The Bat Tattoo Read Free

to well-meaning people — all kinds of things get in the way sometimes. There was nothing objectionable about him. He was wearing jeans, a green anorak and a broad-brimmed green canvas hat, Timberlake boots, and had a rucksack slung from one shoulder. He was about my age, perhaps a year or two older, with nothing at all memorable about him; I guessed he often had trouble catching the waiter’s eye. I couldn’t tell if he was a tourist or not. He spoke quietly and his accent wasn’t as American as some I’ve heard. Maybe it was the state I was in, but he seemed a failed person to me. Failed at what? I don’t know — there was just that air about him and it put me off. He looked as if he expected to be rebuffed and I suppose I was brusque with him because of that. He was persistent, though, and after I said I was fine he said I didn’t look fine, so I told him I didn’t need help and he finally moved on.
    I went in, checked my things, took the lift to Level D, and turned the corner into the long daylit gallery eager for my fix. The cool grey light refreshed my spirit immediately; it was what these beautiful things lived in, the air they breathed, a medium of non-forgetting. There was no one else in the gallery.
    I’m sure that other people have their little rituals; I can’t be the only one. I took up my station facing the lobed bowl with the four red bats that were visible from where I stood. Mine is the lower one on the right, the upward-flying bat. With my right hand I reached into my jumper and touched the identical bat tattooed on my left shoulder. Ordinarily I do the whole thing in silence but this time I said very quietly, ‘Yongzheng, this is Sarah Varley requesting permission to feel better.’
    Just then I heard footsteps so I took my hand out of my jumper and tried to look like everyone else. Out of the corner of my eye I saw that it was the man who’d spoken to me on the steps. This time he just stood behind me trying to see around me until I turned and was rather unkind to him. His only response was to ask me if I’d be finished in fifteen minutes or so. Americans! There was nothing for me to do but walk away although I was sure that he had designs on my bat. I hadn’t had my full fix and I was frustrated and deeply resentful at the intrusion.
    I went round the corner towards the lift but then on impulse I moved back to where I could see him. He had his camera out and was taking pictures of the bowl with
my
bat. The day had started badly and now I seemed to be in danger of losing it altogether. Taking what was left of it back home was like carrying water in my hands.
    What was my bat to that man? What did he want with it, why did he need it? Why couldn’t he find something else to get interested in? That sort of thing happens to me too often at auctions: when I want something it attracts other dealers who jump in and even if it’s a lot they don’t fancy they’ll bid it up out of sheer perversity and then drop out so I’m stuck with paying more than I’d planned to.
    Between Earls Court and West Brompton the train stopped as if reality had run out of film and for a while there was silence except for a City type who said into his mobile, ‘I’m stuck here between Earls Court and West Brompton.’ When the train started he made another call and said, ‘Now we’re moving again.’
    Think about something else, I said to myself. I thought about what I’d pack for Chelsea, reviewing costume jewellery, handbags, dresses, china, and various oddments. Should Iloosen up and take the minaudière? I wondered. The hammer price at Christie’s last year was two-forty and I’d been saving it as an investment but I needed to create some excitement at my stall so it mightn’t be a bad idea to bring it out into the world. While imagining how it would look on the stall I found myself at home without having noticed how I got there. ‘
Collectors’ Lot
, I’m home,’ I said, and switched on Channel 4 in