July 10
“Nipple tattoo, madame?”
That’s how it started, really. It didn’t start at the airport, or at Gretl’s house, or even the few days I spent sightseeing around St. Andras, the little town in Austria where my cousin Gretl lived. No, it started with an inquiry about nipples, and since I’m determined to set this all down for posterity, I will do my best to record exactly what happened.
It’s certainly the oddest thing I’ve ever lived through, but I probably shouldn’t mention that, because according to the creative writing class I took seven years ago, that’s considered foreshadowing, and it’s a grave sin when trying to explain how events came about. I’ll stick to just what happened without the benefit of hindsight from here on out, I promise.
Shoot, now I’ve forgotten where… Oh, the nipple tattoos.
“Er…” I blinked in surprise at the polite inquiry made by a spiky-haired woman in a short Lolita skirt and a red and white striped vinyl PVC corset that I was willing to bet made her sweat like crazy. “I don’t think… On the nipple? That has to be impossible, not to mention beyond painful and into the land of downright insane.”
The woman shrugged, dusting off a black leather barber’s chair with a small cloth. “It’s a personal statement that cannot be denied by all who see it. I thought perhaps since Madame was staring at the photos, Madame might be interested in one for herself.” The woman’s light gray eyes cast an assessing glance toward my chest. “Since perhaps Madame feels a need to emphasize what she has.”
“Yes, well, Madame may not have big boobs, but she isn’t into pain at all, especially on her nipples. I wasn’t staring at the photos of your past customers,” I added, avoiding looking at the various shots of newly pierced and tattooed customers that bedecked one wall of the small stall. “I was intrigued by that bust you have in the back. It’s a phrenologist’s head, isn’t it? The kind used in the last century to illustrate the meaning of the bumps on people’s heads?”
“Yes. It belongs to Justinia, my partner. She is in Salzburg tonight, but will return tomorrow if you wish to have her read your head.”
“Actually, I’m a photographer.” I held up my small Nikon. “Amateur, but I hope to take enough photos while I’m spending the summer here in Austria to start a new career, and I just love the setting of that phrenologist’s head. Would you mind if I took a few pictures of it?”
She shrugged again, gesturing with a lazy hand at the back of the booth. “As Madame desires.”
“Are you guys going to be here for long? The…uh…sideshow, I mean?” I asked, taking a few preliminary shots before digging out one of my filters to add a more stark look to the image.
“The GothFaire is not a sideshow. It is a traveling fair featuring feats of magic as well as vendors purveying many curiosities and fantastical services that you will not find anywhere else in the world,” the woman answered in a faintly singsong Scandinavian accent. “We are not freaks or desperate attention seekers. We are learned in lore that has long been hidden from common knowledge. We are artisans, dealers in magic, granters of the most unlikely fantasies.”
“Wow, all that in one little traveling fair,” I murmured as I moved to the side to get another series of shots with a second filter.
“We are unique. Madame will find nothing like us anywhere else in the world. Here are mystics and philosophers, magicians and conjurers of the ethereal.”
I had doubts that a tattoo and piercing artist could be described as ethereal, especially when viewed in relation to one’s nipples, but kept that thought to myself, instead murmuring inconsequential comments as I satisfied my need to capture on film the fascinating old bust.
“Io? You’re not thinking of getting something pierced, are you?”
I turned to smile at the middle-aged woman who stood clutching a plastic carrier bag, her eyes wide and wary. “No, this kind lady was letting me photograph her phrenologist’s head.”
The spiky-haired vendor eyed first Gretl, my second cousin, whom I’d known since I was a small child, then me. “I can offer a discounted price for more than one tattoo, if Madame’s friend would care to join her. I am happy to do a tattoo of a more intimate nature, if that is desired. I am told that my work on labias is unparalleled.”
Gretl’s eyes widened even more. I took her by the arm and steered her away from the tattoo artist, saying as we left, “I appreciate the offer, but I never jump into something without thinking it through, and that includes tattoos on my naughty parts. Thanks again for letting me have pictures of your partner’s head.”
“Did you know that woman?” Gretl asked as we moved down the center aisle of the fair. She cast a glance over her shoulder, as if she was worried the tattooist was going to chase us down and force us to get vagina tats.
“Not at all. But she was interesting, don’t you think? Well, this whole place is interesting. How did you hear about it?”
“An old friend of mine works here. I went to see if she was here, but her booth was closed. The Wiccan lady next to her told me that she was off shopping, though, and she should be back any time. What would you like to do while we wait for her?” Gretl stopped and looked around.
I looked with her. The GothFaire itself consisted of two rows of booths set up in a U shape and a large main tent standing at the bottom. Flyers rippling in the breeze proclaimed that two bands would be playing later in the evening, but a couple of magic shows were scheduled earlier. I glanced at my watch. “I’d love to see the magic acts, but those don’t start for an hour. How about we check out the palm reader? Or they have some sort of aura-photography thing. That might be fun. I wonder what sort of camera tricks they use to give people auras? Maybe I could examine their setup and figure it out.”
Gretl laughed and nudged my hand, which was still holding my camera. “Trust you to want to see the photography booth.”
“That’s why I’m here, after all,” I said lightly, gesturing down the length of the fair to where a booth with a giant eyeball was painted on a wooden sign.
“You are here to recover from recent events in your life, nothing more,” Gretl said firmly, stopping me when I began to protest. “I would never be able to look myself in the face if I made you work while you were staying with me. You relax. You rest. You get your feet under you again, and then you will return to the States and find yourself a new job—a better one, one that will not have an employer who tries to grope you.”
“I could have handled Barry’s octopus hands if it had just been that, but when he found out I filed a sexual harassment charge, he cooked a few accounts to make it look like I messed up. Lying, despicable, boob-grabbing bastard.” I took a deep breath, reminding myself that I had two and a half long months to get over losing my job and my apartment in the same week. A new home shouldn’t be too hard to find, although this time I’d make sure the owner of the building didn’t plan on selling it out from underneath all his tenants. “And photography is relaxing to me, Gretl. This is going to be the best summer I’ve had since…well, since the last time I spent the summer with you.”
She laughed. “You were sixteen then. Much has changed in St. Andras in that time.”
“It still seems to be the same cute little Austrian town to me.” I nodded over her head to where a ruined castle perched on a hill. “Picturesque as hell, and so charming I probably won’t want to go back home at the end of the summer, just like I didn’t when I was sixteen. Have I told you that you’re the best cousin ever for inviting me to stay with you?”
“Yes, and I have an ulterior motive, you know,” she answered, pushing me along the line of booths. “Now that Anna is married, I have the empty tree.”
“Empty nest? Yes, I suppose you do. But it’s not like you don’t have a lot going on in your life, what with your yoga classes and that program for encouraging new artists that you were telling me about on the way here.”
“Pfft. I am never too busy for family. Oh, look! Imogen is back. That is my old friend. I have known her for, oh, over thirty years. You will like her—she has a way about her that makes everyone very comfortable. Imogen!”
Gretl hurried forward to where a tall, elegant woman with long curly blond hair was arranging bowls of small polished rocks on a black velvet tablecloth. I followed slowly in order to give Gretl time to greet her friend. The woman turned and Gretl checked for a moment.
“Gretl? Can it be you?” The blonde started toward Gretl with a surprised but welcoming smile.
“Yes, it is me,” my cousin answered, her voice sounding odd. “But you! You have not changed since the last time I saw you more than twelve years ago. How is this? What magical face cream are you using to look so young?”
Imogen laughed, but the lines around her eyes were stark rather than happy. Her complexion was pale, normal for blondes, but it struck me that she was a little too pale, as if she was under a great strain. “It is nothing but genetics, I’m afraid. You, however, look as wonderful as you did when we last met! And you are a grandmother! It must be all those yoga classes about which you wrote to me.”
The two ladies hugged, and I was pleased for Gretl’s sake to see genuine affection in her friend’s blue eyes.
“I do not look even close to wonderful, but I am content as I am,” Gretl said as she released Imogen. “Now I must introduce to you my cousin from the States. Iolanthe, this is Imogen Slovik. Iolanthe is staying with me for the summer.”
We murmured pleasantries and shook hands. “You are being a tourist?” Imogen asked a few minutes later when she and Gretl had caught up on the most immediate of news. “Are you traveling around Austria, or staying in St. Andras?”
“A little of each. I’m using this break as kind of a working holiday,” I said, holding up my camera. “I’m trying to make a start in the photography world, so right now I’m poking around St. Andras looking for interesting locations. Luckily, there’s a lot to choose from here.”
