Chapter eighteen, Monday morning: 28thoctober2013 the body
Daniel softly begins telling a story: “At the time I spoke to the leading tattooist in San Francisco for his opinion. He was vague but the impression I got was he almost certainly recognised the hand that did the work on my body.” Obviously telling this story for the first time to other people, he gulps a mouthful of air, and fists his fingers. “After much Jack Daniels, this guy let loose the secret, artists rarely share, they don’t discuss these things with outsiders to the trade.” Nigel hums’ pretending to listen, or to himself I can’t decide.
Nigel moves Daniels arm around his body to line up some of the images, with a satisfied look he continues without speaking at first, but mumbling to himself sometimes loud enough for us all to catch something.
“…at different calculated times create a story, I can begin to see it now.” The professor marvels to himself, it’s as if we weren’t there at all.
Back to Daniel, “the penmanship was likely a Japanese guy,” he continues, “very obscure work, high value pieces.” he finally tells us. “Lengthy waiting lists if you could persuade him to even do your piece, it had to be interesting and designed solely by him. What you got was his judgement and eye alone, and nobody was ever dissatisfied. But this guy comes at a cost, and very rarely travels outside Tokyo, where he bases himself.”
My crime drama TV training pops to life, follow the money. “Did you discover who paid him to do the work on you? I ask.
“I met his daughter in Tokyo at the fair, there was a message for me in the jeans we bought Tharie, the great artist has disappeared without a trace.” That sounds dramatic.
The Professor can’t remove his gaze from Daniels body, I know how that feels. All down the left hip curving around his thigh, another piece of the puzzle.
Manipulating Daniels arms and moving his shoulders twists his elbows back, chattering to himself again, I suspect when he’s ready he’ll tell us, it’s his process.
“Yes, you can see here clear Incan symbology, but follow the branch of that tree round here, a Mayan god iconography.” He follows the piece with his fingers, as I have done many times, “and this here,” he pauses, “is ancient Colombian.” He stands and looks at Daniel, as if he’s just realising there's a real person under the artwork for the first time, “oh!” Collecting his thoughts up, He shifts his spectacles back to his face, “it's a map of course.”
“Really, a map to what?” from Liza.
He manipulates Daniels right arm across his body behind his back. “Most unusual to see these symbols in the same place, see?” His fingers splayed out as manipulated by the Professor. “The images on Daniels body are designed as a puzzle you see, here.” He adjusts Daniels elbow slightly, if you move the body the overlapping designs continue the story, it’s a map.”
Astonished, we all stand quiet absorbing what we have just heard, this discovery, it seems so incredible, but then so was the discovery of fire wasn’t it? I shake my head, “a map?” I ask, “But how?” Our brains all work differently, my neural pathways engage in a different ways to anyone else, the difference is I use my instincts. Most people abandon such natural thought processes in favour of learned behaviours, experiences or they simply do what they’re told to. Nigel, like me listens to his mind, trusts his own instincts. Nigel nods his head a little in frustration, clearly used to a more academic audience with suitably brilliant enquiries.
“Whoever designed these pieces knew he’d be completing several designs on the body, to finish the story, they are deliberately designed to fit together in several linking positions to tell that story. By moving the body the tale develops into a map.” He says as if completing a lecture and opening the floor to intelligent questioning. Bells begin to ring in my head, he may not mean me, but I have to ask.
“How?” I ask stunned at the level of intricacy in the combined works, the artist must have been planning this for years.
“It’s a mash-up of totally separate cultural references.” Mash up? I wonder whether he has young children, its youth phrasing. “But with one thing that’s identical between them all.” Used to spending time alone, the professor mumbles as if to himself, making short hand notes in a pocket sketchbook.
“Mash-up?” I enquire, not expecting to hear slang from a man with two degrees and a doctorate, I couldn’t leave the question unanswered.
The professor laughs, “Yes it's a phrase my students use, silly really but simply means cultural mixture.” He then gets a glazed look, a faraway expression, I recognise it because that’s how I shut down too. I get impatient, another of my many flaws, they’re open season for all to see.
“Professor?” I urge.
“Oh, a journey at a specific time in history.” He moves Daniels arms and fingers across his body linking up several artworks to join up at different points and at different times in the story. The body is repositioned, it’s like programming a very old computer, the feet overlap and that’s another part of the tale, then at a specific time, the feet are repositioned to continue the story.” Daniel has his body manipulated by the professor as he demonstrates his point.
“Yes! I say, I can see the design joining there,” as Daniels arm comes across the front of his body bent at the elbow his hand under his arm. His fingers becoming part of the design, so obvious now I see it. Small parts of the work join and “you'd never know until his body is manipulated that it’s moving breathing puzzle to be decoded!”
“Yes,” the professor continues excitedly, “it’s the story of a terrible storm and a partial eclipse of the sun, followed by a very long journey. Through forests and mountains, a tortuous journey with many lives lost. They are carrying great riches in gold and symbols of ancient religions, silver, gemstones and textiles. A fight between brothers for the throne led to the exiled brother taking this haul and escaping with a few trusted slaves to a secret destination in the mountains to save the horde from his Brother.”
“Does X mark the spot?” I ask with a small degree of humour. Nigel looks exasperatedly at me.
“I have searched the globe for lost civilisations all my 50years as a scholar,” he says peering over the top metal framed rim of his spectacles at me disapprovingly, “and X never, ever marks the spot Tharie.” He is quite serious as if he’s asked this question a lot and it pisses him off, but I ignore it.
I exchange looks with Liza, she silently tells me he’s always like this, focused, dedicated, unflinching, did I embellish? He continues as if dismissing an itinerant child. “There are detailed times and the journey direction and a rough description where they started is documented here.”
PF: “Completely naked? It's cold out, hope you're somewhere warm” a fishing trip?
TC: “You have no idea” please go away.
PF: “OK babes, I’ll wait” you won’t have to wait long.
“This is incredible Liza says, all this time and someone's been sending you messages to a treasure and you never knew?” She gets close to Daniel to look at the marks all over his body, I give her a friendly warning shot across her bow, she raises her brow sarcastically at me and I understand she is interested professionally.
“Fortis fortuna adiuvat” says the professor, sliding his spectacles back up his nose, smiling a brilliant clear-eyed smile, one that contains deep wisdom, and a little comedy if my instincts are right too, in its glassy pools.
“Fortune favours the bold” I reply, Daniel looks at me quizzically, eyebrow raised.
“My Dad,” I begin to say, Liza wraps her arm around me, I fight back a wave of sorrow deep inside, “he, uh…was grammar school boy.” As if in explanation, “East Ham Grammar School for Boys, he spoke Latin.”
“Amongst other things” she adds, squeezing me hard, “Tom, Mr Charles was great.” He was her physics teacher for a term.
“Where do we start?” I ask to a room of surprised faces, “we...we’re going to look for it, whatever it is aren’t we?”
“Well....” Daniels begins to say.
“We have to know Daniel” I say exasperated, my imagination piqued, I love an adventure story.
“Now, where can I get a cuppa Nigel?” I ask.