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Display a printable version Indelible Ink
Shadow, ghost, eccentric. His articles used all of the adjectives in his vocabulary to describe me and feed the public imagination. A villain for some; a hoax for others. I had become the favorite topic of conversation for those who knew it all. I should say that the papers that covered me blew hot and cold. I suspect that some even exaggerated in order to drive me out of the closet. To make me explain my difference. Now, as I look down at my opponent, the man who dueled with his quill, asleep on the sofa. I find him rather ordinary. The sedative I injected into him does have a role to play, of course. His nakedness makes him vulnerable. It adds to the rest - the bitter odor of his sweat, his scraggly beard. When I sort through his mail, I find several reminders for unpaid bills, along with a bank statement that says a lot about his situation. The slightest stroke of hard luck and my hunter would be out on the street. His lair speaks volumes. Relatively desolate. An empty fridge, minimal decoration, and an unmade bed with sheets that haven't been changed in weeks. Well, obviously, he's not the sort of man to settle down. No wife, no attachments. He and I do have a lot in common. The scent of artificial vanilla wafts above the litter box of some cat that's wandered off God knows where. The rest of the apartment is rather monotonous: washroom with stacks of old pornographic magazines, page corners folded down, a bathroom where cheap undershirts dry. His life is not to be found within these rooms but rather on the walls. Drawings, notes, Internet documents pinned overhead - they all speak to me like mirrors, bringing to mind the image of a living tattoo. The 'Work'. That moniker fits me like a glove. It's not truly pejorative, just a condensation of my life. Grumbling. My victim awakes. How will he react when I appear in his field of vision? It's not as if I'm trying to make a theatrical entrance. Yet, despite my efforts, Hornes will be afraid. Will he imagine that his final hour is upon him? Death at the hand of a hideous demon. In any case, I don't care what he thinks. I won't ask him to do much, apart from listening to me, lending me an ear that just might be intelligent. He must understand that I've had nothing to do with those murders for which I've been blamed. All I'm guilty of is existing. What an aberration! He swears. The hair on his body stands up. He wriggles. I open the black box. Resting on the satin sheets, the golden needles have barely any sheen to them. It is true that my reflection shines in those needles, changing their nature by my very presence. Bokashi. My fingers, with their grooves ranging from light gray to the deepest black, pick up the needles and I head towards my next victim. Precise movements. No hint of hesitation. Within just a few seconds, I've plunged the needles in so deeply that they have the desired effect, reducing the activity of the jing-luo, the meridians along which the body's vital energy circulates. So, all I have to do is wait until he falls into a stupor. In a short while, Ernest Hornes will find himself paralyzed from head to toe. *** His eyes open. Something isn't right. He figures that out right away. He panics, feeling as if he's lost his very essence. As if he's enveloped. With no means for defense. "Well, Mr. Hornes," I say without further ado. "It's me... The 'Work'." "What. What do you want from me?" he stammers. I walk off and draw the curtains back from the window that looks out onto the car-packed boulevard. From up here, they look tiny. Their lights remind me of eyes. The long lines of traffic look like so many ants trudging home after a hard day's work. The surrounding buildings seem to stretch on ad infinitum, snatching at the top of decaying billboards, snuffing out the few rare stars that hang in the sky. The distressing spectacle of this world, spinning faster and faster to keep from collapsing. "I want to talk with you," I finally reply. "I want to tell you how much you've hurt me and give you a few answers as well." "Why can't I move?" His voice is aggressive and hesitant at the same time. "Relax. It's only temporary. When I take the needles out, your muscles will return to normal. Trust me." I punctuate my remark with a noisy slap of the double curtain. Then I turn on all of the lights in the apartment. Hornes' eyes track me. He watches me, capturing every detail. His eyes open wide when I remove my shirt, then my pants, revealing a disconcerting spectacle. The tattooed man has always been a mystery. In certain cultures, this art came down to us from the netherworld. Hornes remains silent. Is the Work nothing but a pervert? A few seconds more and I pull my clothes back on, giving the journalist a reassuring answer to his unasked question. "So, it's true," he says. "You're covered with them. Your entire body. They look so strange. It's almost as if they're moving; as if they're alive." I have never truly understood the fascination that takes over. "I've worn them for over 60 years," I reply in a falsely detached tone. The best actor is one who embodies his character. I'm not cast in that mold. Anger is an arrow that I aim at myself, without ever managing to let it fly. The word '60' conjures up the image of a pretentious young man for me. White shirt, glasses, and a black suit, Takejiro Onoki imitates the gangsters in American movies, parades with his buddies in a city ravaged by the stench of a poorly extinguished inferno. That boy, barely out of his teens, is me, 'mad dog' as my friends call me. The incendiary bombs devastated the city of our childhood; a deluge of flames amputated certain neighborhoods while it carried off thousands of souls. The sky split open to crush us all the better. Yet, we - the gurentais - flaunted ourselves. Guttersnipes, black market specialists, we terrorized the traumatized, humiliated population. "How old are you?" the journalist suddenly interrupts me, drawing me back to reality. It's been years since anyone has asked me that question. Of course, it's true that I've had very little contact with people during all that time. I've learned to speak over 20 languages, but I can count the people I've truly met on the fingers of one hand. "You wouldn't believe me." Confusion. "These tattoos you see are the key to everything. Approximately 60 years ago, I lived in Kobe, in Japan, and I belonged to the Yamaguchi-Gumi, a Yakusa 'clan', if you'll pardon my use of that rather inadequate term. We were true masters in a society that had been bled dry. The economics of misery depended on our good will and we waged merciless battles with our competitors. And, of course, there was no shortage of enemies: local clans, as well as the Chinese from Taiwan and the Koreans. "Foreigners?" Hornes asks in surprise. "After the war, the Americans cleaned out our authorities. The purge affected the police force, leaving it in total chaos. The Korean bandits and the Chinese, those we called daisangokujin, tried to take advantage of this situation. But, fortunately, people like Hirotsugu Wakebe stood up to them. Wakebe gathered a veritable army of young people, people with no ties at all, around him. We owed him everything and he based his power on that dependency. We would have laid down our lives for our oyabun, our father. "The Americans didn't stop you from it?" "The occupiers controlled the country, but they settled for observing us, never intervening. In actual fact, certain unmentionable ties bound us. The post-war period was difficult for everyone. We provided women, gambling, sometimes even drugs. Certain GIs, who chose to look the other way, provided us with the weapons that helped us settle our accounts." The journalist blinks. He has had the good fortune to not understand what living in a conquered, ruined country means. He is far too young to know the torments of war, the poison of a defeat born out of the folly of leaders followed by a confident people. I would so like to be able to forget that period. Hiroshima, Nagasaki. The illusion that the world itself is collapsing beneath our feet. It can no longer exist after such times. Catastrophes. I would like to not be able to think about the other bombs that exploded above us, screaming their hatred for us. Revenge for those who died at Pearl Harbor. Unfortunately, Kobe is engraved indelibly in my mind, much like my vision of the American soldiers patrolling the ruins of our city. "The weapons were what brought me down," I continued. "With blades, you have to face your victim. But firearms allow you to stand off a certain distance; they make death ordinary, less tragic. I was young then. I had only one desire: to serve my clan, to kill its enemies. No matter where, we eliminated them without remorse. You have to understand. If we hadn't done that, they would have taken care of us. The old Japan had disappeared, taking its codes of honor with it. The day of the blade was over. And..." I hesitate. The images continue to obsess me. Tears fill my eyes, slide down my cheeks, and trickle over dragon wings. Sixty years have passed and the courage to go on fails me. "What happened?" I breathe deeply, close my eyes and continue. "We had already killed innocents during the shooting, but that day, I did it deliberately," I tried to explain. "We were in the red light district, where the prostitutes work. "We had just picked up the 'rent' from the small business people when the daisangokujin burst upon us from nowhere. A grenade exploded. In the next minute, the alley was transformed into a battlefield. Shots rained down from all sides. Many men fell, mowed down by machine gun blasts. I watched as the head of my best friend, Denbe, was torn from his shoulders and I took refuge in the door of a brothel. The staccato shots, the swearing went on and on… Then, suddenly, silence fell. Brutally. Cadavers littered the streets. Girls moaned. Denbe lay in a pool of blood. Just then the man stood up, brandishing a young girl in front of him like a shield. You should have seen him, with his white suit, his polished shoes, and his slicked back hair. The little girl screamed. She tried to defend herself and he looked down at the bodies of my friends, a satisfied smile on his lips. It was just plain provocation, vengeance on the part of those we had humiliated during the war. I took pride in being a gurentai and could not let him go." "You killed him?" "I caught him by surprise. I threw myself on Denbe's machine gun and I shot, without hesitating, almost point blank. The girl trembled in his arms. Then, she blew up like an over-ripe fruit, her intestines splattered over the ground, coating him as well. He crumpled, then convulsed. When I stood up, the street reeked of powder. No one dared move. Something at the end of the alley howled. Like an animal. I saw an old man rush out, weeping, and drop to the child's side. His child. Holding his child close. I had saved my own skin. I owed nothing to that father who had just lost everything that was left to him in this world. So, I left." Suddenly Hornes no longer looks at me in quite the same manner. His fascination for me seems shaken. Sixty years later, I find my own attitude just as disgusting. The self-sufficiency that I drew around me like a cloak as I walked up the street, pitted by the numerous shots, made me feel like an egotistical monster. The man's eyes pierced through me. But what did I care? All I wanted was to be with back with Wakebe, my second father, once again. No compassion. No excuses. "Your tattoos are part of this." I agreed. Weary. A phantom odor wafts through the room, reminding me of the incense I used to burn at home. "That same evening, he came to me, despite the curfew. Who would have believed that this man, eaten by sorrow, could have dared to take on the Americans? Or my syndicate? Who would have thought that he would have survived the death of his child? Yet, he did. Two friends accompanied him. They were the ones who held me down as he planted the needles in the right places." Hornes grimaces. So, now he realizes where I learned the art of paralyzing a man. "Once I was rendered powerless, he was able to do whatever he wanted with 'You will carry the balance of the universe on your flesh,' he said to me. Other kamis were incrusted in my back along with designs and words known only to the old man." Magic words. I stop speaking suddenly. Just thinking about it. and my mind's eye fills with the prick of the needles, the man's absorption. The lack of hatred on his face. It was his total lack of expression that disturbed me the most. What fate was he drawing for me? Did he consider his vengeance sufficiently refined or had he lost his mind? I was too frightened to ask, afraid of rousing his wrath. I was at his mercy, terrified. It takes an effort of willpower to return to the present, to my nocturnal confession. "According to history, the emperor of Japan once commuted a rebel's death sentence to tattooing. That's what the old man did with me. Rather than kill me, he covered my body with tattoos. What I didn't realize then was that the very act of tattooing was a curse. Before leaving, he did warn me that my life would never be the same and that his inks would remind me of my crime. When my colleagues found me, I no longer really looked like a man. Their disgust was obvious. I was suffering. My entire body burned atrociously. Yet, I went to Wakebe, knowing full well that I would incur his wrath. Tattoos like that, covering the entire body, were reserved for men who deserved them. I listened to my oyabun, my paternal master, tell me that he had been concerned and had searched for me. His men had gone to my place and found no one there. For a while, he thought that I had betrayed him. "They went to your place and did not see you," Hornes repeats. "The old man's prayers hid you somehow." "Precisely. All they found was an empty apartment. By some miracle, the tattoo artist tore me away from the world and took me elsewhere, to a place that was identical yet completely foreign. Today, I sincerely believe that he showed me a place usually inhabited only by spirits. But there were still more surprises to come, unfortunately. Wishing to avenge myself, I started to wander about the red light district, asking after the old man. But no one seemed to have heard of him or his family, for that matter. It was as if he had never existed. A few days later, I returned to Wakebe's service and was given an extremely sensitive mission. I was to assassinate his own brother, Gonshiro, one of his principal rivals. It was said that Gonshiro's men were absolutely loyal and that only a mad dog could hope to succeed with this mission." "Wakebe didn't hold the blood bath against you?" "We weren't exactly men of honor, Mr. Hornes. All that counted was our loyalty to our syndicate. Moreover, if Wakebe wanted to eliminate me he had found the perfect pretext. Because he had saved my life in the past, he knew that I would do anything for him; that I would never shirk this mission, no matter how dangerous it might be. With some other men, I drew up a crazy plan for an attack in broad daylight on Gonshiro's club. The surprise was to be total. Once there, we would shoot anyone unfortunate enough to get in our way. "But, we didn't make it to the club. A block away, we were caught in intense crossfire. The Gonshiro clan had recovered a machine gun from an airplane, installed it on the roof of a neighboring warehouse, and started spraying our 'procession'. It was a frightful massacre, even worse that the bloodbath in the alley. The burning cars, the shredded bodies, the stench of carbonized flesh that filled the air, the shrieks, as I watched the scene - powerless. Several times bullets struck me, pushing me back. Yet something protected me. More of Gonshiro's men streamed out of the warehouse to finish off the dying. When they saw me, they opened fire, not bothering with questions. You should have seen all those men taking aim at me, like a firing squad. To no avail! "I grabbed the machine gun I had brought with me and took aim in turn, convinced that I was the only one who would escape, that the tattoos had made me immortal. Pain coursed through my belly, burning, forcing me to double over. For better or worse, I opened fire in their direction, but my aim was so inaccurate that they escaped from the first volley and took refuge. Shaking, I tried to shoot again, to kill them, but liquid spewed from my mouth, a burning river. I bent down and looked at the bronze colored bile. I was vomiting ink. The ink from my tattoos had penetrated to my very core, circulating through me like blood. My body was in perfect health. An idea came to me. I shot overhead, too high to hit anyone and felt nothing. Because I didn't intend to kill. I was unable to bear this burden. I fled and hid. "In actual fact, I lived like an animal. Often, my stomach twisted with hunger, but I ignored its supplications. It took a child to discover me, a child who mistook me for a kami, a spirit. So, by making the most of that belief, I was able to survive. He begged for two and I took advantage of his innocence." "You left your syndicate and Wakebe did not search for you?" "I didn't dare go back to him, to tell him my story. He blamed me for the disappearance of his men and promised a reward to anyone who would kill me. I was a traitor. Rumors from the street made their way to my ears, by way of an enterprising street kid, Kiichi, a child who trusted me. He had discovered me and believed that I truly was not from this earth. The way I fled from others. I had become an animal, forced to lie low, and he served as my eyes in the outside world. "I tried to put an end to it all, as I'm sure you can well imagine. Poison, blades. Nothing I tried worked. The tattoos always protected me. I even tried to burn my skin off, but once the pain was gone, the designs returned, even more sumptuous than before, and I continued to live. To survive. One night, a loud dispute woke me. In a neighboring street, several gurentais had singled out an American. It didn't take me long to realize that it was the young officer who had trafficked with them, without taking stock of the consequences. His promises broken, he was unable to provide the compensation his assailants demanded. I almost stayed there, watching the show, the execution. But the pain returned to my belly and I tasted ink in my mouth. A minute later, I was fighting with three men, all armed to the teeth. They didn't understand why their bullets had no effect on me and I had to settle for forcing them into submission. "Once that was done, I revealed my existence to Captain James Woodmark. He listened to my story and, two days later, offered me an opportunity to leave Japan, with little Kiichi. I decided to make my life elsewhere. And that has been quite difficult since I've always drawn attention to myself, incited extravagant rumors about my life. I had to be cautious; I had to find trustworthy men to manage my business until Kiichi was old enough to replace them... He was like my son, you know." "Kiichi Hatakeyama. You're not the one who killed him?" "Immortality is my burden," I reply. "It leads to a great deal of envy." How surprising! The brilliant journalist suddenly feels helpless. How could he not have uncovered the bond that united Kiichi and me? I guess he would have had to know where to look. I remember the article that appeared in the newspaper a few weeks earlier. I remember its title. Judge and executioner: The Work Assassinates a Corporate Lawyer. The facts described dovetail with the image of the personality that they have attributed to me. 'The unfortunate Kiichi Hatakeyama was atrociously tortured and mutilated by his attacker before his throat was slit.' Putting on his investigator's cap, Ernest Hornes did manage to make the connection with the murder of a young call girl, two years earlier in Spain. My beloved Paloma, he found his way to you without understanding that you were my only love, that they took you, convinced that you would lead them to me. Dead because of me. There is nothing left to say. I remove the needles from Hornes' body and arms. It's time to leave now, to leave him to his doubts, to make my getaway before they find me. I really took a risk coming to see him this evening. Maybe they're watching his apartment. But I had to tell him my story before I disappear. Perhaps for a century this time. Confirming my concerns, a sinister shadow bursts abruptly into the room. A flying demon? I barely have time to drop to the floor. Shards of glass fly overhead as the front door bursts open. An explosion, tear gas, self-made "police", a cavalcade of rushing men. I rush to the broken window, relying on the wind blowing in, and hurtle out. A few splinters of glass stick to my skin, barely cutting into it. The tattoos protect me. The air whistles through my ears for a few seconds. My heart pounds, ready to explode. A dull thud. My body hits the sidewalk. Then I stand up, to the amazement of the few rare passersby. The Work does exist and he's walking about town! Almost like some comic book hero. I have just enough time to doge the hooks of a taser and strike the young woman brandishing it. Already, other members of the assault team are racing towards me, determined to capture me once and for all. I immediately throw myself between the cars on the boulevard. Vehicles pile up, crashing violently. I run until I'm out of breath, praising my eternal youth and the daily training program I inflict on my body. I have to flee. I will always have to flee. I'm hunted. Behind me, my pursuers will never abandon me. For years, they've tracked me across Europe. I've become an obsession for their leader, his only reason for living, I suppose. Despite the obscurity with which I've surrounded myself, he heard about me. From his own father. The last I heard, James Woodmark Sr., was languishing in a retirement home in Wisconsin, his personality eroded by Alzheimer's disease. Poor James. Lost in the past, in Kobe. His attendants think he's crazy when he refers to his tattooed savior. James, my friend. His son fell into disgrace following the 911 terrorist attacks. An influential man at the Pentagon, he had refused to treat the terrorist threat seriously. Since then, he's been constantly spinning his web, trying to catch me and redeem himself with his peers. He's prepared to do anything in that respect, to break the final bonds that hold me to the world. The end justifies the means. I won't let him stop me. I'm far too afraid that the ink will speak, that the patterns will reveal the secret of immortality and that they will spread it. The ink flows in my veins. It is both my curse and my way. All I have to do is take it on, bear the bokashi chrysalis, absorb the sumptuous shades of black and gray, so that one day in the distant future, I will become a benevolent kami among men.
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| Last updated on 1/3/2008 8:43:48 PM by Jennifer Brozek |
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| Other documents at this level: 09 - The Monster Inside 11 - The Man in the Globe 12 - I Do Not Fight Monsters 13 - Live From the Serpent Room 14 - Wolf Den 15 - The Enthusiast 16 - Marked 17 - Shadow 18 - Reflections 19 - What You Need 20 - Seasonal Work |
I've always admired investigative journalism - well, at least until it propelled me into the spotlight. Nixon's nightmare was called Bernstein and Woodward. Mine is Ernest Hornes. Well, actually, he's the one who baptized me the 'Work', doing his absolute best to transform me into an urban legend.
Jess Kaan is a French author. He was born in Dunkirk in 1974 and has published a lot of stories in France naturally, Belgium, Poland, Canada and next in Spain. In 2003, he received Merlin Award for his text "The Case of Sicky Elves", a humor fantasy story. Jess has directed an anthology about the Road, published a collection Dérobade in 2004, and he will publish his first SF novel this year. How describe what he writes? It is a mix between our reality and our fears.