The Tattooed Girl

by Joyce Carol Oates

  Seigl asked Alma how long she’d been working in the Book Seller, and Alma lifted a hand and moved the fingers in silent counting. What a literal mind! Clearly, Alma meant to be exact.

  “Four days. It seems longer.”

  “Yes, I’m sure it does. And where do you live?”

  The eyes went vague, evasive. “Different places . . .”

  “But you’re not from Carmel Heights, Alma.”

  It was a statement, not a question. The girl mumbled, as if embarrassed, “I guess not.”

  Ashamed of wherever she was from. Assuming that this big bewhiskered kindly man, overbearing as Scanlon in his own way, would pity her, or dislike her.

  Seigl was consumed with curiosity. And wonder at himself. This isn’t like me he wanted to protest. This isn’t me. The gleaming ivory-handled cane hooked over his arm made him into a dandy. The Irish cap slanted on his stiff springy hair. His swarthy-Semitic good looks, something boyish and irreverent in his overlarge, glistening dark eyes. Seigl was hardly a dandy, and not a man who spoke to strangers in bookstores. Hardly a boy. Yet he smiled down at this awkward buxom girl standing so passively before him. Like a young farm creature, a sleek young calf for instance, waiting to be herded in one direction or another.

  Seigl had seen Alma before, he was certain. The name “Alma” seemed distinctly familiar. He wasn’t a man to remember names nor even faces but he’d seen this face before, and recently.

  At The Café? The last time he’d played chess?

  There was something disagreeable about the association. Later, he would try to recall why.

  Though Alma seemed to be self-conscious in Seigl’s gaze, she made no move to ease away from him. You could see her summoning her courage to ask this older man a question, as a nervous schoolgirl might ask her teacher a question; not the brightest student, but one who rarely spoke. She stammered slightly, mispronouncing words. Telling Seigl that she had been looking through some of these books—especially “Thou Shalt Not Suffer a Witch to Live”: A History of European Witchcraft—and she wondered, were these things real? Had there been real witches? Or was it all made up, like in a movie? Eagerly she leafed through the book to point out to Seigl pages of illustrations, drawings and woodcuts of grotesque female witch-figures, ugly scenes of torture, sacrifice, immolation. In one illustration, captioned “The Divine Mother,” the Hindu goddess Kali was represented with two faces, one benevolent and the other fierce and barbaric.

  Seigl checked the front of the book: it had been printed in Great Britain in 1922 by the publisher Kegan Paul. It looked reputable, if lurid. “Witches aren’t real, I guess?” Alma asked wistfully. Seigl said, “Witches were believed to be ‘real’ at one time in history, and they suffered for it.” Alma said, “Because a witch can’t win? God hates witches?” Seigl said, “No. God neither loves nor hates witches. God isn’t a factor here. Only humankind. For the witch-hunters, ‘witches’ were heretics who had to be punished because they undermined the authority of the Roman Catholic Church; some of those persecuted as witches are believed to have been Cathars, a dissident Catholic sect. For those who imagined themselves witches, and there may have been significant numbers of these, ‘witchcraft’ was a collective delusion. A way of compensating economic, political, social powerlessness on the part of most women and some men.” Seigl stopped short, embarrassed at seeming to lecture. Of all things, he didn’t want to bore this girl who stood so ardently before him.

  “But—were there witches? I don’t understand.”

  “No, and yes. There were no witches. There is no Devil, and there is no empowerment from the Devil. But there were those who were perceived to be witches, and those who so perceived themselves.”

  “But they were killed anyway, I guess? The witches?”

  “Yes. For centuries. ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.’ ”

  Seigl shut the book. Those ugly illustrations. He felt a wave of revulsion for the ignorance and cruelty of history; for the fact of his own involvement, as one who chose to know such things. By now he’d meant to leave the Book Seller. He’d been here far longer than he’d anticipated. Scanlon would be watching for Seigl to come downstairs: watching, and waiting. And the girl was far behind in her shelving. Seigl felt implicated, responsible. He said, “Alma? Quit this place. Come work for me.”

  II

  The Assistant

  1

  MY HEART IS filled with HOPE.

  I seem to know: this is REBIRTH.

  I seem to know: this is an act to SAVE MY LIFE.

  RIDICULOUS! As he hadn’t done for years, Seigl was scribbling notes to himself. It was a habit he’d first begun during his travels. Tearing off strips of paper, scribbling on them and stuffing them in his pockets. In later years, Seigl acquired a reputation for being endearingly eccentric, scribbling notes to himself in a fever of concentration even as he was being introduced to speak before large audiences, and glancing up startled by applause. These were not love notes. These were not notes in regard to love. They were to be seen by no one but Seigl. Discovered by others in Seigl’s wake, on the floor for instance, such notes were rarely comprehensible. They were small, somehow shameful indulgences. Seigl laughed at himself, the fever had returned.

  “INCONCLUSIVE”: the heart’s fate.

  Out of the void, one to ASSIST.

  (Not a nurse.) (Not yet!)

  2

  FROM A HIGH WINDOW he saw her climbing out of the taxi. He drew back not wanting to be seen if she glanced up.

  The girl’s legs appeared first, as she slid, pushed her way out of the taxi, clumsy, yet graceful in her way. Firm shapely legs, a sheen of stocking, a dark skirt. She was wearing a cloth coat and, around her straw-colored hair, a scarf of some cobwebby material that whipped in the wind. Seigl was struck by how unnaturally white her skin was. A milky skin, and very red lips. As before she reminded him of the young Prague prostitutes . . .

  The taxi was pre-paid. Seigl had made arrangements. His assistant would arrive at 10 A.M. and depart at 6 P.M. At least initially, Alma would not be staying overnight at the house.

  We will see, Seigl thought. See how it works out.

  How it works out on both sides.

  “Alma Busch” was the name she’d given him. Eventually, if Seigl decided to keep her on, he would have to formalize their arrangement, he supposed. Register as her employer. Pay into her Social Security pension. He wasn’t thinking of that now. For now, there was an air of the clandestine about the arrangement.

  Seigl watched closely to see that the taxi driver wasn’t going to inveigle Alma into paying his fare. Or his tip. (Seigl had pre-paid the tip, too.) Alma was so naively sweet-natured, so credulous and simple seeming, anyone might take advantage of her.

  She’d told him yes, she had graduated from high school. And she could type . . . I can type, Mr. Seigl! I mean, I can type some.

  Seigl smiled. Alma, typing? Knowing how to spell the sorts of words Seigl would expect an assistant to use? Possibly.

  Yet she was intelligent, in her way. Seigl believed she’d become more confident, and in that way more intelligent, under his tutelage.

  Until the other day it hadn’t occurred to Seigl that the chief impediment of his work-life had been for years this idiotic vision of him in others’ eyes as a “genius.” Or, cruelly, a “failed genius.” Especially the women in his life, his mother, his sister, even so good a friend as Sondra Blumenthal, were like harpies picking at him, tearing at his flesh. No wonder he abandoned projects. It was like trying to work facing a funhouse mirror distorting your image, magnifying and mocking your every move, every twitch and grimace.

  No wonder Joshua Seigl had been miserable. Impotent.

  Now, he would make a fresh start. This very day.

  The taxi was driving away. Yet there stood Alma Busch on the sidewalk, irresolute, clutching at an oversized shoulder bag and staring up at the house. What was wrong?

  Seigl didn’t want to rap on the window. Didn’
t want her to know he’d been watching for her.

  The Hill was a neighborhood of old, distinguished houses, some of them small mansions. Sidewalks were made of paving stones, quaintly ill-fitting. At the cul-de-sac of Greaves Place there were three houses set back from the street, and high above the street, behind wrought iron fences and evergreen shrubs. Seigl saw that his assistant was looking intimidated by these surroundings. She’d taken out of her shoulder bag a piece of paper at which she frowned, moving her lips. All that could possibly be on this piece of paper, Seigl thought, was the address he’d given her, 8 Greaves Place, and the time. He’d been reluctant to give her his unlisted telephone number.

  Seigl watched with dismay as Alma looked about helplessly. She couldn’t seem to see the numeral 8 which was partly obscured by ivy growing on the iron fence. She was trying to peer through the gate at the facade of the house above, where there was no numeral. Before Seigl could rap on the window she backed away, stared at the piece of paper in her hand, and went hesitantly to check the number of the house next door, which was a small walk. “God damn. Stupid!”

  Exasperated, Seigl went downstairs, gripping the railing. The last thing he wanted was to lose his balance and have an accident, at such a time.

  Telling himself She’s shy. Not stupid. Of course she feels intimidated, put yourself in her place.

  Not very likely, though: that Joshua Seigl could put himself in Alma Busch’s place.

  It had never crossed Seigl’s mind to tell Alma that he lived in such a neighborhood. He’d become hardly more aware of the nature of his surroundings than a mouse in its nest.

  Still he was elated, excited. Where the prospect of working with, for instance, the young man Essler would have made him apprehensive, he was looking forward to working with Alma. Already this morning had been one of his good mornings. His best morning in fact, since beginning the steroid-based medication Friedman had prescribed.

  When he’d first wakened at dawn he’d experienced some vertigo. This is to be expected, Friedman assured him. And getting out of bed, shifting from the horizontal to the vertical, was always tricky. You can expect blurred vision, a pumping heartbeat, that taste of panic that signals Something isn’t right. But the interlude passed within minutes. Seigl had even gone outside for a brisk forty-minute walk into Mount Carmel Cemetery. He hadn’t wanted to risk running, not today.

  “Alma? This is the house.”

  Seigl called to her from the front stoop, waving. Damned if he was going to climb down those nineteen stone steps glistening with wet from an overnight shower.

  Alma saw him, and waved. She hurried back to Seigl’s gate and managed to open it, and fumbled to shut it behind her, and climbed the stone steps breathing through her mouth, agitated, deeply embarrassed. Seigl watched her in fascination though he supposed he was making her self-conscious.

  “Mr. Seigl! Oh gosh I’m sorry I’m late . . .”

  “You’re not late, Alma. Don’t be upset.”

  “I . . . I wasn’t sure . . . I’m always afraid of going into the wrong house, see?”

  Always? What did she mean?

  Seigl said, amused, “What would happen then, Alma?”

  “What? When?”

  Seigl regretted speaking playfully. He had an impulse to take hold of the girl’s shoulders and calm her. But any touch, any movement toward her, shaking her hand in greeting, for instance, would have alarmed her, he knew. Her silvery eyes were moist, glistening. She was short of breath from the climb. In the pale sunshine the moth-shaped mark on her cheek was a disfigurement, a cruel blemish. And the cobwebby marks on the backs of her hands, like frayed gloves. Seigl felt a stab of tenderness for the girl who seemed, this morning, rather slow-witted, plodding.

  Seigl said, “If you went into the wrong house. What would happen then?”

  Alma pondered the question, biting at her thumbnail. Her fingers were stubby, the nails bitten close. Seigl would have to remember that, if he asked Alma questions of a playful or ironic type, she would take these questions literally. Momentum bore her in a single direction forward, like a train on its tracks.

  Not very bright, maybe. But steadfast, dependable. Likely to be loyal to her employer. And never critical.

  Seigl invited her inside the house. Alma followed shyly, still pondering his question. Finally she said, breathless, urgent, as if the words had come to her from a long distance, and not easily, “It would be like a—a dream, I guess? A bad dream.”

  SO THE FIRST MORNING began. The first day.

  Wanting to make Alma feel at ease, Seigl showed her first to the downstairs room, the guest room where she could put her coat and bag, this room to which, as he said, she could “retreat” whenever she needed, to freshen up, even take a nap if she wanted. (Alma’s mouth gaped at such a notion. Nap? During her workday?) Seigl saw that the very room intimidated her, and wondered if he was saying the right things. This young woman was accustomed to taking orders from her employers, not being made to feel at home.

  Next, Seigl brought her to his study, the room in which she would be doing most of her work, initially helping him to sort, file, discard and/or reply to numerous letters he’d received in the past several years and hadn’t gotten around to dealing with. (There were cartons of these letters! Seigl couldn’t bear to look directly at them, their mere existence filled him with despair, but Alma considered the cartons without alarm, as she might consider baskets of laundry waiting to be ironed. This was a finite task, if laborious. A matter of doing.) Then there were files, desk drawers, and closet shelves crammed with drafts of manuscripts Seigl had worked on, these dating back—was it possible, fifteen or more years?—which Seigl was desperate to bring into some kind of order. Scattered among his things were several uncompleted novel manuscripts and countless essays, sketches for plays, isolated passages of translations from Greek and Latin texts. It had become Seigl’s habit to write feverishly until his strength ebbed, to put away material and begin again, often without glancing at what he’d already written. (Why? He was fearful it was no good, of course.) Over the years he’d accumulated thousands of pages of manuscripts of which possibly some fraction was decent, valuable, he had to hope, and this, he told Alma who stood silent, arms folded tightly beneath her breasts as she looked about the room with moist, rapidly blinking eyes, he wanted to “bring out of oblivion” with her help.

  Next, Seigl showed Alma the kitchen, where she’d be expected to prepare meals occasionally, lunch for instance, sometimes dinner, and he showed her where the vacuum cleaner and other cleaning items were kept, for she’d be expected to do light housekeeping as certainly something she could do. In the Book Seller Seigl had asked her bluntly what Scanlon was paying her hourly and he offered her twice that amount.

  Seigl asked if Alma had any questions.

  Alma mumbled no she guessed not.

  “You said you could type? A little?”

  Alma mumbled evasively yes. A little.

  “Can you operate a computer? Use a word processor? Do e-mail?”

  Alma folded her sturdy arms more tightly beneath her breasts, hugging herself, not breathing. Almost inaudibly she mumbled what sounded like I can try.

  Seigl laughed. Just the answer he should have expected.

  “Well. That’s about my expertise, too. But we’ll learn, Alma. The primary task is, to rescue my soul from oblivion.”

  To this playful remark, Alma wisely made no reply. She wouldn’t latch onto Seigl’s smile. He was in his Jewish mode, ironic and self-deprecatory, a mode which women invariably found sexually attractive, but Alma wasn’t one of these women. She wouldn’t even look at him, she was waiting for her instructions.

  Alma had a natural instinct, you might call it a natural dignity, Seigl was beginning to see, that allowed her not to seem to hear what was fanciful or irrelevant. If Seigl spoke of something she didn’t understand, something urgent she needed to know, she would inquire then. But only then.

  Now Seigl spoke th
e words he’d prepared.

  “Sometimes I might need help of another kind. Going down those stone steps outside, for instance. Or coming up. Getting into or out of my car. Sometimes I might need you to ride with me if I have to drive somewhere but this would be just within the city, not any distance. And you’ve said that you can drive, you have a license.”

  Alma nodded. Still she wasn’t looking at him. But she was listening intently.

  “As you might have noticed, sometimes I walk with a cane. I have a mild medical condition that isn’t expected to worsen. And isn’t contagious.” Seigl smiled, wanting Alma to smile with him: this was a joke. Please laugh! But Alma listened gravely, lips pursed shut. Seigl continued, as if subtly rebuked, “Our understanding is this, Alma: you are not to ask me about my health. You are never to ask me about my health. It’s a subject I don’t care to discuss. If I tell you, it will be because I’m obliged to.” Seigl paused, wondering if he’d said too much. Plunging head-on, beyond the words he’d carefully prepared to tell his assistant. Something in Alma’s taut expression, a sympathy in her tremulous eyelids and mouth, encouraged him. She is a born nurse. That’s why I have hired her. “But I don’t think I will be obliged to. I mean, as I’ve said, it’s a mild medical condition and it isn’t expected to progress. That is, worsen.”

  Alma stood silent. Seigl imagined sorrow in her heart.

  She’d made up her face for her first day working on the Hill. Her lips were vividly crimson, her pale eyebrows darkened with an eyebrow pencil, whether skillfully or clumsily Seigl was no one to judge. He was hardly a connoisseur of female cosmetics. He couldn’t even tell if she’d powdered over the blemish to minimize its effect. Her eyelids had a bluish, bruised tinge, and there were bluish shadowy hollows beneath her eyes. No disguising the truth of the eyes.