neck. The doors unlocked with a click and then the tattooed man vaulted across the front hood, landed in the passenger seat with a soft plink as his skin hit the plastic.
“Nice car, friend,” said the tattooed man as he clapped his hands together.
“It's a rental,” said the journalist, and he was amazed as he drove away, reversing through the crowd of kids, that the tattooed man leaned his head on his shoulder, like some lover.
At the bend in the road, near the fridge, he turned the car around, beeped, waved out the window to the children. His stomach heaved. He shoved the car into gear. The kids waved as the car wheels caught, cheered as mud flew in the air. The hedges shot by. They passed the women stil washing sheets in the river. The tattooed man popped out the ashtray and began picking through the smoked butts.
“I won't gyp you,” he said as he smoothed out the crushed end of a cigarette, and the journalist felt as if he had been chest-kicked by the word, as if it meant nothing at al , like fly or shit or sunrise.
The road widened and curled up the hil . The tires gripped hard on the tarmac. His knuckles turned white on the wheel. He had no idea what he could do to get rid of the tattooed man, but then—in sight of the town—it struck him. That's it, he thought. It was simple, honest, elegant. He would go to the supermarket and buy baby formula, yes, baby formula, and milk, and cereal, and tiny jars of food, and some clean bottles, some ointment, some rubber nipples, a box of diapers, a tub of baby-wipes, even a dol if they had one, yes, a dol , that would be good, that would be right. Maybe he would throw in a few extra krowns. He would emerge from the supermarket laden down and at ease.
He leaned back and steered the wheel with one hand, but when he rounded the corner towards a low row of shops, the tattooed man turned to him as if he had divined his intention and said: “Y'know, they don't al ow any of us into the market, friend.” His skin plinked away from the plastic of the seat. “We are forbidden, there's none of us al owed.”
The wheel bumped against the curb.
The tattooed man was out of the car before it had even stopped. He vaulted the hood again and opened the door before the key was out of the ignition. “Cash machine,” he said, pointing. “Over there.”
The journalist cast about for a policeman, or a bank official, anyone. A few teenagers sat brooding on a low brick wal . Under their swinging legs, the faded graffiti read: “Gyps go home.” The tattooed man tightened his grip and they crossed to the machine.
“Stand back,” the journalist said, and was surprised to see the man shuffle backwards.
Some of the teenagers laughed and one wolf-whistled.
“Stand back or there's no money. Do you hear me?”
The teenagers laughed again.
He shielded the numbers from view as he punched them into the keyboard. The high beeps of the machine sounded out. Behind him the tattooed man was moving foot to foot, biting his lip. The cogs rattled and the levers whirled. Two hundred knowns came out in twenty-krown notes. He ripped them from the rol ers, turned, walked four steps, and thrust the money into the tattooed man's hand.
“The baby is so hungry.”
“No,” he said, “there'sno more.”
He was seven steps from the machine when he heard the receipt cough out from the wal . He froze, then turned and jogged back to get it, crumpled it in his fist.
“Five hundred please, five hundred, she's so hungry.”
The journalist patted his wal et again to make sure nothing had been lifted.
“Please, Uncle, please.”
He pul ed the handle of the car door, his hands slippery with sweat. The keys shook as he shoved them into the ignition. The engine caught. He locked al four locks simultaneously.
The tattooed man pressed his face up against the window. His mouth was moist and red.
“Thank you,” he mouthed, his breath fogging the glass.
The car lurched forward and a wave of cool air enveloped him. “Fuck,” the journalist said. He swung out onto the road. “Fuck.” The light was fading. In the rearview mirror he saw the tattooed man striding off in the direction of the supermarket, swaggering as the electronic doors opened.
The man entered the market with a smal skip of his feet and his head disappeared amongst the shoppers.
The car clipped the curb and the moist face print dissolved from the window.
As he drove along the winding road towards the highway, looking back down on the settlement, the journalist felt what he thought was a sadness, or an ache, or a desire, and these thoughts heartened him, warmed him with their misery, and he pretended that a part of himself wanted to slide down the bank, wade through the filthy river, give them al that he owned, and walk home, penniless, decent, healed, return their ancient dignity by leaving, by the riverbank, his own.
He drove on, then reversed once more, got out, and stood on the hil overlooking the settlement. The satel ite dishes looked like so many white mushrooms: he used to go wandering in Spissy Podhraide for those.
The last of the light winked on the metal roofs. Some children rol ed a bicycle wheel through the mud, stepping in and out of their own lengthenings, shadows of shadows.
He narrated a brief line into his tape recorder and played it back to himself: it was empty and stupid and he erased it.
A brief spit of low cloud went across the sun. He lifted his col ar against the breeze and he looked down again, towards the camp. The man with the tattoos was returning across the bridge. He was carrying a flimsy plastic bag, bel -shaped, heavy, and he was looking down into it. He swayed across the rickety planks, one leg slower than the other, concentrating hard, mouth to the bag, breathing in and out, in and out, breathing. In the other hand he held a
