Sarah Hall - The Electric Michelangelo

— Hören Sie! You must not pay these prices. They are for other trades. We take smaller quantity, better quality. We are the same, we are similar breed, I can tell that by your …

Here the man pulled an expression of mock surreptitiousness and hunched his shoulders. He looked affected, exaggerated, like a silent-movie villain.

— … your old habits. Never mind what is kept under your shirt. But here, it’s OK, just buy your ink. You ask for what you want, exactly, and you get, my friend! Yes, in America!

— Look. I’ll have to ask you not to interfere, I’m not sure what you’re talking about. I’m an artist. Freelance. This is for lettering work on …

— Oh, ass-shit! They don’t care what you do! Do you care what this man does with his ink?

The cashier shrugged, assessing Cy over a bottle of Coca-Cola with mild attention and one lazy, fizzing eye.

— No, of course not He has four Abbildungen by me no doubt if I tell him to remove shirt — Arturas Overas, best tattoo artist in all of New York! My friend, you must get big balls if you are going to work here, understand! Otherwise they put you on a boat back to wherever you have come from, or into a bag of bricks in East river! I try to help you in this regard.

Still unsure of the protocol for tattoo artists in this country, Cy was hesitant to give himself up so easily. This man was obviously trying to set him up, ensnare him in some kind of trap that the warehouse management were no doubt privy to. Tattoo artists, if that is what this man indeed was, were notoriously competitive and inventive when it came to bettering a rival, or planning his demise. Cy knew this as well as he knew his own shoe size.

— Look, if it’s all the same, I’d rather not have you shouting about this. I’d rather you minded your own business in fact. I’ll take this now and I’ll pay what the marked price is and if you’d like to finish this conversation outside I’ll be happy to oblige.

— Have it your way. My wife is waiting for me outside also, she does not like the smell of glue and paint, it gives her headache, perhaps she can talk sense to you, crazy englischer Dummkopf. She is a beautiful lady, an angel, my Claudia, probably killing all the men that try to steal her from me while I am gone. Ja. I will see you outside.

With that the man left the warehouse. Cy sighed, paid for his supplies, looked for another exit and upon seeing none followed him through the warehouse doorway. Beyond it not one but two mastodon giants were waiting for him, for the man had been joined by his female equal.

They were a stalwart, striking pair without a doubt. Both were well over six feet tall and possibly weighed an equal tonnage. The great blond interferer was standing flirtatiously close to his wife — a megalithic woman with bright crisp orange hair and heavy, smudged black eyes. She had on an oversized dress that covered most of her body but Cy could make out the undeniable black borders of prolific tattooing on her wrists and through her nylon hose. She had the knuckles of a boxer and the defined muscles of an Olympian. There were veins in her neck that were like the roots of a tree plunging up against soil. Between the two of them they could have reduced him to mash and gravy in a very short amount of time, he was certain of it, for he was Lilliputian in comparison. His thoughts turned to flight, he could drop his wares and out-run them, but they were blocking the road, his only avenue of escape. He suddenly remembered his careless foot on a smashed Pedder Street windowsill held tight by an ink-stained hand securing it at the ankle, and he knew once again that running was the foolhardy choice. The woman turned and spotted Cy.

— Turo. Is this the English man?

— Ja.

Arturas gestured to him. It seemed he had inflated his pectorals further still, perhaps having found a convenient tyre-pump in the vicinity, and he had his knuckles resting on a thick belt holding up his trousers. He looked like a legendary woodcutting champion of yore.

— Come, come. Sit on this wall. We will speak now.

Cy hesitated, then sat. The woman lowered herself down next to him and placed an arm around his shoulder. The weight of it was extraordinary — and it seemed to possess a serpent-like grip of its own that felt not unlike Miss India Rubber’s boa constrictor when she had draped it over Cy’s shoulders and arms as a boy, a squeeze so powerful that it paralysed the body and made it ache until the thing was ready to release its tension and move off. The arm itself smelled incongruously of talcum powder.

— Good. Now, I try to do you a favour as my brother but you refuse to accept. You take the advice of Arturas Overas and piss it into the gutter. No matter. We will see to it that you learn. This is my wife, Claudia. She is my assistant in all things of life, as I am hers also. Now that we are introduced properly, let us begin.

Cyril Parks dosed his eyes. This was ridiculous. He was a grown man who had diffused many a fight in the Pedder Street parlour and the public houses of Morecambe Bay, on behalf of a man highly qualified to provoke them. He was adept at negotiating peace, it came with the job and the association, and he had even put in a good performance for fights that he could not escape. How had he so readily and stupidly walked into this situation? It was useless to think of victory or apology. Instead he thought of Riley’s reedy red hand when he had staggered back from the smithy by the ravine. He thought of brown-red discharge in a basin, fish guts in the Cooperative Society building sliding down conveyors into buckets, and he thought of the weeping scar along Reeda Parks’s chest.

They were carnival folk, who had come to America fifteen years ago and had since travelled the country extensively with fairs and shows and circuses. They were Germanic people originally, comprised, it seemed, of every powerful myth and mettle available from that heritage. Arturas was a tattoo artist, not a bad one, although not, as he claimed, the best in New York. Cy had met men as big as him before, but his bride was a colossus such as he had never seen. Born with exceptional strength and size, she was not ridiculed for either by her kinfolk, nor by her village in the Erz mountains, so that by the time the rest of the world was ready to set upon her in fear or familism for her lack of classical female form she had been convinced so thoroughly of her magnificence already that she did not doubt it. Criticism and cruelty bounced off her hide like hail from the rump of a prize ox. Her heart was good, her body was capable, her mind was sturdy and possessed of no more frailties than any other well-bolstered human brain. What the world saw as freakish and a spectacle, the incarnation of a creature from a dark fairytale like the Ogre’s daughter, her loved ones saw as fantastic and spectacular, the work of an inventive and benevolent God. If there was hair on her chin by puberty it was because she was blessed with more than her fair share of that chemical which made humans miraculously strong. If she began life able to pick up heavy objects where her brothers could not and box grown men at the village fair, she only went on to refine her muscle, to train her limbs to perform feats industrial machinery heretofore had the exclusive right to undertake. In the mornings and evenings she would squat and thrust and lunge and curl iron in her arms. Occasionally she would bleed herself before taking exercise, letting out the ichor through a puncture or lesion in the crux of her elbow or knee so that the engine of her heart would have to work twice as hard with less of its fuel, but this was a discipline in her mind and it would only serve to make her stronger in the end. So she embraced her lot and strove to perfect it.