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

hundred pounds for radio controls and aerials, motors and installation. I painted the quartered yellow-and-black discs on the dummies and varnished them. The smooth hardness of the lime and the polished surfaces heightened the anatomical hyperbole so that even side by side in repose the figures had a beguiling lewdness. When the male dummy zoomed into readiness and the female received him they did what they were designed to do; their blind and expressionless faces radiated a mystic calm while their lower parts worked tirelessly. The primary receptive orifice, lined with foam rubber, maintained a discreet silence as the pelvises kept up a quiet clacking thatwas as cosy as the tick of a kitchen clock. I put a Walkman mechanism and two little speakers in the base, the top of which was upholstered like the back seat of a car. The audio was car-crash sound effects, and I looped the tape so that the noise was continuous. When I had the whole thing put together with the dummies bonking and the sound crashing I showed it to Dieter and he said, ‘There we have it — dummy sex on a road to nowhere.’
    I faxed M. Delarue and he replied that I was to send the radio controls, described as being for models, via DHL. The base was to go the same way, described as a customised Walkman. The figures would be collected by his personal courier the next afternoon. At about three o’clock that day a very large man with a shaven head appeared at my door. He had a big smile, several gold teeth, and an unbroken nose; my guess was that the other man’s nose was normally the one to get broken. He was about seven feet tall and carried a Louis Vuitton holdall. His suit was expensive but his wrists and hands came out of the sleeves in a grappling sort of way. ‘I am Jean-Louis, arrived by Eurostar,’ he said. ‘Me, I am ready to roll.’ His taxi stood waiting.
    ‘Do you watch a lot of American TV?’ I said. ‘
Hill Street Blues
repeats?’
    ‘You got it. I come from M. Delarue. Here is ID, also message.’ He pulled out a wallet and showed me a driver’s licence which identified him as Jean-Louis Galantière.
    ‘Nice name,’ I said.
    He shrugged. ‘It goes.’
    The note from M. Delarue confirmed that my visitor was who he said he was and would give me a cheque for twenty thousand pounds as soon as he received the figures from me. Ten thousand of this was a down payment on anew commission: a crash-dummy mastiff for which he was again offering twenty thousand pounds. The mastiff was to have the usual fully functional parts and was to be made to the same scale as the male and female dummies.
    ‘OK?’ said Jean-Louis, looking at his watch. ‘We are burning daylight, pardner.’
    ‘You like John Wayne?’
    ‘In my book he is Number One. With him no one takes liberties. You give me merchandise, I give you money, I am out of here, yes?’ He opened the Louis Vuitton and let loose a powerful aroma of dirty socks. ‘My cover,’ he explained. ‘The
douanier
looks not too close.’
    ‘Are you sure you’ll get through Customs all right?’
    ‘No problem. I am as one invisible.’
    ‘You’re a whole lot of invisible,’ I said.
    ‘Rest you tranquil — it goes.’
    I removed the batteries from the figures and put them in a small bag which I gave Jean-Louis with the written operating instructions. ‘What an
équipement
,’ he said when he saw the male figure.
    ‘Life is short but Art is long,’ I replied.
    He wrapped each figure separately in dirty socks, put them into hidden side compartments in the Louis Vuitton and closed it. He gave me the cheque and we shook hands. ‘
Au revoir
,’ he said.
    ‘
Au revoir
. Would you like something before you go? One for the road?’
    ‘Have you perhaps the Jack Daniel’s? A small one only.’
    I fetched the bottle and two glasses, and poured us both large ones, confident that M. Delarue could afford the taxi’s waiting time. ‘
Santé
,’ said Jean-Louis as we clinked glasses.
    ‘Here’s