the wall showed the components of lorry suspensions.

“Yes” I said “and apparently the worst is yet to come over this weekend.”

Without looking up she said: “Fortunately we leave earlier on a Friday afternoon. I told my husband this morning, ‘This is ideal soup weather.’ On my way home I am going to buy soup meat, so I can make us some this evening. But first I have another appointment.”

The way she mentioned it was an invitation for enquiry.

“What do you have to do before buying the meat?”

“I’m getting a tattoo.”

Was I interested enough to follow the lead? Was she worth the trouble with a life that deserved closer attention? Would I venture further into this conversation by asking the question that begged to be asked? I could sense her anticipation as she was still writing earnestly without looking up.

I was, she was and I intended to. So I did.

“What type of tattoo?”

It was the safest question I could think of under the circumstances. I didn’t want to start with “Where?”

“It’s going to be a tattoo of a chain of Celtic knots with a name tag on my wrist. My sister died two years ago and I still struggle to get over it. Her name is going to be tattooed onto the tag. In that way I am constantly carrying a reminder of her with me.”

By now she had stopped writing and was demonstrating excitedly about the procedure at the afternoon’s appointment. I was hanging on her lips.

“But doesn’t it hurt?”

“Only a little for the first three days. But the guy who is doing it is a real pro. He has done my other tattoos as well.”

“You have others?”

Somewhere along the line we’ve passed the point of good manners and I’ve forgotten my mother’s insistence that I must know the limitations of my inquisitiveness.

“Yes, three. One on my shoulder, one on my lower back and one on my ankle. They say once you’ve started you’re hooked.”

“How much does it cost?”

“It depends. If it is complicated you pay more. The small one on my shoulder was R450, the one on my ankle R500 and the bigger one on my lower back R1 150. The one that I am going to get this afternoon will cost me R400. The guy who is doing it is a real artist. I see the money I spend on my body as an investment in beauty.”

“I would love to see the one from this afternoon next time I come by.”

“Sure. Sometimes I check up on orders in the workshop, but just ring the bell. Someone will answer and they’ll call me.”

She handed me my invoice and smiled.

As I stepped out into the cold I did so as a man warmed from within. As if I just had this strange, lovely cup of soup. It had the colour of ink.

George