'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 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 practise 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.'
'There is nothing to it. Are you ready? Shall we begin?'
'At once.'
'The model!' cried Drioli. 'Come on, Josie!' He was in a bustle of enthusiasm now, tottering around the room arranging everything, like a child preparing for some exciting game. 'Where will you have her? Where shall she stand?'
'Let her be standing there, by my dressing-table. Let her be brushing her hair. I will paint her with her hair down over her shoulders and her brushing it.'
'Tremendous. You are a genius.'
Reluctantly, the girl walked over and stood by the dressing table, carrying her glass of wine with her.
Drioli pulled off his shirt and stepped out of his trousers. He retained only his underpants and his socks and shoes, and he stood there swaying gently from side to side, his small body firm, white-skinned, almost hairless. 'Now,' he said, 'I am the canvas. Where will you place your canvas?'
'As always, upon the easel.'
'Don't be crazy. I am the canvas.'
'Then place yourself upon the easel. That is where you belong.'
'How can I?'
'Are you the canvas or are you not the canvas?'
'I am the canvas. Already I begin to feel like a canvas.'
'Then place yourself upon the easel. There should be no difficulty.'
'Truly, it is not possible.'
'Then sit on the chair. Sit back to front, then you can lean your drunken head against the back of it. Hurry now, for I am about to commence.'
'I am ready. I am waiting.'
'First,' the boy said, 'I shall make an ordinary painting. Then, if it pleases me, I shall tattoo over it.' With a wide brush he began to paint upon the naked skin of the man's back.
'Ayee! Ayee!' Drioli screamed. 'A monstrous centipede is marching down my spine!'
'Be still now! Be still!' The boy worked rapidly, applying the paint only in a thin blue wash so that it would not afterwards interfere with the process of tattooing. His concentration, as soon as he began to paint, was so great that it appeared somehow to supersede his drunkenness. He applied the brush strokes with quick jabs of the arm, holding the wrist stiff, and in less than half an hour it was finished.
'All right. That's all,' he said to the girl, who immediately returned to the couch, lay down, and fell asleep.
Drioli remained awake. He watched the boy take up the needle and dip it in the ink; then he felt the sharp tickling sting as it touched the skin of his back. The pain, which was unpleasant but never extreme, kept him from going to sleep. By following the track of the needle and by watching the different colours of ink that the boy was using, Drioli amused himself trying to visualize what was going on behind him. The boy worked with an astonishing intensity. He appeared to have become completely absorbed in the little machine and in the unusual effects it was able to produce.
Far into the small hours of the morning the machine buzzed and the boy worked. Drioli could remember that when the artist finally stepped back and said, 'It is finished,' there was daylight outside and the sound of people walking in the street.
'I want to see it,' Drioli said. The boy held up a mirror, at an angle, and Drioli craned his neck to look.
'Good God!' he cried. It was a startling sight. The whole of his back, from the top of the shoulders to the base of the spine, was a blaze of colour - gold and green and blue and black and scarlet. The tattoo was applied so heavily it looked almost like an impasto. The boy had followed as closely as possible the original brush strokes, filling them in solid, and it was marvellous the way he had made use of the spine and the protrusion of the shoulder blades so that they became part of the composition. What is more, he had somehow managed to achieve - even with this slow process - a certain spontaneity. The portrait was quite alive; it contained much of that twisted, tortured quality so characteristic of Soutine's other work. It was not a good likeness. It was a mood rather than a likeness, the model's face vague and tipsy, the background swirling around her head in a mass of dark-green curling strokes.
'It's tremendous!'
'I rather like it myself.' The boy stood back, examining it critically. 'You know,' he added, 'I think it's good enough for me to sign.' And taking up the buzzer again, he inscribed his name in red ink on the right-hand side, over the place where Drioli's kidney was.
The old man who was called Drioli was standing in a sort of trance, staring at the painting in the window of the picture-dealer's shop. It had been so long ago, all that - almost as though it had happened in another life.
And the boy? What had become of him? He could remember now that after returning from the war - the first war - he had missed him and had questioned Josie.
'Where is my little Kalmuck?'
'He is gone,' she had answered. 'I do not know where, but I heard it said that a dealer had taken him up and sent him away to Ceret to make more paintings.'
'Perhaps he will return.'
'Perhaps he will. Who knows?'
That was the last time they had mentioned him. Shortly afterwards they had moved to Le Havre where there were more sailors and business was better. The old man smiled as he remembered Le Havre. Those were the pleasant years, the years between the wars, with the small shop near the docks and the comfortable rooms and always enough work, with every day three, four, five sailors coming and wanting pictures on their arms. Those were truly the pleasant years.
Then had come the second war, and Josie being killed, and the Germans arriving, and that was the finish of his business. No one had wanted pictures on their arms any more after that. And by that time he was too old for any other kind of work. In desperation he had made his way back to Paris, hoping vaguely that things would be easier in the big city. But they were not.
And now, after the war was over, he possessed neither the means nor the energy to start up his small business again. It wasn't very easy for an old man to know what to do, especially when one did not like to beg. Yet how else could he keep alive?
&nbs
p; Well, he thought, still staring at the picture. So that is my little Kalmuck. And how quickly the sight of one small object such as this can stir the memory. Up to a few moments ago he had even forgotten that he had a tattoo on his back. It had been ages since he had thought about it. He put his face closer to the window and looked into the gallery. On the walls he could see many other pictures and all seemed to be the work of the same artist. There were a great number of people strolling around. Obviously it was a special exhibition.
On a sudden impulse, Drioli turned, pushed open the door of the gallery and went in.
It was a long room with thick wine-coloured carpet, and by God how beautiful and warm it was! There were all these people strolling about looking at the pictures, well-washed dignified people, each of whom held a catalogue in the hand. Drioli stood just inside the door, nervously glancing around, wondering whether he dared go forward and mingle with this crowd. But before he had had time to gather his courage, he heard a voice beside him saying, 'What is it you want?'
The speaker wore a black morning coat. He was plump and short and had a very white face. It was a flabby face with so much flesh upon it that the cheeks hung down on either side of the mouth in two fleshy collops, spanielwise. He came up close to Drioli and said again, 'What is it you want?'
Drioli stood still.
'If you please,' the man was saying, 'take yourself out of my gallery.'
'Am I not permitted to look at the pictures?'
'I have asked you to leave.'
Drioli stood his ground. He felt suddenly overwhelmingly outraged.
'Let us not have trouble,' the man was saying. 'Come on now, this way.' He put a fat white paw on Drioli's arm and began to push him firmly to the door.
That did it. 'Take your goddam hands off me!' Drioli shouted. His voice rang clear down the long gallery and all the heads jerked around as one - all the startled faces stared down the length of the room at the person who had made this noise. A flunkey came running over to help, and the two men tried to hustle Drioli through the door. The people stood still, watching the struggle. Their faces expressed only a mild interest, and seemed to be saying, 'It's all right. There's no danger to us. It's being taken care of.'
'I, too!' Drioli was shouting. 'I, too, have a picture by this painter! He was my friend and I have a picture which he gave me!'
'He's mad.'
'A lunatic. A raving lunatic.'
'Someone should call the police.'
With a rapid twist of the body Drioli suddenly jumped clear of the two men, and before anyone could stop him he was running down the gallery shouting, 'I'll show you! I'll show you! I'll show you!' He flung off his overcoat, then his jacket and shirt, and he turned so that his naked back was towards the people.
'There!' he cried, breathing quickly. 'You see? There it is!'
There was a sudden absolute silence in the room, each person arrested in what he was doing, standing motionless in a kind of shocked, uneasy bewilderment. They were staring at the tattooed picture. It was still there, the colours as bright as ever, but the old man's back was thinner now, the shoulder blades protruded more sharply, and the effect, though not great, was to give the picture a curiously wrinkled, squashed appearance.
Somebody said, 'My God, but it is!'
Then came the excitement and the noise of voices as the people surged forward to crowd around the old man.
'It is unmistakable!'
'His early manner, yes?'
'It is fantastic, fantastic!'
'And look, it is signed!'
'Bend your shoulders forward, my friend, so that the picture stretches out flat.'
'Old one, when was this done?'
'In 1913,' Drioli said, without turning around. 'In the autumn of 1913.'
'Who taught Soutine to tattoo?'
'I taught him.'
'And the woman?'
'She was my wife.'
The gallery owner was pushing through the crowd towards Drioli. He was calm now, deadly serious, making a smile with his mouth. 'Monsieur,' he said, 'I will buy it.' Drioli could see the loose fat upon the face vibrating as he moved his jaw. 'I said I will buy it, Monsieur.'
'How can you buy it?' Drioli asked softly.
'I will give two hundred thousand francs for it.' The dealer's eyes were small and dark, the wings of his broad nose-base were beginning to quiver.
'Don't do it!' someone murmured in the crowd. 'It is worth twenty times as much.'
Drioli opened his mouth to speak. No words came, so he shut it; then he opened it again and said slowly, 'But how can I sell it?' He lifted his hands, let them drop loosely to his sides. 'Monsieur, how can I possibly sell it?' All the sadness in the world was in his voice.
'Yes!' they were saying in the crowd. 'How can he sell it? It is part of himself!'
'Listen,' the dealer said, coming up close. 'I will help you, I will make you rich. Together we shall make some private arrangement over this picture, no?'
Drioli watched him with slow, apprehensive eyes. 'But how can you buy it, Monsieur? What will you do with it when you have bought it? Where will you keep it? Where will you keep it tonight? And where tomorrow?'
'Ah, where will I keep it? Yes, where will I keep it? Now, where will I keep it? Well, now ...' The dealer stroked the bridge of his nose with a fat white finger. 'It would seem,' he said, 'that if I take the picture, I take you also. That is a disadvantage.' He paused and stroked his nose again. 'The picture itself is of no value until you are dead. How old are you, my friend?'
'Sixty-one.'
'But you are perhaps not very robust, no?' The dealer lowered the hand from his nose and looked Drioli up and down, slowly, like a farmer appraising an old horse.
'I do not like this,' Drioli said, edging away. 'Quite honestly, Monsieur, I do not like it.' He edged straight into the arms of a tall man who put out his hands and caught him gently by the shoulders. Drioli glanced around and apologized. The man smiled down at him, patting one of the old fellow's naked shoulders reassuringly with a hand encased in a canary-coloured glove.
'Listen, my friend,' the stranger said, still smiling. 'Do you like to swim and to bask yourself in the sun?'
Drioli looked up at him, rather startled.
'Do you like fine food and red wine from the great chateaux of Bordeaux?' The man was still smiling, showing strong white teeth with a flash of gold among them. He spoke in a soft coaxing manner, one gloved hand still resting on Drioli's shoulder. 'Do you like such things?'
'Well - yes,' Drioli answered, still greatly perplexed. 'Of course.'
'And the company of beautiful women?'
'Why not?'
'And a cupboard full of suits and shirts made to your own personal measurements? It would seem that you are a little lacking for clothes.'
Drioli watched this suave man, waiting for the rest of the proposition.
'Have you ever had a shoe constructed especially for your own foot?'
'No.'
'You would like that?'
'Well ...'
'And a man who will shave you in the mornings and trim your hair?'
Drioli simply stood and gaped.
'And a plump attractive girl to manicure the nails of your fingers?'
Someone in the crowd giggled.
'And a bell beside your bed to summon your maid to bring your breakfast in the morning? Would you like these things, my friend? Do they appeal to you?'
Drioli stood still and looked at him.
'You see, I am the owner of the Hotel Bristol in Cannes. I now invite you to come down there and live as my guest for the rest of your life in luxury and comfort.' The man paused, allowing his listener time to savour this cheerful prospect.
'Your only duty - shall I call it your pleasure - will be to spend your time on my beach in bathing trunks, walking among my guests, sunning yourself, swimming, drinking cocktails. You would like that?'
There was no answer.
'Don't you see - all the
guests will thus be able to observe this fascinating picture by Soutine. You will become famous, and men will say, "Look, there is the fellow with ten million francs upon his back." You like this idea, Monsieur? It pleases you?'
Drioli looked up at the tall man in the canary gloves, still wondering whether this was some sort of a joke. 'It is a comical idea,' he said slowly. 'But do you really mean it?'
'Of course I mean it.'
'Wait,' the dealer interrupted. 'See here, old one. Here is the answer to our problem. I will buy the picture, and I will arrange with a surgeon to remove the skin from your back, and then you will be able to go off on your own and enjoy the great sum of money I shall give you for it.'
'With no skin on my back?'
'No, no, please! You misunderstand. This surgeon will put a new piece of skin in the place of the old one. It is simple.'
'Could he do that?'
'There is nothing to it.'
'Impossible!' said the man with the canary gloves. 'He's too old for such a major skin-grafting operation. It would kill him. It would kill you, my friend.'
'It would kill me?'
'Naturally. You would never survive. Only the picture would come through.'
'In the name of God!' Drioli cried. He looked around aghast at the faces of the people watching him, and in the silence that followed, another man's voice, speaking quietly from the back of the group, could be heard saying, 'Perhaps, if one were to offer this old man enough money, he might consent to kill himself on the spot. Who knows?' A few people sniggered. The dealer moved his feet uneasily on the carpet.
Then the hand in the canary glove was tapping Drioli again upon the shoulder. 'Come on,' the man was saying, smiling his broad white smile. 'You and I will go and have a good dinner and we can talk about it some more while we eat. How's that? Are you hungry?'
Drioli watched him, frowning. He didn't like the man's long flexible neck, or the way he craned it forward at you when he spoke, like a snake.
'Roast duck and Chambertin,' the man was saying. He put a rich succulent accent on the words, splashing them out with his tongue. 'And perhaps a souffle aux marrons, light and frothy.'
Drioli's eyes turned up towards the ceiling, his lips became loose and wet. One could see the poor old fellow beginning literally to drool at the mouth.
'How do you like your duck?' the man went on. 'Do you like it very brown and crisp outside, or shall it be ...'