The Bat Tattoo by Russell Hoban Read Free Book Online Page A

said.
    ‘Goes pretty good, I think,’ said Scharf. ‘There never was a St Eustace.’
    ‘Just as well for him and his family; in the story they ended up being roasted alive in a brazen bull.’
    ‘This will teach us not to talk to strange stags. Have you an interesting problem for me?’
    ‘I think so.’ I showed him my sketches and explained my requirements.
    Scharf laid the sketches on his work-bench and perused them, humming ‘
Der Lindenbaum
the while.
    ‘How come you’re humming that?’ I said.
    ‘It’s one of those songs that’s often in my head, it’s a goodbye song — he’s saying goodbye to his youth, his dreams, his hopes. The rustling of the branches speaks to him, offering rest; but for him there is no rest as off he goes on his winter journey. No rest for any of us, not?’
    ‘I guess not.’
    He drummed on the sketches with his charcoal-burner’s fingers. ‘Someone has commissioned you to make this?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘You’ll do anything for money, yes?’
    ‘I’ll do a lot of things for money.’
    ‘I also. Have you met this person who commissions you to do this?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘What, a letter comes out of nowhere?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Then a cheque?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Wonderful.’ He spread out the sketches and lit one of his foul cigars. ‘You want both figures to be active, yes?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘In any position and independent of a base?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘So for this we need radio control. There must be an aerial on each one and I think you don’t want the sort that sticks up as on a model car.’
    ‘No.’
    ‘We can do internal ones if the distances are short. Probably these are for indoor use, not?’
    ‘I doubt very much he’d be taking them outdoors.’
    ‘So internal is OK then. You want the whole articulated torso to be motorised or only the pelvis?’
    ‘Pelvis only — the articulation will allow the rest of the torso to move with it.’
    ‘Arms? Legs?’
    ‘They’ll stay in the position they’re put in except as the pelvis moves them.’
    ‘Your sketch indicates that his pimmel elevates and extends — a commanding member, this one.’
    ‘Well, you know, this whole thing is what it is.’
    ‘I can make it work. You want the batteries in the thighs?’
    ‘That’s what I’m hoping. Will that be a problem?’
    ‘No, we can do this. Let me make my calculations, and if you phone me tomorrow I can tell you how much this will cost.’
    We said our goodbyes; I made my way through the cigar smoke and walked home thinking about Adelbert Delarue. Twenty thousand pounds for a bonking toy! What kind of man would pay that kind of money for such a thing? Obviously someone who had money to throw around, and he’d turned up at a time when I needed money. This wholething began to feel like something fated. Not for the first time I tried to visualise M. Delarue: sometimes I saw him alone and scholarly in a booklined study; sometimes in action with a partner while watching my crash-test dummies. Occasionally St Eustace and company got into the picture; Eustace leapt off his horse, the stag reared up; Jesus popped out of its head and watched while the dummies did their thing and M. Delarue and partner (frequently a stern housekeeper) did theirs.
    When I got home I worked out how to get the necessary parts out of my blocks of lime, then I made drawings, transferred them to the wood, clamped the first block in the Scopas Chops, picked up chisel and mallet, and got started on the male torso. The mallet blows and the bite of the chisel sounded good to me; as the shavings fell away from my blade I felt hooked-up, connected, and it occurred to me that this might be how artists felt. In six weeks my figures were ready for Dieter Scharf. The drilling and carving for the motor, battery, and wiring spaces had been ticklish but although I’d bought enough wood to allow for errors and wastage I hadn’t made any errors and I’d wasted nothing.
    Dieter Scharf charged me twenty-five