Usurping someone else’s tattoo is, for the Siberian tradition, one of the biggest mistakes you can make, and is punishable by death. But this is only true of an existing tattoo, which someone already has on them and which represents codified personal information. By contrast, using the tradition to create tattoos for strangers is like giving them a lucky charm. Many people who do business with people who belong to the Siberian criminal community – friends and supporters – may wear traditional tattoos, provided that the person who tattooed them and prepared the design is a Siberian tattooist and an expert.
The relationship between the tattooist and his client is a complex one, and requires a separate explanation.
As well as being able to tattoo, create designs and read them on the body, the tattooist must know how to behave and how to follow certain rules. The process of requesting a job is a very long one. Before ‘suffering’ a tattoo, the criminal must be introduced to the tattooist by a friend who vouches for him – only if these conditions are met may the tattooist accept the job.
The tattooist may only refuse a client if he has grounds for being suspicious of him. In this case, he has the right to ask the criminal to contact a well-known Authority in Siberian society who can give him formal permission to be tattooed. The tattooist must, however, behave politely, so as not to offend anyone. He cannot talk about his suspicions, he must simply ask his prospective client to do him a favour – that of ‘taking some news’ to an old Authority. And even when the criminal reaches this Authority, he must never say straight out ‘I want permission to have a tattoo’, but only ‘Tattooist x requests permission to send you his greetings through me.’ In response, the Authority gives him a letter or sends one of his men to accompany him.
At this point, the tattooist, according to the criminal rule, may only refuse a job in the event of bereavement or serious illness. The criminal, for his part, cannot compel the tattooist to meet a deadline imposed by him – consequently, a large tattoo often has to wait for several years.
The methods of payment, too, follow a ritual. Honest criminals, as a matter of dignity, never speak of money. In the Siberian community all material goods, and particularly money, are despised, so they are never even mentioned. If the Siberians speak of money, they call it ‘that’, or ‘rubbish’, ‘cauliflower’, or ‘lemons’, or they simply specify the figures, pronounce the numbers. The Siberians do not keep money in the house because it is said to bring bad luck into the family – it destroys happiness and ‘scares off’ good fortune. They keep it near the house, in the garden, for example, in a special hiding place, such as an animal hutch.
So before beginning a tattoo they never mention a fixed price – they don’t mention anything connected with money. Only afterwards, when the work is finished, does the client ask the tattooist ‘What do I owe you?’ and the tattooist replies, ‘Give me what is right.’ This is the answer that is considered most honest, and is therefore most frequently used by the Siberian tattooists.
Free criminals pay well for the tattooist’s work: in money, weapons, icons, cars, and even property. In prison it’s different. There the tattooist will settle for a few cigarettes, a packet of tea or a jar of jam, a cigarette lighter or a box of matches, and occasionally a little money.
Among tattooists there is complete cooperation and a sense of brotherhood. When they are not in prison they go and visit each other and exchange the latest techniques.
In prison tattooists often share clients, because one may like doing one type of image, another a different type. Generally the older tattooist supervises the younger, coaches him a little and teaches him what he has learned in life. Many tattoos are done by more than one tattooist because criminals often change prison or cell. So the work begun by one tattooist may be continued by a second and finished by a third, but tradition requires that each subsequent tattooist ask the permission of the one who began it. And the process of asking is complicated. In the Siberian criminal community nobody ever asks for anything directly: there is a form of communication which satisfies people and takes the place of explicit requests. For example, if a new criminal with an unfinished tattoo arrives in a prison where a tattooist works, the tattooist asks him the name of the master who began that work. The new tattooist writes a letter in the criminal language, which finds its way, via the prisoners’ secret postal system, known as the ‘road’, to the first tattooist. The letter appears to be extremely polite and full of compliments, but in fact it is very formulaic: it follows the principles of Siberian education. If this letter were read by a person who did not belong to the criminal world it would seem to him a jumble of incoherent words.
I’ve often written this kind of letter myself, both in prison and outside. I remember one particular case: I was serving my third sentence, by now an adult, when a Siberian criminal arrived in our cell who had a beautiful tattoo on his back that needed finishing. It had been begun by a famous old tattooist, Afanasy ‘Fog’. I had heard a lot about this legendary man. Apparently he had taken up tattooing quite late in life, at the age of about forty; previously he had been an ordinary criminal, a train robber. During a gunfight he had been shot in the head and left deaf and dumb. Suddenly he had started doing drawings which were considered far more than beautiful – they were perfect – and then he had learned how to tattoo. In a diary that he kept he explained it like this: he said he was constantly hearing in his head the voices of God and the angels suggesting to him iconographical subjects connected with Siberian Orthodox religion. This diary was very well-known in our community – people passed it around and copied it out by hand, as is customary in the criminal society with any document or testimony written by a person who is considered to be ‘marked’ by God. I had read it myself when I was a boy, my master had lent it to me and I had copied it out into an exercise book, and as I did so I felt I learned many things.
I had only seen examples of his work on two occasions and had been struck by how full of suffering those images were. He had an unusual technique. It wasn’t very refined, in fact I’d say it was downright coarse, but he succeeded in creating forms and subjects which fed the imagination. They were different from all others. When you looked at them you didn’t feel as if you were seeing a body with a tattoo on it; it was the tattoo itself that was a living thing, with a body underneath it. It was stunning – more powerful than any other thing I had ever seen on human skin.
I had long yearned to meet Fog, and I dreamed of finding a way of telling him about myself, and about my work.
The criminal who had come to our cell had a tattoo on his back called ‘The Mother’; it was very complex and full of hidden meanings. Like all large tattoos, the Mother is the centre of a galaxy; within the design the meanings of the smaller images intersect and sometimes overlap, whirling around in a spiral until they enter the principal image and disappear at the very moment when the study of the details focuses the observer’s attention on a single subject.
When the criminal asked me to finish the tattoo I couldn’t believe it: to follow the lines traced by Fog would be an honour. At once I wrote a letter to him using all my knowledge of the rules that regulated relations between criminal tattooists:
Dear Brother Afanasy Fog,
The writer of this letter is Nikolay Kolima, with the help of the Lord and all the Saints a humble kolshik.
Praying to the icons, I hope all of us will continue to enjoy the blessing of the Lord.
Into the house which, thanks to Our Lord, I share with honest people, there has descended and, with the help of God, taken up residence an honest, orphan vagabond, Brother Z…
He holds, with the grace of the Lord, The Mother, which sings your miraculous hand, guided by God himself.
Through the love of Our Saviour Jesus Christ, The Mother is illuminated; not much is lacking to the completion of her splendour.
With brotherly love and affection, in the grace of Our Almighty Lord, I wish you good health and many years of love and faith in the Mar
vellous Siberian Cross.
Nikolay Kolima
I was simply asking him for permission to finish his work, but in order to do this I was using codified phrases which formed a kind of poetry with hidden meanings. Let me explain.
If a criminal calls another man brother, he does so not out of politeness, but to make him understand that he is not merely a member of the criminal society like him, but a colleague of his.
It is very important in the law of criminal communication to introduce yourself immediately – name, nickname and trade – otherwise the words that precede and follow have no importance.
Humble kolshik – that is, humble ‘stinger’ – is another way of describing the tattooist’s trade. The word kolshik is slang and ancient, and must always be accompanied by an adjective such as ‘humble’ or ‘poor’, which emphasizes the unambitious position, devoid of the least vanity, that is characteristic of those who carry on that trade.
After the official introduction comes a bridge-sentence, which doesn’t convey any concrete message with respect to the meaning of the letter. It is written in obedience to an ancient tradition – in any form of communication, the important information must never be given immediately, but only after a short, ‘transparent’ passage which deals not with criminal affairs but with ordinary, mundane, obvious things. This section is used to express the state of mind of the person who is making the request, because any open display of emotion is not tolerated between criminals – even in the most difficult situations you must maintain your self-control, and keep, as they say, a cool head. In this case I wrote a sentence which conveyed a hint of religious hope, which is never a bad thing in letters, or indeed in any kind of communication between criminals.
After this you come to the point.
I say that in my cell, which is called a house, there has arrived – descended – a criminal, who has taken up residence, that is, has been accepted by the other criminals, honest people. Which means that the new arrival has a letter, safe-conduct or tattoo, the signature of an Authority.
I call the new arrival an honest vagabond, to indicate that he is an unambitious, humble person who knows how to behave.
Orphan is a word which in slang can have many meanings: in this case I was alluding to the fact that he had been forced to leave his previous prison. It was important to stress this in the letter, because criminals do not respect those who ask to be transferred – they call them ‘mad horses’, and say ‘as soon as anything happens, these guys jump at the door like mad horses’.
After this I wrote that the new arrival holds with the grace of the Lord, which simply means that he has a tattoo. Among criminals it is not usual to say ‘I have a tattoo’, you say ‘I hold with the grace of the Lord’, and then you specify which tattoo in particular you have; if you are referring to all the tattoos together you call them ‘the honest seeds’, ‘the tears of the Lord’, or ‘His seals’. In this case The Mother, because that was the specific tattoo that the criminal had on his back.
The Mother sings your miraculous hand is a compliment to Fog. If a tattoo has been executed well, it sings the hand of the tattooist.
Then comes another, more significant compliment: Fog’s hand is guided by God Himself. This is not to be taken in a literal sense – God in this case means the criminal law. The tattoo, that is, has been executed according to the rules of the criminal tradition, in a very professional manner.
The letter culminated in the words, The Mother is illuminated. This means that the tattoo, though unfinished, works perfectly. ‘To illuminate’ means to put hidden information into the tattoo itself, so I was saying that this element of the work was complete and there was no need to add or change anything; it was sufficient to put the finishing touches to it, to strengthen a line here and there, fill it out with nuances of colour, etc.
The phrase not much is lacking to the completion of her splendour is an indirect request for permission to continue the work.
Then come the traditional greetings and good wishes, and lastly the signature. In the Siberian tradition the surname is never used, only the first name and nickname, because belonging to a family is considered to be a private matter.
When I had finished the letter I was very pleased – it felt like a turning point in my life. I gave the letter to the people who organized the circulation of mail in our cell. They were obliged to stay at the window all the time and wait for a signal. The letters passed along strings from one window to another – if they were addressed to someone in that cell, they were delivered to the addressee, otherwise they continued to move on from cell to cell, and if necessary from prison to prison. The prison mail was far more reliable and speedy than the normal mail, which indeed nobody used. In the space of two weeks the letters would reach any prison in the region, and to travel right across the country it would take less than a month. The prison to which I was sending my letter was a long way away, so it would take time.
I waited anxiously for the reply. After two months and a few days, a boy broke away from the team of ‘postmen’, holding in his hand a small letter written on a leaf from a lined exercise book:
‘Kolima, it’s for you, from Afanasy Fog.’
I took the letter from his hands and opened it excitedly. Written on it, in a very rough, cramped hand, were the words:
Greetings, dear brother Nikolay Kolima, and long years in the glory of Our Lord!
I, Afanasy Fog, thanks to Jesus Christ a humble kolshik, will remember in my prayers you and all the honest vagabonds who live in this blessed Land.
In the glory of the Lord one breathes well, enjoying peace and His love.
The news of Brother Z… gives me immense joy, may the Lord bless him and send him long years, strength and health.
The Mother, who with the help of the Saviour Jesus Christ is illuminated, with his same help will be continued.
An embrace of brotherhood and affection to you; may Christ be with you and your family, and may He and all the Saints protect your blessed hand.
Afanasy Fog
I read it and re-read it again and again, as if searching for something else that might appear between the lines.
I was very proud that Fog had replied to me with such respect and love, as if we were friends and had known each other all our lives.
Many in the cell knew who Fog was, and as word got around my authority increased.
It took me four months to finish Fog’s tattoo. One day my work happened to be seen by an old tattooist of the Black Seed caste called Uncle Kesya, who occasionally came out of the special security block to be given the medication he needed at the infirmary. Using his Authority, Uncle Kesya sent me a parcel, containing a packet of tea, cigarettes, sugar and a jar of honey. In the accompanying letter he paid me a lot of compliments and said he was pleased to see a job executed by a young man who hadn’t abandoned the needles and the traditional techniques for the electric devices, which he called ‘gobs of the devil’.
After that, many inmates, intrigued and moved by the respect the old man had shown me, started asking me to tattoo them according to the old Siberian principles – even people who were remote from our tradition and who belonged to different castes. It was delightful to see how men whom I had previously thought profoundly different from me, and with whom I would never have imagined I could have any relationship, except a business one, became very friendly. They wanted to know about Siberian history and the system of tattoos, and this created a bridge between us, a connection founded solely on curiosity about another culture, without any sordid interest connected with criminal affairs.
During those days I told them a lot of the stories that I had heard as a child from my grandfather and from other old men. Many of my cellmates were simple men, who had been sent to prison for ordinary crimes – men with no underlying criminal philosophy. One of them, a strapping young man called Shura, was serving a five-year sentence for killing someone in obscure circumstances. He didn’t like talking about it, but it
was clear that jealousy had something to do with it – it was a story of love and betrayal.
Shura was a strong man and as such he was sought after by several criminal groups – in prison the Authorities of the castes or families always try to make alliances with people who are strong and intelligent, so that they can dominate the others. But he kept to himself, didn’t take anyone’s side and lived his sad life like a hermit. Now and then some member of the Siberian family would invite him to drink tea or chifir, and he would come willingly because, he said, we were the only ones who didn’t invite him to play cards in order to cheat him and then use him as a hitman. He spoke very little; usually he listened to the others reading their letters from home and sometimes, when somebody sang, he would sing too.
After the story of Fog’s tattoo and my sudden fame, he took to spending more time with the Siberians; nearly every evening he would come to our bunks and ask if he could stay with us for a while. Once he arrived with a photograph which he showed to everyone. It was an old picture of an elderly man with a long beard, holding a rifle. He wore the typical Siberian hunting belt, hanging from which was the knife and the bag containing the lucky charms and the magic talismans. On the back of the photo was a note:
‘Brother Fyodot, lost in Siberia, a good and generous soul, an eternal dreamer and a great believer’, and a date: ‘1922’.
‘That’s my grandfather; he was Siberian… May I be part of the Siberian family, since my grandfather was one of you?’ He seemed very serious, and his question was entirely devoid of vanity or any other negative feeling. It was a genuine request for help. Shura, it seemed, must be tired of living on his own.
We told him we would examine the photograph and ask some questions at home, to see if any of the old folk remembered him.
We didn’t send the photo anywhere and we didn’t ask anyone; during those years in Siberia lives were swallowed up in a great maelstrom of human history. We decided to wait a while and then take the giant Shura into our family – after all, he was quiet, he had already served two years without creating any problems, and we didn’t see any reason for preventing a human being from enjoying some company and brotherhood, if he deserved it.
Siberian Education Page 9
