“Harumi, she tell you—”
“Harumi? No, she has said nothing about it. Nothing at all. But this desire of yours, it is known to others. Who have in turn enabled me to fulfill your wish. If you still desire it to be made so.”
“You sure Harumi didn’t tell you?”
“Very sure. As I said, others have mentioned it, in passing. And I have heard them. Just as I have heard that doctors will not do this for those who do not carry an official badge, and wear loaded guns, but there are others who will perform such a service—”
“Not that Miami reject boss of yours—”
“I did not mention him. But there are those who will perform this service, regardless of whether one’s pistol fires bullets or air.”
“I know Harumi said—”
“No, nor does she know how to...knit such a garment. But I do. And I would be happy to do so, upon request.”
“‘Upon request’ like you’d do it for free?”
“Being an apprentice, I am not in the position to require a fee...but one must consider the worth of that which costs nothing. But...it is your choice. Excuse me, I must get back to work,” and before the man could speak again, Masafumi was inside the tattoo parlor’s autoclave room, and over the now comforting drone of Ignacio’s needle, he heard his boss shout, “You and Harumi, you two have a nice walk?”
Giving the nearest low-walled vat of dye-bathed nano-tube ribbons a gentle shake, watching the wave-like undulation of the transparent fibers within, Masafumi smiled and yelled past the beaded curtain, “Nice...you could say that.”
“That’s my kiddo...next time she comes in here for more ink, I’ll let you do the slinging, ok with you?”
Images of narrow bands of patterned flesh warred with far more graphic, if equally fine-spun mental pictures of oozing human cross-hatching within Masafumi’s brain, as he echoed, “Ok by me....”
* * * *
“’Fumi, remember what you said about women wearing layered kimono, how a little bit of each kimono showed...were you joking?”
Pretending to be engrossed in the wild spiking arcs of the onion peel-juiced lines Harumi was inking into the surface of the firm tofu, Masafumi nodded, then said, “It was the Hsian period...around the late 700s, through the eleventh century. You can read about it, if you can find the novel The Tale of the Genji by Lady Moraski....She describes how the nobility of Kyoto and Nava wore layered kimono. I read it back in Japan...it was one of my mother’s favorite books. I think she still has her copy.”
“You think?”
“She and I...we seldom write, or call. She and my father...they were eager for me to leave the house, to leave Japan. It was an...understandable parting of the ways.”
“Oh...like you mean they kicked you out?”
“Not precisely...but it is partly true. They kicked me out of my room, within their house. Your family, when they gather, do they ever speak of hikikomori? Perhaps, someone on your father’s side, may have witnessed this...disorder? It is common, in Japan, less so in Taiwan, South Korea....”
Sliding her finished tray over toward Masafumi, Harumi uncovered the next slab of flesh-firm momengoshi and ventured cautiously, “You’re talking about those guys who sued to stay in their rooms, for months, years even? Not talking or eating with their folks? My dad’s dad used to mention something like that....I didn’t know what it was called. So...you’re...one of them?”
“Was one. My parents, they hired a woman, a ‘rescue sister’ to come to my door, and lure me out of my room. Once I came out, she took me to this place, in Tokyo, called New Start. A meeting-place for fellow hikikomori...here, you might call it a boy’s club. There was one female hikikomori there, while I was in attendance, but she was an...aberration. Far more males do...what I did.”
“So one morning you just decided to hide. Not get up, or not leave the room? I think everyone I know has felt that way at least once—”
“Not the same...not at all. For me, for us, the staying-in is a response to pressure, to expectations...when one cannot fulfill one’s destiny, it is better to retreat than to exist as a failure.”
“If that’s the case, then old Walker Ulger should be hiding under his futon in his apartment....I can’t think of anything worse than running around pretending to be a cop, down to wanting body armor to take up the slack from a bullet-proof vest he doesn’t even own.”
“Walker is not Japanese. And I doubt many expectations were placed upon him,” Masafumi said succinctly, while Harumi sat there, fingers resting on the long armature of her tattoo gun, mentally digesting what she’d just heard. Then, as she lowered the vibrating needles onto the waiting surface, she said, “To me, he’s a more likely candidate for being a hicky-whatever than you could be...you’re just a kid now, and you said you were locked away in your folks’ house for how long?”
“I did not say how long...it was enough time. I was at an age where my future should have been set, but...my doubts diluted my artistic destiny. My parents, my teachers, they were sure of what I was to be, but me...the uncertainty, the inexactitude of my calling, all of this served to render me unable to do anything more than simply be, in my room. It is difficult to explain further. The people at New Start, they advised me to change paths, seek other outlets for what minimal talents I possessed—”
“I’ve seen your work, ’Fumi...there isn’t much more that Ignazzy can teach you about inkslinging that you don’t already know. How long have you been working for him, two, three years? Your work is fine, just fine...in fact—” here her voice took on a different tone, less conciliatory, more eager, “—what you said a couple of days ago about the layered kimonos thing got me to thinking...what I have on me right now is sort of like a short kimono, no? but what if I add bands along each arm, and each leg, with a suggestion of the pattern of some more kimonos underneath? Y’know? With thick bands of black to delineate the difference between each ‘sleeve’...sort of like what that pretend-pig suggested, a quilting-type of thing.”
Masafumi felt emotionally, creatively, naked, sitting there on the tatimi mat next to Harumi....Ignazio had also suggested that he work on Harumi, and now, she herself was requesting that he ink her, a most personal, and even intimate request. As if his own wishes had been made flesh...but as he pictured her future bodily illumination, his mind echoed with another imagined transformation, that of a lowly play-badge-for-hire into something slightly more legally augmented. That the two creative works were so thoroughly linked in his consciousness somehow tainted the former while increasing the repugnance of the latter.
But she was expecting an answer...just as that slug-eared thug had been badgering him for the last few days, constantly requesting a specific date—and a suitable price—for his own transformation.
Realizing that to honor one request must inevitably mean fulfilling the other as well, Masafumi said slowly, “Would you be open to a form of...barter, as payment for my work? It is not the most pleasant option, but one which I think will turn out to be satisfying for you...in how you people say it, ‘the long run’?”
“By saying ‘not the most pleasant option’ do you mean unpleasant, as in...say, that Ulger freak?”
Nodding, Masafumi anticipated her refusal, but was pleasantly shocked when she said, “You can do anything you want to me in front of him, as long as it culminates in him getting off my back....”
* * * *
“So...you kids sure ole Iggy-nazzy won’t come back in here, spoil our inkslinging party?”
Outside the lowered shades of the tattoo parlor windows, the last rays of the setting sun cast narrow deep orange shafts of light on Harumi’s body as she stood still