Sayonara, and: Blue Door, and: The Tattooist

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Sayonara, and: Blue Door, and: The Tattooist Hannah Lowe (bio) Sayonara And once I had a loverwho when we slept lay his heavy armacross my body to trap me in his coverswho was older but loved me quickand eager as a boy his hot hands duginto my hips or two fingers hookedbetween my lips who looked a littlelike my father China in his face but tallertougher slabs of muscle on his legsand spidery hair two patches on his thighswhere jeans had rubbed him bare whohad an airy room in a house of strangersa shelf of tattered paperbacks his bedpushed in the corner by the windowwhere a streetlamp glowed who played meSayonara on his stereo or Dirty Old Townsongs to sing to songs to drink towho drank and drank and dranklager cider nips of vodka from a flaskhe carried on the football stands whosometimes couldn't stop the shakingof a teaspoon in his hand whothe morning-after smelt of milk gone sourwho raced me in a roofless silver car upand down the motorways on country lanesthe hot sun blistering my shoulderswho on muggy summer afternoonsstood behind me pressed my face [End Page 45] against a wall against a door mosquitoeshumming in my ears who pushed himselfin every corridor who left mealways wanting more who left mefor another and even when I wrotea begging letter and dyed my hairher same dark colour wouldn't take me back Blue Door In the dream, the phone in my bagtells me my baby is crying.I am somewhere in a city,riding the night-train. The phone flashes in my hand,the train slows to a halt.I see my baby in her cot,her face wet, a red knot. In the dream, I yank openthe carriage doors,I run along the tracks.Down steps. It is America— a stoplight blinks a white man,the streets are pale and wide.I turn each corner, crazy.Which house has my baby? In the dream, I push opena tall blue door. Everythinginside the way I left itbefore—a pool of dresses [End Page 46] on the floor, the drawersspilt open, jazz songson the radio. My baby criesupstairs, in a far corner. I lie her down to change her,pull on green tights, a corduroy dress.Only when I'm done, do I feelthese clothes are soaking wet. Outside, two car doors slam.I hold my baby at the window.She cries. I sing. We watch themcoming up the path. The Tattooist The white bone lettering spelt Thai Tattooon black cloth, strung above a balcony,and there was the Tattooist with his statue of Ganesha—first thing I saw, arriving queasyfrom the lurching mountain bus, from dreamsa thousand pairs of hands were touching me. I was tired of travelling, its drab regimesof tuk-tuks and the murky transient bedsbelow their ghostly nets, the high-pitched hums of blood flies. I told the Tattooist this—he saidhe'd motor-biked through Russia, Pakistanand up the Himalayas and hadn't moved [End Page 47] in years. Most afternoons he'd sit and turnhis face towards the Pir Panjal hills,Buddha-still, unless his bell was rung by backpackers demanding Maori skullsor Celtic oak trees inked across a bicepor a thigh—then he'd talk of sacred needles, the sacred dye, his long apprenticeshipto monks. I took the room by his, top-notch,the proprietor said, which meant no fleas, a sink, clean sheets, the slatted blinds through which I watchedthe Tattooist bathe, his body skeletalin a white sarong, untying his gothic swatch of hair below a gushing tap, spectralagainst the white chameleons and snow crowns.At home, he would have been suburban, shameful, an outdated metalhead, but on my ownaway, I wanted him, the way I wanteda tattoo, having never wanted one. I sketched on card three flowers, each petal sculpted...