The Bat Tattoo (22 page)

‘
The One for the Many
,’ I said.

‘Lucky for you we Christians don’t do fatwas,’ he growled as he flexed his Sacred Heart. ‘You can’t leave this here in pieces. Put it together and park it somewhere.’

‘“But whereunto shall I liken this generation?’” said his colleague. ‘Matthew 11.16.’

‘
The One for the Many
, your number is seven six one,’ said the woman behind the desk with a barely perceptible shake of her head as she stamped my card and handed me the stub.

‘You’ve got to hand in your entry card for that,’ said the Hibernian one as he pointed to Sarah’s dolly.

‘I’ve changed my mind,’ she said. ‘I’ve decided not to enter it after all.’

‘“The kingdom of heaven is like unto leaven, which a woman took, and hid in three measures of meal, till the whole was leavened,” said he of the gospel. ‘Keep it moving, luv. Matthew 13.33.’

Sarah and I restacked the parts of my crucifixion on the dolly; then she pushed it and I carried my cross and other lumber through the already-entered entries until we found enough space to put everything together. I set up the easel to support the figure on its cross. Then I quickly assembled the figure, pegged it to the cross, and pegged the cross to the easel.

There it was then, reared up for the world to see, and I could feel people staring at it — it was impossible
not
to
stare. The enormity of what I had done hit me like a ton of bricks, and I half expected my crash-test-dummy-saviour to yell, ‘Get me out of here!’ but it said nothing. ‘Well,’ I said to Sarah, ‘are you happy now?’

‘Are you?’

‘I don’t know what I am: crazed, I think.’

‘Crazed is better than chicken.’

‘It’s like that, is it?’

‘It’s all kinds of things, and that’s one of them.’

‘Righty-o. Well, we’ve done this. They don’t seem to be handing out T-shirts, so we might as well go home now.’

‘You’re pissed off with me, aren’t you?’

‘I’m pissed off with myself.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know, really. I’m a little short of answers today.’

‘So it seems.’

At that moment I was reflecting on how strangers become intimate but at any moment intimates can become strangers again. I’d wrapped the dolly in our discarded brown paper so we could get into a taxi with it, and we walked down to Old Street and found one fairly soon. There we were then, just the two of us in a private space that seemed to be closing in on us.

‘It’s been a long day,’ said Sarah.

‘And a hard one. It was one thing to see that piece in my studio, but seeing it in that museum really spooked me.’

‘And now you wish you hadn’t entered it?’

‘I agree with what you said about not walking away from it but I haven’t yet been able to get comfortable with the whole thing.’

‘Comfort isn’t always possible.’

‘Maybe I should’ve had that tattooed on my shoulder instead of a bat.’

‘Maybe you should have.’ Her voice had an edge to it. We both sank into our thoughts then, and by the time I looked out into the world again we’d come through the City and were on the Embankment. As Westminster Bridge and Boadicea approached we looked up together and looked away again. The Houses of Parliament came and went, the bridges one after the other, the Battersea Power Station with its legs in the air as always. When we were nearing Fulham Sarah said, ‘I think you could use an evening to yourself. Could you drop me at my place, please?’

‘Certainly.’ There was a long silence from there to Doria Road. When we got there I said, ‘Can I phone you tomorrow?’

‘Please do,’ she said. We kissed in a small way and she went into her house. So ended the day in which we entered
The One for the Many
in the R. Albert Streeter Competition.

I didn’t realise how lonely I’d been until I stopped being lonely. Not being lonely feels good, as if I’m augmented, more substantial, casting a longer shadow. It also means that I have another person to think of. How’s he feeling today, the day after the R. Albert Streeter Museum? What’s he thinking, about me in particular? Was I wrong in urging him to enter that competition? How much do I care if I
was
wrong? A lot. This is someone I want to stay with then, is it? Yes. Why do I go for men who, in my opinion, need work? Because they seem capable of change, of becoming, with me, someone they haven’t been before. But love changes everyone, doesn’t it? Even those who don’t need work? Yes, but a man like Roswell has a kind of charm that comes from not being altogether sure of himself and not taking me for granted. When we made love the other night I could feel his happiness and I loved him for it.

How many men have there been between Giles and Roswell? Three that lasted a month or so; two one-nighters. And this …? Looks pretty good to me, OK? OK.

I wish I knew more about him though. We’ve exchanged histories in a rudimentary way but I’ve no idea where he is in
himself at the moment. There’s something bothering him, I know that much.

I have left the selection of the judges to Folsom Bray and he has chosen Thurston Fort of the Royal Academy, George Rubcek the art collector, Harvey Stern the sculptor, and Georgiana Crupper the painter. No critics were included and this surprised me. Bray tells me that Fort is open to everything. Rubcek I know about: he has acquired many pieces of rubbish which are now overvalued by many millions. Harvey Stern’s sculptures are mostly done by quarry crews who from stone shape huge blocks in which he drills little holes. Georgiana Crupper does horse portraits. Well, Bray is the chair. As Director of the Post-Modern Gallery he was a figure of controversy, and so adroit was he at justifying his actions that it was said of him that he could easily move into politics. The sooner the better, said some. Here I have limited my contribution to money; my opinions I contain in myself.

Fifty works will be accepted for the exhibition. From these will be made a shortlist of ten, one of which will be the winner. The competition is already much talked of and I expect good coverage from the press when the exhibition opens, when the shortlist appears, and when the winner is announced.

From Roswell Clark I have heard nothing since my letter of encouragement in which I wondered what his talent dreams of.
Does
it dream of something more than crash-dummies?

With the entering of the competition one day behind me I felt much better. Sarah made dinner for us at her place and we became comfortable again. The house was full of bright colours, the bookshelves were well stocked, and there was a print of Caspar David Friedrichs’s
Chalk Cliffs on Rugen
with the sheer drop of its white cliffs to the blue sea. In the foreground, seen from behind, are a woman in a red dress pointing down and a man on his hands and knees looking over the edge.

‘He’s afraid of heights, afraid of falling,’ I said, ‘and she’s pointing down into the drop. What does she want him to do?’

‘She’s pointing at those little red flowers just on the edge,’ said Sarah.

‘Ah, yes,’ I said, ‘and he’ll get some for her, too, if the edge doesn’t give way.’

‘That’s what I call a real gentleman,’ she said, and we had a quick cuddle. We were in the kitchen, drinking a Minervois, while good smells came from the oven where the lamb was cooking. Boxes and bags of her merchandise stood on the floor, some ready to move out, others in reserve. There was
an Egberto Gismonti guitar track going, a warm sound for a winter evening.

‘What do you think of this?’ said Sarah, holding up a tall narrow vase, in section an ellipse with squared-off ends. It was white porcelain with three Prussian-blue splotches descending from small to large down the front and back.

‘It’s quite nice; I like it.’

‘Sixties, Furstenberg. I paid fifteen for it, might get forty from someone who goes for this kind of thing.’

‘I guess it’s a matter of finding a punter whose taste is the same as yours.’

‘Not always; sometimes I buy things that don’t appeal to me but might to somebody else.’

We were sitting in kitchen chairs. She moved hers closer to me and rubbed her shoulder against mine. ‘Hi,’ I said, and kissed her.

‘Hi. How are you feeling about the competition today?’

‘As you said, it made sense to finish this thing before going on to the next thing. I have no expectations one way or the other.’

‘Any idea what the next thing will be?’

‘No. I’m at kind of a funny place in my life.’

‘That makes two of us.’

‘You’re at a funny place in your life?’

‘It’s the same one where you are. I think we’re in it together, yes?’

‘Yes. I feel better already.’ We hugged and kissed and drank more Minervois. By now the potatoes and beans were boiling, the lamb was almost ready, and the kitchen windows were all steamed up.

‘Now that we’re both in the same funny place,’ said Sarah, ‘what can you tell me about
The One for the Many?
I know
you said that you don’t understand it but you must have some idea where it’s coming from.’

‘I’ve told you about my wife’s death and my father’s and how he became a crash-dummy. I’ve told you about my Crash Test toy. I haven’t told you about my private commissions, which were also of a crash-dummy nature.’ I seemed to have too much breath in me so I let some out, then I felt breathless so I breathed in deeply.

‘Are you all right?’ said Sarah.

‘Yes, whew. Actually I’ve never described them to anyone except the technician who did the motors and connections and the remote control.’

‘Take your time. Sounds fascinating.’

‘Now I wonder what you’ll think of me when I tell you about them.’

‘We’ll never know unless you do it.’

‘True. Well, these were toys of a special kind. First there were the two human figures, male and female crash-dummies, thirty centimetres high, articulated and anatomically complete.’

‘You mean, with genitalia?’

‘Yes. Working genitalia, and when you pressed a button, they had sexual intercourse. There was a car-crash soundtrack to go with it.’

‘Did they have working mouths too?’

‘No, just the regular blank dummy faces.’

‘So they couldn’t even kiss properly.’

‘I think that would have compromised their dummyhood. In any case, Delarue didn’t ask for working mouths and I didn’t suggest them.’

‘Delarue is the man who commissioned these figures?’

‘Yes, Adelbert Delarue. He lives in Paris.’

‘You said those two came first. What came next?’

‘A crash-dummy mastiff to the same scale and then a crash-dummy gorilla.’

‘Both with working genitalia?’

‘Yes.’

‘Soundtracks?’

‘From
Traviata
with the dog: Callas and “
E strano!
”; Bach’s
Passacaglia and Fugue in C Minor
with the gorilla, Schweitzer on the organ.’

‘Delarue specified those?’

‘No, the soundtracks were my idea but he was delighted with them.’

‘And the four dummies going at it in all possible permutations.’

‘I suppose so; he liked everything I did.’

‘What did he pay you for these figures? Forgive my asking but we market traders always ask these things.’

‘Seventy thousand pounds altogether.’

‘Crikey! That man must have money to throw around. How did he come to commission you?’

‘He got in touch with me after buying the Crash Test toy.’

‘What sort of man is he?’

‘All I know is that he lives in the Avenue Montaigne, has a girlfriend named Victoria Fawles and a very large chauffeur called Jean-Louis Galantière.’

‘How old is he?’

‘He hasn’t said, but I have a feeling he’s a little older than I am, maybe between fifty and sixty.’

‘Men!’ said Sarah, shaking her head. ‘There’s another bottle on top of the fridge.’ I opened the bottle, refilled our empty glasses, and we clinked. ‘Well,’ she said, with a smile that
hinted at corruptibility, ‘this reveals a whole new side of you, not to mention a front and back. Should I be prepared for special requests as we get to know each other better?’

‘I’m not the kinky one, Sarah. Delarue told me what he wanted and I did it for the money.’

‘What came after the gorilla?’

‘I’ve had no more commissions but he wrote me a letter in which he hoped that his money would buy me time and he wondered what new themes my talent was dreaming of. Not that he wanted to put any pressure on me but of course he did, and so did you.’

‘How did I put pressure on you?’

‘You know — with your gnostics and your wooden hand and generally wanting me to be better than I am.’ I heard myself sounding like a petulant child.

She leaned against me and her lips brushed my face. ‘I’m sorry, Roswell,’ she murmured, ‘I really am. I’ll try to do better, I’ll work on improving myself.’ I couldn’t see if her tongue was in her cheek.

‘No need to go overboard with it,’ I said.

‘All right then, let’s get back to the matter at hand: what was there between the bonking toys and the crucifixion?’

‘Nothing special.’ As I said that, St John’s in the North End Road, Abraham Selby and the fibreglass Jesus came to me with the freshness of rain and the earth smell of yellow leaves. ‘I fainted,’ I said. ‘His eyes went blank in the rain.’

‘Whose eyes?’

‘The fibreglass Jesus at St John’s in the North End Road.’

‘His eyes went blank and you fainted?’

‘I’d been drinking that morning. Father John got me out of the rain and into the church.’

‘Are you religious, Roswell?’

‘No.’

‘But you were what — standing in the rain looking at Jesus on his cross?’

‘He was in the rain too; I don’t know why they bother with that little tiny roof over the INRI.’

‘Do you often stop to look at him?’

‘Now and then. Sometimes I get into a conversation with one of the guys from the low-budget drinking community.’

‘And it was after the fainting that you started your crucifixion?’

‘Yes.’

‘How soon?’