Page 84 of Tattooed Sweetness
For a breath, I consider whether I should stand up, or whether it would be more effective to receive them sitting down.
But the spokesman relieves me of a decision. “Merry Christmas,” he wishes me. “And, thank you for finding us an appointment after all.”
I mask my surprise at his tradition-bound greeting. “Merry Christmas. Have a seat.” I gesture with my hand toward the chairs I’ve set up in front of the counter.
“Damn snazzy hangout.” A ferret-faced porker, whom I remember fondly, looks around with an exaggerated twist of his head. “Didn’t know an inker’s business made so much dough.”
“You’re much too kind,” I retort, intent on maximum coolness. “This rather constitutes a social-creative community project.” I recite the story I’ve come up with.As close to reality as possible, so they’ll buy my lies. But garnished with the necessary pinch of communism to get them to be game.“Living and working in a collective.”
“Is that anything like a…” The leader is visibly searching for a term, snapping his fingers several times to jog his memory. “Kibbutz! Kibbutz! I’ve got it! That’s the term, isn’t it?”
“That’s how you could describe it,” I agree patronizingly.
“Fuck it, gorgeous shit,” a barely eighteen-year-old lisps through the wide crevice between his front teeth. With a trusting look, he turns to the Ferret Face sitting next to him. “Do you think we could get something like that someday?”
Never in a million years!To camouflage my thoughts, I put on an extra-friendly smile and lay out the prepared bait. “If our collaboration is to my satisfaction, I will be happy to recommend you guys.”
“Right, let’s get down to business,” the spokesman of the group agrees with me. “What exactly can we do for you—”
“Ping. Clink. Ping-ping.” Clumsily struck notes of the highest octave on the keyboard cut through the air.
My throat swells as I recognize out of the corner of my eye the scruffy guy with a hammer and sickle tattooed on his temple, of all people, at Celine’s grand piano. But I don’t need to say a word.
“Damn it, Ralf!” the leader rebukes him. “I told you point-blank not to put your fucking paws on anything here!”
“Beggu pardon,” the scolded man forces himself to say. “Won’t happen again!”
“I know it won’t!” With a wave of his hand, the leader asks two of his companions to rise. “Take him outside so we can negotiate in privacy.”
“I see we understand each other…” Propping up my elbows, I place my fingertips together. I look over them at my counterpart.Everything in me is reluctant to tattoo idiotic slogans likeFckNzsorA.C.A.B.on these communists in return, but how else is Celine going to get her shit back?I recall my politeness. “Before we start, what can I do for you? Tea, coffee, a glass of water?”
“What was that?” asks Celine when the guys have left. I turn around in my office chair, peering up at the gallery from where her voice has come. “The local delegation from Antifa?”
“Didn’t I ask you to stay in your apartment?”Women.I shake my head. “I don’t want them to know what you look like.”
“They don’t,” Celine replies. She’s wearing one of my band shirts plus workout pants rolled up several times. But despite her tomboyish outfit, she manages to float down the staircase angelically. “I’ve been on my guard.”
“If you say so…” I don’t really like it. “Next time, though, you’ll stick to what I tell you. Are we clear?”
“Aye-aye, sir!” Celine salutes. “Of course, sir!” Then she props herself up on the tabletop, resting her chin on her fist. “The story you came up with was pretty wild…”
I shrug. I don’t think it was that imaginative.
“When you told them that cock-and-bull story about the parlor being a kibbutz, I almost burst out in laughter.”
“There we are. You see?” Exactly why I wanted her to hide.
But she ignores it completely. “Poor Kevin as a greedy big capitalist. Vicious, conniving, and devious. Well, the last three points definitely apply.” Lost in thought, she grabs her neck, which by now is glowing in dark shades of purple.
My heart feels like it’s being squeezed through a pasta machine. With a clearing of my throat, I cover the tortured sound of empathy that wriggles from my throat.
“What I strongly disagree with…” Celine points a finger at me. “…is how you made me out to be a cuddly, pitiful victim: penniless, impoverished, and needy. Are you crazy, Philipp?”
“Why?”Oh my fucking God, how it turns me on to see the vivid sparkle of her eyes again at last!“Isn’t that exactly how you showed up here on Christmas Eve? Penniless, impoverished, and needy?”
“That’s true, of course…” She snorts. “But what about this place?” She points around with both hands. “Did you forget that half of this tattoo parlor is mine?”
“More like three-quarters.”I don’t know why this circumstance also fills me with so much satisfaction. Whatever. It doesn’t matter.