her ear to his mouth, listening to his breathing. Her torso lifts as she takes his wrist, absently stroking parched brown skin. It is obvious she doesn’t know anything about first aid.
She straightens his head, and looks up at me. ‘He’s fucked,’ she says. ‘Serious, we’ll have to call an ambulance.’
‘There is no phone here. That’s why I came to your shop.’
‘Stay with him then, I’ll go back and phone.’
I straighten up as she rises, step back, out of her way. She looks at me – her expression strangely helpless – and leaves.
Her name is Ana Cocked, can you believe it?
* * *
Talking of which, she lies spread-eagled on her kitchen table. Shins dangling over the edge, limp with satisfaction, though the position flexes her thigh muscles, increasing their tension and curvature. I stand above her, half-clothed, my upper half. Her head is turned to the side, her eyes track me.
They narrow suspiciously as I ask, ‘Do you have a pair of scissors?’
She decides eventually – bear in mind that our life together has been roughly ninety minutes – to risk giving me such dangerous information. ‘In the drawer, Lucas. The top one, below the kettle.’
She begins to rise.
‘Stay there,’ I command. She subsides, though anxiety invades her body, stiffening her visibly. I step out of the crumpled ring of my trousers, find the pair of scissors, and return. Her alarm increases as I bring the implement down between her legs. She lifts her head, eyes widening.
‘I won’t hurt you,’ I reassure her.
It is a mistake to imply that I might. Her fear increases. She begins to struggle upwards again. I lean forward and press firmly down on her forehead, which is pleasantly damp.
‘Trust me,’ I insist. The cliché, the fact that I have used one, its banality, reassures her. We are arrested in that position, her head lifted against the pressure of my hand. Then she gives over, allowing me to do what I must. I snip off a tight curl of her pubic hair – it is more densely white than the hair on her crown – and carefully place it in my breast pocket. I thank her solemnly. Later, it will go into my collection.
Laughter gurgles from her, relief escaping, ‘You are a pervert, do you always do this?’
‘I always do this.’
‘You are a snatch.’
‘Byron did it too.’
‘Who is Byron?’
‘A poet. He was a lord, an English lord who wrote poetry.’
‘This Byron was a snatch. Are you an English lord?’
‘No, I am an ordinary South African peasant like you.’
‘I am an ordinary Flemish peasant. You talk like an English lord.’
‘I wonder how many English lords you’ve heard talk.’
‘You are too brown to be a lord of England. You could only be a lord of chocolate.’
I bow mockingly, bend down, and kiss her where it matters most: in the centre of the universe.
* * *
I coat the griddle pan very lightly with olive oil and wait till it begins to smoke. Then I place a thick tuna steak on it, giving each side a few minutes. Orthodoxy has it that the fish should be seared outside, and left raw inside. My own observation confirms that raw tuna is bland. Heat releases the flavour, but not too much heat – just enough for the lightest touch of pink – otherwise, of course, it will taste canned. I add black-bean sauce and rice wine to the vegetables in the wok, which by now are perfectly al dente, turn down the gas, and stir for a minute or two. The meal is ready.
Ana cuts through her steak, stares at it aghast. ‘This fish is raw,’ she complains. ‘You haven’t cooked it long enough.’
‘It’s supposed to be raw.’
Her expression is indescribable.
‘You’re not supposed to eat raw fish. You can get worms, you know.’
‘You’re not supposed to eat raw haddock. You’re not supposed to eat raw pilchards, or hake or sole. You are supposed to eat raw tuna.’
She ignores my tantrum: ‘It’s too thick to fry like that, in such a little oil. That’s why it’s raw in the middle.’
She cuts off a sliver, chews gingerly: ‘Man, it’s disgusting! Raw fish!’
‘Why don’t you put it in the microwave oven for a few minutes?’
‘Good idea,’ she replies, unaware of my sarcasm. ‘The vegetables are tough, too, I’m going to put the whole damn plate in the mike.’
I sit slumped at the table, listening to the obscene hum of the machine as it vandalises my work. Then she retrieves the ruins, and I notice, not for the first time, how loud the controls of a microwave can be, and how the door opens and closes with a clang.
We eat. I pretend not to be piqued. She throws amused glances at me between mouthfuls, irritating me even more. I watch her chew that renovated masterpiece. Smoke curls up from the ashtray beside her. She puffs and eats, her cigarette stinks. The woman is crude, she speaks crudely. She eats crudely. Her accent is crude.
Taking everything into account, Ana Cocked is irresistible.
* * *
I return home with the first tattoo. The old man has gone back to work, and I’ve been to see him. My shirt slides over the bandage. It hurts as I move, more or less between the shoulder blades, slightly to the left.
‘What the hell is that?’ asks Ana when she sees the tattoo for the first time, her voice harsh as always, unsurprised.
‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen it yet. He tried to show me in a mirror, but I couldn’t make myself look at it. Not yet.’
‘Jesus, it looks shit. What the hell did you do that for?’
‘What sort of shit? Is it bad – is the picture bad? Artistically, I mean.’
‘Turn round, let me see again.’
She brushes her fingers against it, lightly. Her fingertips are more gentle, more subtle, than her tongue could ever be.
‘No,’ she says. ‘No, it just looks sore. It’s a weird picture. I think it will be better when the swelling goes down.’
I almost choke with anxiety, not trusting her judgement. Anything she likes is probably crap.
‘What made you choose that picture?’
‘I didn’t. I let him choose –’
My voice fails. I swallow, and continue: ‘I let him choose the picture.’
I cannot see her expression – she is still behind me – yet I sense intangible heat, as the waves of her incredulity mount and beat against my inflamed skin.
‘Jesus,’ she says. ‘Jesus. You haven’t answered me yet: what did you do that for?’
‘I don’t know.’
A short, husky laugh escapes her. Then: ‘Fuck my dog.’
‘At least, I don’t know if I want to discuss it.’
I turn away and sit down gingerly on the edge of the bed, trying not to flex my back.
She climbs onto the bed behind me, on all fours, to study the tattoo. I wince as the movement causes me to change position slightly.
‘It’s not so bad. Actually, it’s quite good, once you work it out.’
‘What is it?’
‘It’s