Diego was a small man with friendly eyes and a goatee; his forearms were completely covered with tattoos. One was a rather formal portrait of a woman, almost like a photograph. Another was an entirely less formal-looking woman, who was naked; in fact, she was naked with a duck. Diego had other tattoos, but the naked woman with the duck was the one Jack would remember best.
He liked Diego, who'd never met Daughter Alice but had heard of her. Diego had three children and was not a regular participant at the tattoo conventions. He'd studied with Verber in Berlin; he'd worked in Cape Town, South Africa. He was planning a trip to Thailand to get a handmade tattoo by a monk in a monastery. "A chest tattoo," he called it. He was inclined to "big works," Diego said--both getting them and doing them. He'd recently copied a whole movie poster onto someone's back.
Diego had two apprentices working with him. One of them was a muscleman in camouflage pants and a black Jack Daniel's T-shirt. The other was a blond woman named Taru. Evidently Taru did the piercing; she had a silver stud in her tongue. There was another guy in The Duck's Tattoo--a friend of Diego's named Nipa, who told Jack a fairly involved story about accidentally dropping a paperback novel in a toilet. It was his favorite novel, Nipa said, and he was trying to figure out a way to dry it.
Jack talked to Diego about the relationship between sailors and tattooing. Diego had his first boat when he was just fourteen. The flash in The Duck's Tattoo was impressive: Indian chiefs, dragons, skulls, birds, Harley engines, and many cartoon characters, like The Joker--and ducks, of course, lots of edgy ducks.
Diego admitted he wasn't much of a moviegoer--he mentioned his three children again--but Taru, the piercer, and the muscleman in the Jack Daniel's T-shirt had seen all of Jack's films. (Nipa told Jack he was more of a book person than a movie person, as one might surmise from the toilet accident.)
"I don't suppose you ever tattooed an organist named William Burns," Jack said to Diego. "Tattoo artists call him The Music Man. I guess most of his tattoos are music. He might be a full-body."
"Might be!" Diego said, laughing. "I never tattooed him--I never met the guy--but from what I hear, The Music Man hasn't got a whole lot of skin left!"
When Jack got back to his room at the Hotel Torni, he tried to write a letter to Michele Maher. As a dermatologist, maybe she would know why some people with full-body tattoos felt cold. It was a strange way to start a letter to someone he'd not written or spoken to for fifteen years, and quite possibly the full-body people only thought they felt cold. What if the part about feeling cold was all in their minds and had nothing to do with their skin?
Tattoo artists themselves didn't agree about the full-body types; Alice had believed that most full-bodies felt cold, but some of the tattooists Jack met at his mom's memorial service told him that many full-bodies felt normal.
"The ones who feel cold were either cold or crazy to begin with," North Dakota Dan had said.
But how else could Jack begin a letter to Michele Maher after fifteen years of silence?
Dear Michele,
Here I am in Helsinki, looking for a couple of lesbians. What's up with you?
How was that for too weird? Jack crumpled up the piece of stationery. Perhaps a more general beginning would be better.
Dear Michele,
Guess what? My mother died. It turns out she lied to me about my father--maybe about a lot of other things. I'm in Europe, where I once believed my dad had slept with just about everyone he met, but it turns out that my mom was the one who was sleeping with everybody--among them a twelve-or thirteen-year-old boy and a couple of lesbians.
Interesting, huh? The things you think you know!
Jack crumpled up another page. He was beginning to believe that the only way he could communicate with Michele Maher was if he developed a skin problem. But wait! Hadn't she written to him to wish him luck on his adaptation of The Slush-Pile Reader? Michele was an Emma Oastler fan! Perhaps a more literary approach would impress her.
Dear Michele,
Thank you for your letter. Yes, I was close to Emma Oastler, although we never actually had sex. Emma just held my penis. And of course, as with any adaptation, I have had to take some liberties with her novel. The name of the porn star, for example--I don't exactly look like a Miguel Santiago, do I? And please don't think there will be any actual porn-film footage in The Slush-Pile Reader; it won't be that kind of movie. The pornography will be sort of implied. Besides, I have what I'm told is a rather small (or smallish) penis.
Jack couldn't write a letter to Michele Maher. He was too weird for Michele, or for anyone else who wasn't desperately lonely or crazy or a kid or grief-stricken (or otherwise depressed) or cheating on her husband or tattooed (with an octopus on her ass) or an old lady!
Besides, he had used up what pathetically little stationery the Hotel Torni provided for guests. Jack blamed the day on the agitation the pregnancy-aerobics class had caused him--not to mention the added stress of seeing Schwangere Girls. He was even tempted to go buy the magazine, but what he really wanted--and this truly disturbed him--was to have sex with a nice pregnant woman. (Like a wife, Jack was thinking; like someone who was going to have his baby; like Michele Maher, he kept hoping.)
More realistically, because he wasn't hungry or too tired, Jack could try his luck with whomever he might pick up downstairs--in O'Malley's--or he could call the waitress at Salve. But by the time Marianne got off work, Jack probably would be too tired. And the very idea of looking for a brave girl in O'Malley's Irish pub was humiliating.
There was still some daylight left in the sky when Jack called Sibelius Academy, the music college, and asked if there was anyone who might be able to tell him the whereabouts of two of their graduates in the early 1970s. The matter was complicated. Not only did it take the college a little time to connect him with someone who spoke English; Jack didn't even know the last names of the graduates. (Talk about taking a stab in the dark!)
"I know it sounds crazy," Jack said, "but Hannele was a cellist and Ritva was an organist, and I think they were a couple."
"A couple?" the woman who spoke English said on the phone. She had the doubting tone of voice of a knowledgeable bookseller who's convinced that the title of the book you're asking for is not the correct one.
"Yes, I mean a lesbian couple," he said.
The woman sighed. "I suppose you're a journalist," she said. Her tone of voice was worse than doubting now; she couldn't have made journalist sound any nastier if she'd said rapist.
"No, I'm Jack Burns--the actor," he told her. "I believe these women were students of my father, William Burns--the organist. I met them when I was a child. They also knew my mother."
"Well, well," the woman said. "Am I truly speaking with the Jack Burns--I mean really?"
"Yes, really."
"Well, well," she said again. "Hannele and Ritva aren't as famous as you are, Mr. Burns, but they're rather famous in Finland."
"Really?"
"Yes, really," the woman said. "It would be hard for them to hide in Helsinki. Practically anyone could tell you where to find them." Jack waited while the woman sighed again; she was taking the time to choose her next words very carefully. "It's an awful temptation, Jack Burns, but I'll refrain from asking you what you're wearing."
Later Jack called room service and ordered something to eat; he also called the front desk and requested more Hotel Torni stationery. He resisted both the faint impulse to explore O'Malley's and the slightly stronger desire to call Marianne the waitress and ask to see her tattoos.
The next morning he got up early again and went to the Motivus gym.
He wasn't at all sure how to approach Hannele and Ritva. The un-pronounceable church where the two musicians practiced every midday was called Temppeliaukion kirkko. The Church in the Rock, as it was also called, was more famous in Helsinki than Hannele and Ritva. It was underground, buried under a dome of rock--an ultramodern design, presumably done for the acoustics. There were numerous con
certs there--these in addition to the Sunday services, which were Lutheran. ("Very Lutheran," the woman from Sibelius Academy had told Jack--whatever that meant.)
Ritva was the regular organist at the principal Sunday service, but Hannele often accompanied her. Jack had inquired if much music had been written for organ and cello--he certainly hadn't heard any--but the woman from Sibelius Academy said that Ritva and Hannele were famous for being "improvisational." They were a most improvisational couple, Jack had already imagined. Indeed, if they'd both slept with Alice--yet they'd managed to stay a couple, as Ingrid Moe had told Jack--Hannele and Ritva were no strangers to successful experimentation.
Even their rehearsals were famous. People often went to the Church in the Rock during their lunch break just to hear Hannele and Ritva practice. Jack imagined that it wouldn't be easy to speak with them in such an atmosphere; in those surroundings, Hannele and Ritva and Jack were too well known to be afforded any privacy. Maybe he should just show up at the church in the early afternoon and invite them to dinner.
Jack was finishing his workout on the ab machine in the gym when his thoughts were interrupted. About half a dozen sweaty women from the pregnancy-aerobics class had surrounded him; Jack guessed that their workout, their dangerous-looking bouncing, was over. Given his Michele Maher state of mind--not to mention his disturbing memories of the Schwangere Girls magazine--these pregnant women were an intimidating presence.
"Hi," he said, from flat on his back.
"Hi," the aerobics instructor replied. She was a dark-haired young woman with an arresting oval face and almond-shaped eyes. Because her back had been turned to him during the aerobics class, Jack hadn't noticed that she was pregnant, too; he'd watched her lead the leaping women from behind.
"You look like Jack Burns, that actor," the most pregnant-looking of the women said. Jack wouldn't have been surprised to learn, later, that these were her last words before going into labor.
"But you can't be--not if you're here," another of the women said doubtfully. "You just look like him, right?"
"It's a curse," Jack told them bitterly. "I can't help it that I look like him. I hate the bastard." It was the last line that gave him away; it was one of Billy Rainbow's lines. In the movie, Jack said it three times--not once referring to the same person.
"It's him!" one of the women cried.
"I knew you were Jack Burns," the most pregnant-looking woman told him. "Jack Burns always gives me the creeps, and you gave me the creeps the second I saw you."
"Well, then--I guess that settles it," Jack said. He was still lying on his back; he hadn't moved since he'd noticed them surrounding him.
"What movie are you making here? Who else is in it?" one of them asked.
"There's no movie," he told them. "I'm just in town to do a little research."
One of the pregnant women grunted, as if the very thought of what research Jack Burns might be doing in Helsinki had given her her first contraction. Half the women walked away; now that the mystery was solved, they were no longer interested. But the aerobics instructor and two other women stayed, including the most pregnant-looking woman.
"What kind of research is it?" the aerobics instructor asked him.
"It's a story that takes place in the past--twenty-eight years ago, to be exact," Jack told them. "It's about a church organist who's addicted to being tattooed, and the woman whose father first tattooed him. They have a child. There's more than one version of what happened, but things didn't work out."
"Are you the organist?" the most pregnant-looking woman asked.
"No, I'm the child--all grown up, twenty-eight years later," he told them. "I'm trying to find out what really happened between my mother and father."
The pregnant woman who hadn't yet spoken said: "What a depressing story! I don't know why they make movies like that." She turned and walked away--probably she was going to the women's locker room. The most pregnant-looking woman waddled after her. Jack was left alone with the aerobics instructor.
"You didn't say you were doing a little research for a movie, did you?" she asked him.
"No, I didn't," he admitted. "This research isn't for a movie."
"Maybe you need a guide," she said. She was at least seven months pregnant, probably eight. Her belly button had popped; like an erect nipple, it poked out against the spandex fabric of her leotard. "I meant to say a date."
"I've never had a pregnant date," Jack told her.
"I'm not married--I don't even have a boyfriend," she explained. "This baby is kind of an experiment."
"Something you managed all by yourself?" he asked.
"I went to a sperm bank," she answered. "I had an anonymous sperm donor. I kind of forget the insemination part."
From flat on his back on the ab machine, Jack made one of those too-hasty decisions that had characterized his sexually active life. Because he'd imagined that he wanted to be with someone who was pregnant, Jack chose to be with the pregnant aerobics instructor at the Motivus gym--this instead of even trying to make a dinner date with Hannele and Ritva, the lesbian couple who were the reason for his coming to Helsinki in the first place.
Jack rationalized that what he might learn from the organist and cellist, who were a couple when his mother and father knew them--and they were still a couple--was in all likelihood something he already knew or could guess. Jack's mother had somehow misrepresented them to him; they had slept with her, not his dad. Of course there would be other revelations of that kind, but nothing that couldn't be said over coffee or tea--nothing so complicated that it would require a dinner date to reveal.
Jack decided to go to the Church in the Rock about the time Hannele and Ritva would be finishing their rehearsal. He would suggest that they go somewhere for a little chat; surely that would suffice. Jack thought there was no reason not to spend his last night in Helsinki with a pregnant aerobics instructor. As it would turn out, there was a reason, but Jack was responding to an overriding instinct familiar to far too many men--namely, the desire to be with a certain kind of woman precluded any reasonable examination or in-depth consideration of the aerobics instructor herself, whose name was Marja-Liisa.
They made a date, which was awkward because they had to get a pen and some paper from the reception desk; other people were watching them. Marja-Liisa wrote out her name and cell-phone number for him. She was clearly puzzled by what Jack wrote out for her--Jimmy Stronach, Hotel Torni--until he explained the business of always registering under the name of the character he plays in his next movie.
When Jack left the gym and returned to the Torni, he went first to that porn shop where he'd seen the unlikely but alluring Schwangere Girls in the window. He took the magazine back to his hotel room--just to look at the pictures, which were both disturbing and arousing.
When Jack left the hotel for the Church in the Rock, he threw the disgusting magazine away--not in his hotel room but in a wastebasket in the hall opposite the elevator. Not that you can really throw pictures like those away--not for years, maybe not ever. What those pregnant women were doing in those photographs would abide with Jack Burns in his grave--or in Hell, where, according to Ingrid, you were deaf but you could see everyone you ever knowingly hurt. You just couldn't hear what they were saying about you.
Since that afternoon in Helsinki, Jack could imagine what Hell might be like for him. For eternity, he would watch those pregnant women having uncomfortable-looking sex. They would be talking about him, but he couldn't hear them. For eternity, Jack could only guess what they were saying.
To Jack, the dome of Temppeliaukio Church looked like a giant overturned wok. The rocks, which covered all but the dome, had a pagan simplicity; it was as if the dome were a living egg, emerging from the crater of a meteor. The apartment buildings surrounding the Church in the Rock had an austere sameness about them. (Middle-class housing from the 1930s.)
There were more rocks inside the church. The organist sat in view of those people on the left side
of the congregation. The empty, rounded benches--for the choir--occupied a center-stage position. Choirs were important here. The copper organ pipes were very modern-looking against the darker and lighter woods. The pulpit was surrounded by stone; Jack thought it looked like a drinking fountain.
In the early afternoon, he sat and listened to Hannele and Ritva--Ritva in profile to him, on the organ bench, Hannele facing him with her legs wide apart, straddling her cello. A small audience quietly came and went while the two women practiced. Jack could tell that Hannele had recognized him as soon as he sat down; she must have been expecting him, because she merely smiled and nodded in his direction. Ritva turned once to look at Jack; she smiled and nodded, too. (The lady he'd spoken to at Sibelius Academy must have forewarned Hannele and Ritva that Jack Burns was looking for them.)
It wasn't all church music--at least not the usual church music. As a former Canadian, Jack recognized Leonard Cohen's "If It Be Your Will"--not that he was used to hearing it played on organ and cello. As an American, Jack also recognized Van Morrison's "Whenever God Shines His Light on Me." Hannele and Ritva were very good; even Jack could tell that their playing together had become second nature. Of course he was predisposed to like them. Jack gave them a lot of credit in advance, just for surviving whatever assault his mom might have made on them as a couple.
Jack also listened to them rehearse two traditional pieces--"Come, Sing the Praise of Jesus" and "O Come, O Come, Emmanuel." The latter was an Advent hymn, and both hymns were better known in Scotland than in Finland, Hannele and Ritva told Jack later. But the hymns, they said, had been particular favorites of his father's.
"William taught us those two," Ritva said. "We don't care that it isn't the month before Christmas."
They were having tea in Hannele and Ritva's surprisingly beautiful and spacious apartment in one of those gray, somber buildings encircling the Church in the Rock. Hannele and Ritva had combined two apartments overlooking the dome of Temppeliaukio Church. Like the church, their apartment was very modern-looking--sparsely furnished, with nothing but steel-framed, black-and-white photographs on the walls. The two women, now in their late forties, were good-humored and very friendly. Naturally, they were not as physically intimidating as they'd seemed to Jack at four.