There had been a Sunday, about a month after he turned 48, when the idea sprung to him out of nowhere. He didn’t know where it came from — could have been from one of the interns at Rosen Pritchard, might be from Andy during one of his weekly visits at the clinic, or probably from a model he had glimpsed on a magazine — but it was definitely not from the hyenas that always dwelled inside him. He felt the creatures stir, though just briefly, at the mere thought.
A long time ago, Sundays were for walking. He had walked every neighborhood in Manhattan, Brooklyn, and Queens; had seen every juice stand and food stall and café that littered the roads leading up to his apartment.
But as his legs had become more determined to stop working for him over the years, Sundays had been converted into days for sleeping in, for staring mindlessly at the ceiling, for lying in bed as he watched the blackbirds glide across the sky outside until his stomach growled of hunger.
He’d been drifting in and out of sleep, curled up on his side of the bed. Next to him was Willem, half-awake, skin tinged golden and blue eyes made near translucent by the bright, late-morning light that washed over him. In the small space between them, there laid his right hand, scarred and singed an ugly pink from an incident he will always remember. Willem clasped it loosely with his fingers.
“Willem,” He started, testing the weight of the words in his tongue, “what if I — what if I get a tattoo?”
Willem opened his eyes and smiled at him. “That sounds awesome, Jude. Tell me more about it.”
He smiled back and felt giddy like a child who was being rewarded for a unique and random thought. And so he rolled on his back and began telling Willem of his dream tattoos.
The first one would have to be on his left wrist, the allegro from Haydn’s Sonata no. 50 in D Major, which he used to play for a lovely boy he once tutored named Felix. The second would be on his right one, x=x, the axiom of equality, as an homage to his love for mathematics. On his forearm, there will be Lispenard Street, complete with its huge windows and too-steep staircases. Willem had laughed then, which encouraged him to go on. Lispenard Street will connect into Greene Street — and defying logic — into Harley Street, and soon he will have a full map of New York snaking into London on his sleeve. Garrison, he explained slowly, would have to be on his torso because it was the largest home they ever owned and also the first house they built together, and so it deserved a huge space on his skin as it does in real life, what with its endless bushes of dandelions and tulips and plums.
Where else, Willem asked again and squeezed his hand. Jude had laughed , and Willem laughed because of him, and once their laughter had died down, he continued imagining out loud where he’d like to get inked. On his collarbone, a flock of birds. On his fingers, the phases of the moon. Along the slope of his shoulder would be V XI I IX IX II, roman numerals of the date when he was legally adopted by Harold and Julia. On the back of his calf, he’d have 42.3736° N, 71.1097° W, the coordinates of his adoptive parents’ house in Cambridge. If he’s particularly feeling up to it, he said, he might even have gougères tattooed above his elbow or maybe on the back of his hand, just because he knew how much Willem, JB, and Malcolm loved them when they were in college. Willem laughed, called him silly, and scooted closer until his head was tucked under his chin and their legs were tangled together beneath the sheets.
On his back, he continued, would be Greek letters of Odysseus’ name because he remembered how playing that role led Willem to his big break. Willem looked up at him and ran a fingertip on the back of his hand, on the ugly burn mark he had learned to live with for years. Then, he began reciting Willem’s films from memory: Latecomers, The Girl with the Silver Hands, The Iliad, The Odyssey, The Sycamore Court, The Poisoned Apple. Willem had such a diverse and interesting filmography that he knew even the large expanse of his back would not be enough to contain all the scenes and roles he had been in.
He felt Willem smile against his chest. “Jude, you would look like a Japanese gangster with that.”
A chuckle escaped his lips. “A mafia leader.”
“Exactly,” Willem said, “The yakuza wore tattoos on their back as a symbol of their success.” Willem stared up at him, smiling. “You are successful, Jude. But you wouldn’t want your back to look like my demo reel.”
“They are memories of you,” He argued, and before Willem could say anything else, he kissed him squarely on the lips, lingering and sweet.
“Memories,” Willem repeated with a smile after their lips parted.
“I am made of memories,” He thought out loud in a half-daze, and said it to Willem, and said it to the spaces of their big, bright-lit bedroom in the apartment they shared at Greene Street. “And I want everyone to know these are the places, these are the songs, these are the movies, and these are the people that I loved in my little life. That’s what I want them to think of when they look at me.”
It was easy to get lost in his make-believe for what are we as humans, he thought in that moment, but a collection of memories, of shared and lived experiences in past and present? We were born as a blank canvass, only to be painted and filled in by the people and places we meet as we age. Jude firmly believed that there was no singular moment in his life that was not informed by the languages he spoke, the songs he was taught, the books he was made to read, the food he was fed to eat. And the luxury of this new life — the one which he considered had started after he was fifteen — was nothing but an amalgamation of the people who loved him and also fell in love with each other along the way.
But what he didn’t tell Willem then was this: that fundamentally, he knew, no matter how many tattoos he got or how much ink he injected his into skin, there would always be the scars. That beneath the webs of streets of New York and London on his sleeve, there lay the cuts he made himself; hundreds of razor cuts he’d made that criss-crossed up to his tricep, so numerous that he sometimes no longer knew where it started and ended. That on his back were marks from the years he spent in the monastery, years he spent at the shelter, and the short but agonizing months he spent at Dr. Taylor’s. The evidence of the spine surgery he got, the aftermath of his near-fatal accident, caused by his own misgivings. That everywhere he looked, whether on his arms, on his back, or on his barely useful legs, he would always be the same person he was at fifteen — a person who inspires nothing but disgust.
He wondered briefly if, by some reason, Brother Luke taught him to tattoo himself instead of inflicting cuts on his arms to deal with the internal pain and rage he felt in those endless nights they spent at roadside motels — would he have turned out differently? Would he have liked himself better, would people fear him, would it throw off people like Dr. Taylor and Caleb? Would JB and Malcolm think he was cool from the start? Would Harold talk to him in the first place? And more importantly — would it enable Willem to touch him more often and more freely, seeing how he’s not repulsed by his own body?
“Willem, do you think it would be better if I was covered in tattoos?” He asked.
At this question, Willem propped his head on his arm, and looked at him, really looked at him, and he thought he’d never seen anyone exude such fondness in his eyes.
“Oh, Jude,” Willem began, “I’m happy that you’re you. I’m just thankful you’re alive. That is enough.” Willem said, then kissed him on the mouth and wrapped his arms around him.
It will never be enough, he wanted to retort as he got hit belatedly by the realization that he was still naked under the sheets and now Willem could feel every ugly scar and welt on his skin. But he waited until he no longer wanted to flinch, waited until he finally felt himself sag and relax into Willem’s embrace. And as they lapsed into silence and drifted back to sleep, Jude thought — his Sundays were always meant for this.
