The Girl with the Tattoo

CW: Substance abuse; Sexual content

The Girl with the Tattoo

SENSITIVE NOTE: It was a spring evening in Sevilla, Spain, and the jasmine’s fragrant scent filled all the beautiful streets of La Macarena. I knew I didn’t want to live anywhere else. We weren’t celebrating anything in particular. We had gone clay-pigeon shooting, or tiro al plato, like we frequently did on weekends. My friends insisted that we all go for some tapas: Tío, ¿cómo le vas a decir que no a un tintito y a un jamoncito serrano? Venga ya! (Bro, how are you going to turn down some red wine and prosciutto?) I really didn’t want to go. I said it was my father’s birthday, and the soccer was on too. Tio, venimos temprano y tu padre no puede cumplir años todos los meses- joder! (Bro, we’re coming back early, plus, your father can’t have a birthday every month-damn!) Juan Jose grabbed his hunting-quilted olive jacket, and out the door the four amigos went!

Juan Jose was called “Juan-Jo” by his friends and family. He was an average-looking guy with dirty blonde hair and blue eyes. He was pretty fit, by most standards, lifting weights at the gym 4x a week. He was okay with the girls. They liked him, but he wasn’t going steady with anyone right now. He had just spent a year studying in Italy. He was an altar server in church and was part of an elite cofradia society during Semana Santa (Holy Week), which is a big deal in Seville. Wearing white gloves, you go around the streets carrying religious statues on your shoulders as people yell compliments at the Blessed Virgin as she goes by the streets, all while throwing flowers at her: “Guapa, Te quiero” (Beautiful, I love you!). Like a love song drifting through the cobblestone streets, the dreamy smell of freshly made hot chocolate and churros fills the streets.

It was always the same scene. Meeting up with family and friends you’ve known your whole life. A kiss on both sides of the cheek, Tio, que pasa? Na, aquí, como siempre, estudiando y un poco de campo pa los pulmones — todos se ríen. (Bro-what’s up? Nothing- studying and some country air for the lungs. They all laugh). There’s loud flamenco playing in the crowded bar. People pretend to hear one another; as a result, most engage in pseudo-listening. They’re futile attempts to connect; it doesn't really matter to anyone, and people nod their heads. People are crammed around the bar like crowded sardines in a can. The bartender writes each one’s tab in white chalk in front of them on the counter. A gypsy girl of around 15 years old entered the bar selling carnation flowers and rosemary for good luck.

The gypsy had long, black hair that draped down her back like olive vines. Her brown face was lit up by big emerald-green eyes, and she had old scars. They’re like quiet roadmaps to places and things she’s been to or seen. She wears worn-out slippers, and her feet are cracked from so much walking. Juan Jose takes a drink of his tinto de verano and envisions her life. She walks into their gypsy home and slaps down 10 euros on the table. EA-¡eso es to! (Okay, that’s all!). Hija, eso no da ni pa una tortilla española-joder! (Girl! That’s not enough for a spanish omlette, damn!)

“¡Bueno, pues sal tú a buscarte la vida, hijo; eso es lo que hay, ea! (So, you go out, son, and hustle out there! Oh well, that’s all there is!) Siempre lo mismo, tía. Ostia! ¡No cambias! (Always the same with you. Nothing changes with you. Damn it!) The gypsy girl starts saying something smart, but she’s interrupted by the kids walking into the apartment. The kids arrive looking more battered than the young gypsy girl. Pepe and Loli are 8 and 9 years old, respectively. They enter the apartment talking over each other heatedly.

Their father orders them to talk one at a time. “Loli, you first. Did you guys get anything today?” “Yes, I pick-pocketed a rich old lady waiting at a light to cross the street, and she had this in her pocket!” She slams a phone and a set of keys on the wooden table triumphantly, like she just threw down the winning baraja Española at a tournament (card move).

The dad smiles in approval. He shoots the teenage gypsy girl a glance that could kill. “Pepe, ¿no me digas que te dejas ganar por las niñas?” (Pepe, don’t tell me you let the girls beat you?” Yo estuve cantando en las calles todo el día y me dieron esto (I was singing on the streets all day and I got this!). He slaps 50 euros jubilantly on the table. The father proudly runs his hand through his son’s oily curly black hair. Ea, mu bien (very good).

“Juan-Jo, the gypsy girl is not that cute. Check out the American girls over there! Let’s go practice some English.” The four walk in a row, and with the confidence of only the Beatles. They flip their hair back in unison. “Gringas, me, Francisco, and he points to the other three- Juan-Jo, Daniel, and Miguel. More hair flipping. “You like tapas?” “Yes, we’ve had some manchego cheese and gambas (shrimps) so far!” answered the blonde girl with brown eyes. Her friends agreed, smiling. “Ole!” exclaimed Francisco. “You chavas (girls) want to learn how to dance flamenco?” “YES! All four girls exclaimed at once. “Okay, I know where we can dance!”

Francisco and his friends went to a tavern where there was dancing. Flamenco music played one after the other, and there was even a performance with a ferocious female dancer in a fitted black dress and white poker dots that magnified her curvaceous body. The dancer wore her hair pulled back tightly with gel and a big red flower. She jumped up and stamped her feet with the passion of a mad woman. Juan Jose felt these foreigners wouldn’t understand it, but he smiled like a proud father. It would be easy for others to assume that the dancer was dealing with an internal battle, perhaps even an evil spirit. Juan-Jo laughed louder this time to himself for such an insane thought as he sipped some tinto and yelled, “Ole, a la madre que te pario, joder!” (Ole to your mother for having birthed such talent! Damn!). He knew all this passion represented talent at its best. achieving duende—a trancelike state of heightened emotion. People yelled “Ole!’ as they threw red carnations on stage as a sign of approval. Then, the guitars-they cried so passionately. Each chord tugged at Juan-Jo’s heart. There was pain, sorrow, and anger in each one of the chords. They produced a fast, responsive tone with rapid decay. They were all so familiar to Juan-Jo. He had seen his grandmothers, mothers, aunts, and sisters dance flamenco. The ladies danced in their colorful flamenco dresses, providing backup singing and clapping at the Seville Fair. It signifies the resilience and history of the Romani people (gitanos) and marginalized communities in Southern Spain, although today it’s just a dance that represents all of Spain.

Francisco does some toreros moves as he caresses his tonic. He lowers his head and looks under his bushy eyebrows. The ultima estocada antes de matar al toro (the last thrust before killing the bull). His guests seemed impressed with Francisco’s magnificent dance.

It was then that the taconeo (heel-clicking) began. It was a crescendo-slowly, then fast, faster, and like magic, the male dancer was dancing as if his life depended on it. He spun faster than the human eye can catch it and landed on one heel, while the other leg was stretched out behind him after a pirouette! The hair toss back and “Ole!” The crowd went off the deep end with excitement. It’s as if the planet had just been turned on its head. The dancer believed with every cell in his body that he had achieved the unachievable-there was a mix of arrogance and pride in his expression! He did a slow, torero scan with his hand as he stood still as a tree trunk, and the crowd yelled, "Torero!" meaning the maximum compliment for a Spanish dancer. More carnations fly at his feet.

Everybody was drunk at the end of the night, and everybody grabbed a partner to make out with. Juan-Jo could feel the nicotine in his mouth swish with saliva and wine. There was laughter and yelling. He heard wine glasses smashing on the cement floor. He couldn’t remember which one of the four geniuses took the group, which included the American girls, to an abandoned warehouse where they smoked hashish (a type of weed). A girl kissed him, but he didn’t see her face. He just kissed her back. It didn’t matter who it was, and there was no way he would put his macho-Spanish reputation on the line. Someone pulled his pants down, and what had to happen happened.

The next morning, before the sun came up, Juan-Jo wasn’t sure what to feel. There were broken bottles and underwear thrown about. He hoped everybody was an adult. He wasn’t even sure how old he was for a minute-oh yeah, right 21. Juan-Jo saw an arm sticking out from under the sheets. A girl with a freshly made manicure and a tattoo on the wrist. It was the face of a cat with a cross hanging from its collar, it said, “Mr. Boots.” The cat appeared to be looking straight at Juan-Jo. Juan-Jo couldn’t get himself to accept that he, this girl, and Mr. Boots had been intimate. This poor girl probably did things she had never done before, perhaps because she was in a different country, maybe because no one would know? Or because she was so intoxicated. He felt awful. Juan-Jo’s headache was killing him, and as quietly as he could, he gathered his belongings and, like Zorro in the night, escaped.

As Juan-Jo walked back home, he couldn’t stop thinking of the girl with no face. Her scent was impregnated on his skin. Although he had been drunk, he felt he would never meet someone else like her again. He felt like there had been a connection at a deeper level; his soul told him so. Juan Jose took a deep breath and filled his lungs with the sweet smell of oranges only found in Andalusian streets. The desolate, sweetly perfumed streets reminded him of the sensation of his fingertips on her gentle, satin skin. He rushed home. Juan Jose wanted to wash the memory away and never have to think of the faceless girl, the cat, and the cross.

Exactly two weeks to the day, Juan Jose was at school in the lunchroom getting his lunch tray. As he reached for the tray, someone else reached at the same time. It was a freshly manicured hand with a cat tattoo wearing a cross on its collar, and it read “Mr. Boots.” Juan Jose swallowed hard. He had no saliva in his mouth. He hadn’t stopped thinking of this girl since they had been together, and now here she was, grabbing the same tray as he. He loved this girl, not because he knew her intimately but because he knew her soul. It all happened so quickly, but he released his grip on the tray, and he heard a girl with an American accent say, “Thank you.” He nodded his head and slowly turned around to see her walk away. She had the figure of a goddess, a statuesque, with long brunette hair. She might have been pulled out of a mermaid fairytale. The girl didn’t remember him. She was munching on her bocadillo de jamon (ham sandwich) without a care in the world as she laughed with her friends. Juan-Jo forgot to get his lunch; instead, he walked to the opposite end of the lunchroom and looked at his love from afar. It’s probably best that he keep her faceless, he thought. This would be a secret between Mr. Boots and him forever.