‘You could do it easily! You could! You could!’
‘You mean with the tattoo?’
‘Yes, with the tattoo! I will teach you in two minutes!’
‘Impossible!’
‘Are you saying I do not know what I am talking about?’
No, the boy could not possibly be saying that because if anyone knew about the tattoo it was he – Drioli. Had he not, only last month, covered a man’s whole belly with the most wonderful and delicate design composed entirely of flowers? What about the client who had had so much hair upon his chest that he had done him a picture of a grizzly bear so designed that the hair on the chest became the furry coat of the bear? Could he not draw the likeness of a lady and position it with such subtlety upon a man’s arm that when the muscle of the arm was flexed the lady came to life and performed some astonishing contortions?
‘All I am saying,’ the boy told him, ‘is that you are drunk and this is a drunken idea.’
‘We could have Josie for a model. A study of Josie upon my back. Am I not entitled to a picture of my wife upon my back?’
‘Of Josie?’
‘Yes.’ Drioli knew he only had, to mention his wife and the boy’s thick brown lips would loosen and begin to quiver.
‘No,’ the girl said.
‘Darling Josie, please. Take this bottle and finish it, then you will feel more generous. It is an enormous idea. Never in my life have I had such an idea before.’
‘What idea?’
‘That he should make a picture of you upon my back. Am I not entitled to that?’
‘A picture of me?’
‘A nude study,’ the boy said. ‘It is an agreeable idea.’
‘Not nude,’ the girl said.
‘It is an enormous idea,’ Drioli said.
‘It’s a damn crazy idea,’ the girl said.
‘It is in any event an idea,’ the boy said. ‘It is an idea that calls for a celebration.’
They emptied another bottle among them. Then the boy said, ‘It is no good. I could not possibly manage the tattoo. Instead, I will paint this picture on your back and you will have it with your so long as you do not take a bath and wash it off. If you never take a bath again in your life then you will have it always, as long as you live.’
‘No,’ Drioli said.
‘Yes – and on the day that you decide to take a bath I will know that you do not any longer value my picture. It will be a test of your admiration for my art.’
‘I do not like the idea,’ the girl said. ‘His admiration for your art is so great that he would be unclean for many years. Let us have the tattoo. But not nude.’
‘Then just the head,’ Drioli said.
‘I could not manage it.’
‘It is immensely simple. I will undertake to teach you in two minutes. You will see. I shall go now and fetch the instruments. The needles and the inks. I have inks of many different colours – as many different colours as you have paints, and far more beautiful…’
‘It is impossible.’
‘I have many inks. Have I not many different colours of inks, Josie?’
‘Yes.’
‘You will see,’ Drioli said. ‘I will go now and fetch them.’ He got up from his chair and walked unsteadily, but with determination, out of the room.
In half an hour Drioli was back. ‘I have brought everything,’ he cried, waving a brown suitcase. ‘All the necessities of the tattooist are here in this bag.’
He placed the bag on the table, opened it, and laid out the electric needles and the small bottles of coloured inks. He plugged in the electric needle, then he took the instrument in his hand and pressed a switch. It made a buzzing sound and the quarter inch of needle that projected from the end of it began to vibrate swiftly up and down. He threw off his jacket and rolled up his left sleeve. ‘Now look. Watch me and I will show you how easy it is. I will make a design on my arm, here.’
His forearm was already covered with blue markings, but he selected a small clear patch of skin upon which to demonstrate.
‘First, I choose my ink – let us use ordinary blue – and I dip the point of the needle in the ink… so… and I hold the needle up straight and I run it lightly over the surface of the skin… like this… and with the little motor and the electricity, the needle jumps up and down and punctures the skin and the ink goes in and there you are. See how easy it is… see how I draw a picture of a greyhound here upon my arm…’
The boy was intrigued. ‘Now let me practice a little – on your arm.’
With the buzzing needle he began to draw blue lines upon Drioli’s arm. ‘It is simple,’ he said. ‘It is like drawing with pen and ink. There is no difference except that it is slower.’