Until I Find You (11 page)

Jack watched her walk down the hall. From behind, she didn’t look like a child; she walked like a woman.

Back in the hotel room, the boy cleaned up the little paper cups of pigment. He made sure the caps on the glycerine and alcohol and witch hazel were tight. He put away the bandages. On a paper towel, Jack laid out the needles from the two tattoo machines—what his mom called the “Jonesy roundback,” which she used for outlining, and the Rodgers, which she used for shading. Jack knew his mother would want to clean the needles.

When Alice finally came out of the bathroom, she couldn’t hide the fact that she’d been crying. While Jack had always thought of his mother as a beautiful woman—and the way most men looked at her did nothing to discourage his prejudice—she was perhaps undone to have tattooed the breast and golden skin of a baby-faced girl as young and pretty as Ingrid Moe.

“That girl is a heart-stopper, Jack,” was all she said.

“She said, ‘Sibelius,’ ” Jack told his mom.

“What?”

“Sibelius.”

At first the word was as puzzling to Alice as it had been to Jack, but she kept thinking about it. “Maybe it’s where he’s gone,” the boy guessed. “Where we can find him.”

Alice shook her head. Jack took this to mean that Sibelius was another city not on their itinerary; he didn’t even know what country it was in.

“Where is it?” Jack asked his mother.

She shook her head again. “It’s a
he,
not an
it,
” she told him. “Sibelius is a composer—he’s Finnish.”

Jack thought she’d said, “He’s finished”—meaning that the composer was dead.

“He’s from Finland,” Alice explained. “That means your father has gone to Helsinki, Jack.”

Helsinki was definitely not on their itinerary. Jack didn’t like the sound of it one bit. Not a city with
Hell
in it!

Before leaving for Finland, Alice wanted to have a word with Trond Halvorsen, the bad tattooer who’d given William an infection. Halvorsen was what Tattoo Ole would have called a “scratcher.” He worked out of a ground-floor apartment in Gamlebyen, in the eastern part of Oslo; what passed for a tattoo shop was his kitchen.

Trond Halvorsen was an old sailor. He’d been tattooed “by hand” in Borneo, and—again without the benefit of a tattoo machine—in Japan. He had a Tattoo Jack (Tattoo Ole’s teacher) on his right forearm and one of Ole’s naked ladies on his left. He had some simply awful tattoos, mostly on his thighs and stomach; he’d done them on himself. “When I was learning,” he said, showing Alice and Jack his myriad mistakes.

“Tell me about The Music Man,” Alice began.

“I just gave him some notes he asked for,” Halvorsen said. “I don’t know what the music sounds like.”

“I understand you gave him an infection, too,” Alice said.

Trond Halvorsen smiled; he was missing both an upper and a lower canine. “Infections happen.”

“Do you clean your needles?” Alice asked.

“Who has the time?” Halvorsen replied.

A pot was bubbling on the stove, something with a fish head in it. The kitchen smelled of fish and tobacco in more or less equal parts.

Alice couldn’t hide her disgust; even Halvorsen’s flash was dirty, his stencils smudged with cooking grease and smoke. Some pigments had hardened in the open paper cups on the kitchen table; you couldn’t tell what their true colors had been.

“I’m Aberdeen Bill’s daughter, Alice.” She suddenly seemed uninterested in her own story. “I once worked with Tattoo Ole.” Her voice trailed away.

“I’ve heard of your dad, and everyone knows Ole,” Halvorsen said; he seemed unembarrassed by her evident disapproval.

Jack was wondering why they’d come.

“The Music Man,” Alice said, for the second time. “I don’t suppose he told you where he was going.”

“He was angry about the infection,” Trond Halvorsen admitted. “When he came back, he wasn’t in a mood to talk about his travels.”

“He’s gone to Helsinki,” Alice said. Halvorsen just listened. If she already knew where William had gone, why was she bothering Halvorsen? “Do you know any tattoo artists in Helsinki?” Alice asked.

“There’s nobody good there,” he answered.

“There’s nobody good
here,
” Alice said.

Trond Halvorsen winked at Jack, as if acknowledging that the boy’s mother must be hard to live with. He stirred the pot on the stove, briefly holding up the fish head for Jack to see. “In Helsinki,” Halvorsen said, as if he were talking to the fish, “you can get a tattoo from an old sailor like me.”

“A scratcher, you mean?” Alice asked.

“Someone working at home, like me,” Halvorsen told her; he was sounding a little defensive now, even irritated.

“And would you know such a person as that in Finland, good or not?” Alice asked.

“There’s a restaurant in Helsinki where the sailors go,” Trond Halvorsen said. “You get yourself to the harbor, you look for a restaurant called Salve. Someone will know it—it’s very popular.”

“Then what?” Alice said.

“Ask one of the waitresses where you can get a tattoo,” Halvorsen told her. “One of the older ones will know.”

“Thank you very much, Mr. Halvorsen,” Alice said. She held out her hand to him, but he didn’t shake it. Even scratchers have their pride.

“You got a boyfriend?” Halvorsen asked her; he smiled, showing his missing teeth again.

Jack’s mother rumpled the boy’s hair and pulled him against her hip. “What do you think Jack here is?” she said to Halvorsen.

Trond Halvorsen never did shake Alice’s hand. “I think Jack here looks just like him,” the scratcher said.

Back at the Bristol, they packed in silence. The clerk at the front desk was happy they were checking out. The lobby was overcrowded with foreign sportswriters and skating fans. The world championships in speed skating were due to take place at Bislett Stadium in the center of Oslo in mid-February, but the journalists and fans had arrived early. Jack was sorry they were leaving; he’d been hoping to see the skaters.

That February, the temperature in Oslo was eight degrees below average. The cold weather meant fast ice, the front-desk clerk said. Jack asked his mom if speed skaters skated in the dark, or were there lights at Bislett Stadium? She didn’t know.

He didn’t ask his mother what Helsinki would be like, because he was afraid she might say, “Darker.” In the pale midday light, their hotel room again had an amber hue, but without the golden glow of Ingrid Moe’s skin, Oslo seemed plunged in an eternal darkness.

In his dreams, Jack still saw that girl’s inflamed ribs and the throbbing heart on the side of her breast. When he’d held the gauze against her skin, he could feel the heat of her tattoo; her hot heart had burned his hand through the bandage.

When Jack and Alice made their way down the carpeted hall where he’d watched Ingrid Moe walk away—like a woman—the boy was thinking that their search for his father was also a dream, only it was neverending.

One day or night, they would walk into a restaurant—a popular place called Salve, where the sailors in Helsinki went—and they would meet a waitress who’d already met William Burns. She would tell them what she’d told him—namely, where to go to be tattooed—but by the time they went there, William would have acquired another piece of music on his skin. According to Jack’s mother, his father also would have seduced some woman or girl he’d first met in a church—and no amount of sacred music could persuade a single member of that church’s congregation to help Jack and Alice find him.

Once again William would have vanished, the way the greatest music from the best organ in the most magnificent cathedral can drown out any choir and displace all other human sounds—even laughter, even grief, even sorrow of the kind Jack heard his mother give in to when she believed he was fast asleep.

“Good-bye, Oslo,” Jack whispered in the hall, where he believed that Ingrid Moe had walked away with a whole heart—not one ripped in two.

His mom bent down and kissed the back of his neck. “Hello, Helsinki!” she whispered in his ear.

Once again, Jack reached for her hand. It was the one thing he knew how to do. As it would turn out, it was about the only thing he really knew.

5

Failure in Finland

T
hey took the long trip back to Stockholm, the way they had come—then sailed from Stockholm to Helsinki, an overnight voyage through the Gulf of Finland. It was so cold that the salt spray froze on Jack’s face if he stood outside for more than a minute. Undaunted by the weather, some Finns and Swedes were drinking and singing songs on the icy deck until midnight. Alice observed that they were also throwing up—with best results to the leeward side of the ship. In the morning, Jack saw some Finns and Swedes who had suffered the misfortune of throwing up to the windward side of the vessel.

Alice found out from the drunks, many of them young people, that the hotel in Helsinki best suited to a tattoo artist’s circumstances was the Hotel Torni, where the so-called American Bar was a hangout for well-off students. One of the Finns or Swedes on deck referred to it as the place where you went to meet brave girls. “Brave girls” were right up Daughter Alice’s alley, since she took “brave” to mean that the girls (and the boys who wanted to meet them) would be open to being tattooed.

The hotel itself had seen better days. Because the old iron-grate elevator was “temporarily” out of service and they were on the fourth floor, Jack and Alice became well acquainted with the stairs, which they climbed holding hands. They had a room without a bath or a toilet. There was a sink, although they were advised not to drink the water, and a view of what appeared to be a secondary school. Jack sat on the window seat and looked with longing at the pupils; they seemed to have many friends.

The bath and the WC, which Jack and his mother shared with some other guests on the floor, were a fair hike down the twisting hall. The hotel had a hundred rooms; one day, when Jack was bored, he made his mom count them with him. Fewer than half had their own bathrooms.

Yet Alice had been right to choose the Torni. From the beginning of their stay, she did a brisk business among the clientele at the American Bar. While only a few of the girls Jack saw were beautiful—and he had no experience with whether or not they were brave—many of them, as well as even more of the boys, were courageous about being tattooed. But in the tattoo business, drunks are bleeders; in Helsinki, Jack saw his mother go through a lot of paper towels.

In a week’s time, Alice was earning almost as much money as she’d made at Tattoo Ole’s in the Christmas season. Jack often fell asleep to the sound of the tattoo machine. Once again you could say they were sleeping in the needles.

At the restaurant called Salve, Jack and Alice took an opinionated waitress’s advice—they ordered the poached Arctic char instead of the fried whitefish or the freshwater pike-perch. For a first course, they politely tried the reindeer tongue, largely because it was an increasing burden to avoid it; to Jack’s surprise, the tongue was not rubbery and tasted good. And for dessert, he had the cloudberries. They were a dark-gold color, and the slight sourness of the fruit contrasted nicely with vanilla ice cream.

Jack’s mom waited until he’d finished his dessert before she asked the waitress if she knew where to get a tattoo. It was not the answer Alice expected.

“I hear there’s a woman at the Hotel Torni,” the waitress began. “She’s a guest at the hotel, a foreigner—a good-looking woman, but a sad one.”

“Sad?” Alice asked. She seemed surprised. Jack couldn’t look at her; even he knew she was sad.

“That’s what I hear,” the waitress replied. “She’s got a little boy with her, just like you,” she added, looking at Jack.

“I see,” Alice said.

“She hangs out at the American Bar, but she does the tattooing in her hotel room—sometimes while the kid’s asleep,” the waitress went on.

“That’s very interesting,” Alice said. “But I was looking for someone else, another tattoo artist—probably a man.”

“Well, there’s Sami Salo, but the woman at the Torni is better.”

“Tell me about Sami Salo,” Alice said.

The waitress sighed. She was a short, stout woman whose clothes were too tight; her feet appeared to hurt her. She squinted whenever she took a step, and her fat arms jiggled, but she wasn’t much older than Jack’s mother. Under her apron, she kept a dish towel with which she commenced to wipe the table down.

“Listen, dearie,” the waitress told Alice in a low voice. “You don’t want to bother Sami. He already knows where to find you.”

Alice seemed surprised again; maybe she hadn’t realized that the waitress knew
she
was the tattoo artist at the Hotel Torni. But they hadn’t been hard to figure out. In Helsinki, who else fit the description of a young woman and a little kid who spoke American-sounding English?

“I want to meet Sami Salo,” Alice said to the waitress. “I want to ask him if he’s tattooed someone I know.”

“Sami Salo doesn’t want to meet you,” the waitress told her. “You’re putting him out of business, and he’s not happy about it. That’s what I hear.”

“I’m impressed by all you manage to hear,” Alice said.

The waitress turned her gruff attention to Jack. “You look tired,” she told him. “Are you getting enough sleep? Is all the tattooing keeping you awake?”

Jack’s mom stood up from the table and held out her hand to her son. The restaurant was noisy and crowded; Finns can be loud when they eat and drink. The boy didn’t quite catch what his mother told the waitress. He could only guess it was something along the lines of “Thank you for your concern”; or more likely, “If you want to stop by the Torni some evening, I’ll be happy to tattoo you where it really hurts.” Alice might also have given the waitress a message for Sami Salo; that the waitress and Sami were friends was pretty obvious, even to Jack.

They didn’t go to Salve again. They ate at the Torni and called the American Bar their home.

But what about the church? Jack would wonder, as he was falling asleep. Why weren’t they asking someone about the particular organ his father might be playing in Helsinki? Where were the destroyed young women who’d had the bad luck to meet William here? And what about Sibelius?