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I clean the tattoo intensively and let it dry for a moment. Before I get the reflex camera for a photo session, I dab the last damp spots.
“Did it come out okay?” the client asks.
“Awesome.” I let him look at the camera display, flipping through the shots. “Figure this one…” I zoom in on the photo. “…as a print on an aluminum plate. Poster format? I could imagine it would look damn good in the entrance area of the new studio.”
“New studio?” The guy does thumb up. “Hee, gorgeous! When are you guys moving? Are we having a housewarming party?”
I laugh. “Don’t worry, you’ll be invited when it’s time.” But nothing is set in stone yet.Yet.However, I somehow can feel it in my bones it can’t last much longer…
After I’ve taped off the tattoo with SupraSorb, and the customer has been instructed on how to use the ultra-thin, transparent patch, all he needs are the printed care instructions. And all I need is my money…
When he’s gone, I sink into the IKEA swivel chair and take a deep breath.
With circular movements, I loosen my cramped shoulder muscles while casually scrolling through my calendar page.
Unexpectedly, the next client has canceled.Nipple reconstruction, unilateral.
The hairs on the back of my neck bristle, suspiciously I click on the appointment. Icy fog fills my stomach as I read what Bella has noted as the reason for cancellation:
Recurrence.
Holy shit!
The letters on the monitor blur before my eyes. The breast cancer patient’s face appears as she sat in front of me when I made the appointment.She’s so damn young! Two little kids, one not even in kindergarten yet!
Why is life so unfair?I clench my hands into fists and inhale. Breathe out.
The feeling of helplessness bursts over me like the high water of the Neckar River over the drawn gates of the barrages.
I know, I hear Bella’s voice in my head.You want to help. It’s a damned noble trait of yours. Still, Philly: you shouldn’t let something like this get to you.
Should I really not?I snort.If it wasn’t so completely illogical, I wish I were religious. Because then I could at least pray for the customer…
The ringing of the cowbell at the entrance snaps me out of my musings, and with a quick click of the mouse, I close the calendar window.
I look up. The professional customer-greeting smile slides off my face. “Dayany?”What is the Brazilian permanent fiancée of Baden-Wuerttemberg’s top-selling pimp doing in my tattoo store?
She says nothing, just puts her index finger along with the one-inch nail to her lips.
They must have been plumped sometime in the last twelve years.Because… such fullness is not normal.Not even for someone with African ancestors. And she must have gotten taller, too. I don’t remember having to put my head back like this to look up at her before. Not even when I was sitting and she was standing.
Now she leans forward across the table toward me. Her two perfectly rounded twins almost pop out of her blouse. It’s hardly surprising that she owes them to the skill of a plastic surgeon. What is, however, is that the surgeon practiced in a Rio favela…
Jolly Jumper reacts immediately. His swelling must cause instant bloodlessness in my head because when Dayany opens his mouth, all I hear is… atmospheric static.
…and my galloping heartbeat…
Dayany rolls her eyes. She picks up paper and pencil from the table and draws letters on them with energetic hand movements. Then she holds the sheet out to me:
Muss speek you SECRET. were?
It takes me three readings before I decipher her message:I must speak to you SECRETLY, where?
In the meantime, Jolly Jumper, fortunately, turns back to its normal state, which doesn’t affect my thinking ability at all…
Yup: where could I have asecretchat with Dayany?I point to the front door; she shakes her head vigorously.Okay. Out through the back, then.I stand up and precede her. But as soon as my hand is on the handle of the back door, Dayany yanks me back.
“Quando se tornou tão tolo?[22]“ she hisses at me.
