The Tattoo

The Tattoo

Old Mrs. Vadnai was dying. “She has two or three weeks to live,” said the doctor, “it’s arteriosclerosis in its last phase.”
The hunchbacked lawyer, who gads drawn up the support contract, entered the room. He wore a dark suit and carried a briefcase under his arm. He whispered something to the translator about administrative matters after death and asked for his fee.
Old Mrs. Vadnai rarely spoke. When she did, it was generally incoherent. Dates were mixed up in her sclerotic mind. Wars, terrors and counter-terrors, detention and death camps all mingled in an unorganized fashion. One time, she told a relatively coherent story about a handsome young man, who had stood making a speech from the balcony of a building in the heart of the city. Many people had gathered to listen to him, a lot of soldiers, civilians and she, Mrs. Vadnai, and her best friend. What a pretty young miss she had been in those days. Then someone fired a gun, which gave Mrs. Vadnai and her friend a terrible fright: they run down Rákóczi Street, turned into a side street at Keleti Station, and stumbled over each over in Garay Street and – hop! – had suddenly come upon an umbrella. Then she rambled on about the umbrella. It had been as good as new, black, and very elegant.
The translator listened attentively and concluded that the handsome man must have been Count Mihály Károlyi announcing the dethronement of the Habsburgs, proclaiming Hungary a republic from the balcony of Hotel Astoria.
In her final week, the old woman couldn’t be left alone. The translator, because of the support contract stipulating his care of the old woman in return of her apartment, moved in so that he could pander to the whims of her failing mind. He cursed himself for having given in to the old woman’s aversion to hospitals and for having arranged to stay at her home. He had been unable to hire a nurse so he himself was obligated to undertake even the most odious tasks. He had to fight back an urge to throw-up every time he changed and washed the old woman’s bedding. Feelings of pity and anger mingled within him at the sight of the helpless body.

The doctor came to see old Mrs. Vadnai every other day. Upon his orders, a nurse came every morning to give her injections. She was a long-legged, short-skirted young woman. She chatted away cheerfully while preparing the injection, jetting a few drops of the liquid into the air; she jabbered on mindlessly about the weather and about prices while the old woman lay indifferently. The nurse always gave the injection into the vein of the right arm. That was more handy. Old Mrs. Vadnai’s mouth twitched every time.
“Okay Mrs. Vadnai, we’re big girls now and big girls don’t cry. Isn’t that right, Mrs. Vadnai?” said the young woman withdrawing the needle and packing up. On her way out, she threw a flirtatious glance to the wary translator.
The nurse brought the sunshine into the sick room on the sixth floor, where the atmosphere was stifling even in the pleasant spring air.
One morning, she happened to ring the bell as the translator was throwing some soiled underwear into the washing machine in the bathroom. The translator washed his hands and hurried out to open the door in his under shirt. The nurse came in with a coquettish smile, sat down, took out the needle and, as usual, rolled up the sleeve of the old woman’s nightgown.
“Oh dear” she sighed, “not even the itsy-bitsy, tiniest room is left here,” so she set about rolling up the sleeve on the other side and quickly injected the liquid in the vein of the left arm. The old woman’s mouth twitched.
The nurse pulled out the needle.
“That’s right, Mrs. Vadnai. We are big girls now and big girls don’t cry” she blabbered on as she poured alcohol on a piece of cotton and placed it on the mark left by the injection. The suddenly she became silent. She had caught sight of a number tattooed on the wrinkled, pale skin of the old woman’s forearm.
“I’ll be…” she uttered running bright red nails along the blue ink of the staggering numbers: “AB 30876… Oh! Mrs. Vadnai, why have we had our social security number tattooed in our arm?”

The old woman’s eyes remained indifferent.
The nurse pursed her painted, red lips attentively and batted her eyes uncomprehendingly. Slowly, she closed her mouth and kept still in the heavy silence: then she took a deep breath. The translator half closed his eyes.
Alarmed, the nurse quickly dropped the needle and the piece of cotton into her bag, pressed herself close to the wall and slipped out of the room.
Old Mrs. Vadnai died that evening.

AuthorBékés Tail
2018-08-21T17:24:02+00:00 October 1st, 1998|Categories: Prose, Blesok no. 05, Literature|0 Comments