What Kind of Child. Ken Barris

      The Skin Artist

      The old man wakes up on Friday morning. The rheum in his eyes has dried, and they itch infernally. His throat is sore from snoring, the tissues at the back have dried out during the night. He reaches out for the cup of water he keeps at his bedside, and knocks it over. A curse on the Mother of God, he mutters to himself. He lies back in bed and tries to remember something, anything. He doesn’t know that his mouth gapes open, puckered and small as the beak of a fish; his teeth are out of his mouth, resting in a second cup of water.

      Eventually he remembers that there has been no headache the whole week. He discovers that he has an erection. Then he remembers his name: Díaz.

      He reaches for his teeth, and takes them out of the water. He shakes them, and inserts them into his mouth.

      ‘My name is Bernal Díaz,’ he says triumphantly, though his diction is slow and dignified as always, his voice high-pitched for a man, and yet rough-edged. ‘My name is Bernal Díaz, and I am alive so far.’

      He lifts the water cup in which his teeth rested, and drinks. Then he climbs out of bed, and staggers to the bathroom. By the time he gets there, his erection has failed, but he remains proud of that memory.

      ‘What a long history you have had,’ he says, fishing out his member. ‘It is a pity that no-one knows the tale, or cares a damn.’

      He urinates loudly and at length, shakes off the last drops, and chuckles.

      There is a flash of light, and a talon of pain claws through his head. The headaches often begin this way, as if the world illuminates him briefly, in merciless clarity. Then the pain returns, and he doubles over. Blood of Christ, it is hard to endure. He falls to his haunches, violently. Cold beads of sweat appear on his forehead. He rests it on the rim of the toilet: he can no longer convince himself that these are migraines.

      The pain recedes over the next hour, in the copper light; he is able to make breakfast. He doesn’t feel like eating, but knows that if he doesn’t eat, he will feel faint later in the day. He never eats lunch when he works, only on Sundays. He melts butter in a battered steel pan, and fries a kipper. He eats about one fifth of the fish, and leaves the rest for his evening meal; but he takes courage from the salt flesh, which reminds him of the taste of the intimate part of women.

      Glancing sideways, he discovers a little girl at his door, which is open, watching him toy with his food. She is nine years old, and lives next door. She has a cicatrix of ringworm on her cheek, which her mother has daubed with gentian violet. Her gaze is serious, unwavering.

      ‘Good morning, little girl,’ he says, with corresponding dignity; however, he cannot remember her name for the moment. He lifts a forkful of kipper and points it at her: ‘You want some?’

      She shakes her head.

      ‘You don’t want to eat, because you are young. I am not hungry, because I am old. Appetite only comes with the middle years. Your history is in the future,’ he says, waving the fork at her.

      He remembers Cortés’s golden beard flashing in the sun, his infinite appetite. What can you teach a little girl about such glorious monsters?

      He puts the kipper in his mouth and chews, for a long time. His teeth make little sucking noises. He puts thumb and forefinger to his lips, and extracts a long, delicate bone.

      You will have children, he muses. You will take men as lovers, or they will take you. You will labour, bear the bruises of life with fortitude, toil till your strength is gone. There will be no statues made of you.

      It is wearying to turn his head to the side for so long. He looks away from her, at the peeling wall beyond, at nothing. The child goes away.

      * * *

      His movements, as always, are methodical: Díaz inverts a clean plate over his plate of fish, and places it in the fridge. He washes the frying pan, and stacks it. He checks that the stove is switched off. He pours himself a small shot of white rum, downs it with a grimace, and rinses the glass. This habit, he knows, is the secret of his prodigious age and good health: it keeps his veins supple. Then he puts on his jacket, closes the windows and leaves the house, locking the front door with care.

      His route through Schotsche Kloof never varies: down Bryant Street, right turn into the steep cobbled hill that is Bloem Street, down to Buitengracht. The smell of iron in the air tells him it will be hot later on, but for now a breeze from the harbour refreshes the City Bowl. Then further down to Long Street, where he keeps his tattoo parlour, a hole-in-the-wall sandwiched between a bottle store and a shop that sells books. It is sometimes difficult for customers to find his place, because the entrance is obscured by one of the two grimy palm trees that grace Long Street.

      He unlocks his shop, raises the blinds and turns on the radio. He sits down, staring dreamily out the window at the trunk of the palm, and waits. This morning the brilliant light of Cholula fills his mind, as they had found things there, the strong wooden cages crammed with young men and sleek boys. They were being fattened for the sacrifice, for the grisly supper still to come. Even now, Díaz remembers the stillness in their eyes, and how that didn’t change when Cortés ordered the cages destroyed, releasing the youths to return to their own locales. A man can never forget a thing like that, though it was undoubtedly one of the least remarkable events of the long campaign.

      Sometimes he waits for many hours before a customer walks in. Sometimes he is inundated, with two or even three people who sit and wait their turn, talking to each other. It is always better in summer. Today, business is slow: the first client comes in at about ten, and finds Díaz stretched out on the floor, unconscious, and the chair toppled over.

      This client is a young coloured man, slightly plump, probably in his early twenties. He kneels down and notes the chalky face, the extreme age, of the man on the floor. The old man still breathes, though the action of his chest is shallow and hard to discern. The young man rises and looks around for a phone. There isn’t one. He walks out into the street, limping awkwardly, and goes into Scribe’s African Books next door, in order to get help.

      The woman behind the counter in that dusty shop has a smooth pale skin. A cigarette dangles from generous lips. She has short silver-blonde hair and grey eyes. The young man notes that her ring and index fingers are stained by tobacco, particularly the flesh on either side of the large middle knuckle. There are five small gold rings in the upper rim of her right ear. She looks up, but doesn’t say anything, waiting for him to take the initiative.

      ‘The man in the shop next door,’ says the client, ‘in the tattoo shop. He’s lying on the floor, unconscious.’

      The woman still says nothing: she merely studies him, attentively, as if he were a portrait hanging in a gallery.

      ‘The man next door,’ he says, with exaggerated patience, ‘needs help.’

      She

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