Never in my life would I have thought about traveling to Paraguay, just for a tattoo. And yet, on a winter morning of the year 1926, I saw this strangely-dressed man. One boot. One sandal. Shorts and a trenchcoat. Sunglasses and a knitted hat. As if, when he got up this morning, there was no way he could've known what the weather was going to be today, and yet he wanted to be dressed accordingly. This strange, neurotic, impression was confirmed by his mechanical walk and calculated movements. He greeted all passers-by with the exact same "Good day!"
As he entered my café,
he stood there, shook, as he saw me sitting at the right-most table, walking over and without question taking my notebook and throwing it across the room.
"You have no right to be here!" I scared myself in my sudden rage. "What are you doing here, bill?" I asked emphatically.
He answered:
"You're supposed to be sitting on a plane to Paraguay. And yet you're sitting here, in a shabby café, writing down thoughts of no importance to the world."
"So what, you were serious?"
The mechanical man looked down at this feet and then back up to me. "Do I not look serious?"
For a moment I contemplated whether to speak out the obvious. Then, pretending not to have heard his question and insults, I said,
"Well, since you're here; let's go together."
"To Paraguay?"
"Yes. You will accompany me to Paraguay and you will make sure that I get that tattoo and that will be the end of it. Do you understand, Bill? This will be the last time we speak. Are you not happy about it? Will you deny it?"
And so we flew to Paraguay that day and we took a cab from the airport. And not once had we spoken or looked at each other. Just once, as the cab pulled up to the parlour, I thought I heard him open his mouth as if to speak. But not a word was said as I opened the door and stepped in.
And this is how I got this tattoo. In Paraguay, next to a man I twice met. Once today, and once at my mother's funeral. "Esmeralda de l'Oro, 1862 - 1926". He got one there too.