Russell Hoban - The Bat Tattoo

The morning started out cool but quickly got hot and the heat seemed to make the punters haggle worse than usual; they’d pick up a necklace priced at fifteen pounds that had cost me ten, offer five, and be outraged when I held out for fifteen. Alison and Linda at the table next to mine were having the same kind of day.

I’d taken off my jacket and cardigan and was standing there in a sleeveless top when there appeared in front of me the man I’d seen at the V & A. ‘You!’ I said.

He was wearing a blue T-shirt and he pushed back the sleeve to show me the bat tattoo on his left shoulder. I felt a little flush of irritation when I saw it. ‘Am I supposed to applaud?’ I said.

‘You’ve got one too,’ he said, pointing to my exposed left shoulder.

‘I’ve had this about seven years now,’ I said. I suppose I needed to make the point that I wasn’t nouveau tattoo.

He nodded acknowledgement of my seniority. ‘Can I ask what made you do it?’

‘You can ask.’

‘Sorry.’ He seemed about to say more, then decided not to.

I felt bad about discouraging him when he wanted to talk. ‘What brings you here today?’ I said.

‘I come here every now and then — I’m always cruising for something that will turn out to be something I’ve been looking for without knowing it.’

‘See anything here this time?’

‘Not so far.’

‘What do you do?’ It seemed impolite not to show some minimal interest.

He looked away for a moment, then back at me, gave a little cough, and said, ‘I’m a woodcarver.’

‘Can you make a living doing that?’ In the Jubilee Market we talk very openly about the facts of life.

‘I designed a successful toy a while back and money kept coming in from that for a long time. Lately I’ve been doing private commissions.’

‘I’ve never met a toy designer before. What kind of toy?’

‘A crash-dummy in a radio-controlled crash-test car. The car springs back into shape after it’s been crumpled and you can put it and the dummy back together and do the crash again.’

‘What in the world gave you that idea?’

‘My father was in the crash-dummy business.’ He was examining a silver bangle in the shape of a snake. ‘You have nice things here. Have you been doing this long?’

‘Fourteen years.’ As I said that a gypsy-looking woman picked up a garnet necklace, fixed me with a hard stare, and said very aggressively, ‘How much?’

‘Fifteen,’ I said.

She expelled her breath scornfully and shook her head. ‘Best price?’

‘Fifteen.’ I didn’t like her manner.

I noticed then that my new acquaintance was holding the arm of a small dark man who looked as if he might be the woman’s partner. ‘He was walking away with this,’ he said, holding up an opal ring ticketed at fifty pounds.

‘You’re crazy,’ said the man. ‘I just had it in my hand while I was looking at something at the other end of the table.’ He tried unsuccessfully to pull away.

Suzy from two tables down the line came over for a look. ‘These two were at my table last week,’ she said, ‘and after they left I was missing a brooch. Did you catch them in the act?’

‘Not proveably,’ I said. ‘Let him go,’ I said to my vigilant friend. ‘It’s your word against his and I’ve still got the ring.’ To the woman and the man I said, ‘I’d rather not see the two of you again and I’ll pass the word to my colleagues.’

‘Pfft,’ said the woman. ‘You got nothing we want.’ She gave me a finger and strode off with her consort.

‘Thanks,’ I said to my security man of the moment. ‘I always expect a certain amount of thievery but I’m glad not to lose that ring. I’m Sarah Varley, by the way.’

‘Roswell Clark,’ he said, and as we shook hands he noticed that my eyebrows had lifted at his name. ‘I’m a little strange,’ he said, ‘but I’m not actually an alien life form.’

‘Anyone in the family in the UFO business?’

‘No.’ He seemed a little embarrassed, and began to whistle a tune very quietly, almost under his breath, as he looked at the things on my table. Giles suddenly came to mind; he used to whistle in that introspective kind of way as he worked on his first dolls’ houses. Even the tune seemed familiar. Was it one that Giles had whistled? Yes, because I was able to anticipate where it was going next.

‘What’s that you’re whistling?’ I said to Roswell Clark.

‘“Is That All There Is?”,’ he responded with a half-smile.

‘Well,’ I said, ‘I have no further questions at this time.’

‘That’s the title of the song.’

‘Oh. Do you know the words?’

‘“Is that all there is?’” he sang very quietly. ‘“Is that all there is?/If that’s all there is, my friends,/Then let’s keep dancing,/Let’s break out the booze and have a ball/If that’s all there is.”’

‘Is that all there is?’ I said. ‘To the song, I mean.’

‘That’s just the refrain but it pretty well says it all. The recording I have is by Peggy Lee. In the song she tells in successive verses how her house burnt down, how her father took her to the circus, how she fell in love with a wonderful boy who went away and she thought she’d die but she didn’t, and after each verse she asks, “Is that all there is?” to a fire or to a circus or to love. Then she sings, “I know what you must be saying to yourselves — If that’s the way she feels about it, why doesn’t she just end it all?” But she says no, she’s not ready for that final disappointment because she knows that when she’s breathing her last breath she’ll be saying, “Is that all there is,” and so on. Are you all right? You’ve gone pale all of a sudden.’

‘Funny thing about songs,’ I said, ‘what they’ll bring back.’

He was looking at me as if I’d blurted out my whole history with Giles. ‘Do you think that’s all there is?’ he said.

I don’t open up for strangers and not all that much for friends but he seemed so much in need of a straight answer that I said, ‘Not until you’re dead. As long as you’re alive there’s still a chance for more than there’s been so far.’

His face brightened, he really had quite a nice smile.

‘I’m glad you said that. Let me buy a coffee for you and your neighbours.’

‘Thanks.’ I introduced him to Alison and Linda. ‘Small black coffee for me, with sugar,’ said Alison. ‘Large milky tea with sugar for me,’ said Linda. ‘I’ll have a white coffee, not much milk, no sugar,’ I said.

As Roswell left, the buskers in the Apple Market were doing the habanera with a rather good contralto. Her voice rose above the hubbub of the market, drifted on the sunlight and the heat of the day.

Alison nodded approvingly in Roswell’s direction. She’s a tall stout woman with green butterfly spectacles and red hair that she wears short. She’s fifty or so and looks like the cynical friend who’s seen everything but she’s not cynical at all. ‘New friend?’ she said.

‘Acquaintance,’ I said. ‘I met him at the V & A.’

‘I picked up my first husband at the V & A,’ said Linda. She’s a small woman closer to sixty than fifty, neat figure, close-cropped grey hair, does yoga, mostly wears black.

‘But you put him down again,’ said Alison.

‘Nothing’s for ever,’ said Linda. ‘It was OK for three years.’

Carmen was now into the seguidilla . I visualised her tied up and sitting in a chair in the Apple Market while Don José passed the hat. I too was tied up, by a very large woman who was almost as wide as my table and effectively blocked it from other punters. I’d seen her several times before this and she’d never bought anything. She’s from Leeds and she collects Scottish terriers — figures, brooches, whatever. ‘I’ve got two real ones,’ she said, ‘Glen and Fiddich. They’re adorable. Do you have a dog?’