If she'd noticed the Mrs. Burns, Alice made no attempt to correct him; maybe, on his part, it was not a misunderstanding but another kindness.
The minister put his hand on her wrist, and, shaking his head, said: "God bless you and your son." Then he left.
Jack concluded that, since even the cleaning lady had blessed him, they were big on God-bless-yous in Norway. Certainly Lazarus, leaving his grave, seemed predisposed to offer a blessing.
Back at the Bristol, Alice sipped her soup. (That was their lunch--just the soup.) But if Alice had lost her enthusiasm for spotting future tattoo clients, Jack thought he saw one. A young girl stared at them from the entrance to the dining room; she had a child's face on an overlong body, and she refused to let the maitre d' show her to a table. Jack doubted that his mother would tattoo her. Alice had her rules. You had to be a certain age, and this baby-faced girl looked too young to be tattooed.
The instant Alice saw her, she knew it was Ingrid Moe. Alice told the waiter to bring another chair to the table, where the tall, awkward-looking girl reluctantly joined them. She sat on the edge of her chair with her hands on the table, as if the silverware were organ stops and she were preparing to play; her arms and fingers were absurdly long for her age.
"I'm sorry he hurt you. I'm sorry for you that you ever met him," Alice told the young girl. (Jack assumed his mom meant his dad. Who else could she have meant?)
Ingrid Moe bit her lip and stared at her long fingers. A thick blond braid hung down her perfectly straight back, reaching almost to the base of her spine. When she spoke, her exquisite prettiness was marred by what an obvious strain it was for her to speak; she clenched her teeth together when she talked, as if she were afraid or unable to show her tongue.
Jack thought with a shiver of what an agony it might be for her to kiss someone, or to kiss her. Years later, he imagined his father thinking this upon first meeting her--and Jack felt ashamed.
"I want a tattoo," Ingrid Moe told Alice. "He said you knew how to do it." Her speech impediment made her almost impossible to understand, at least in English.
"You're too young to get a tattoo," Alice said.
"I wasn't too young for him," Ingrid replied.
When she said the him, she curled back her lips and bared her clenched teeth; the muscles of her neck were tensed, thrusting her lower jaw forward as if she were about to spit. It was tragic that such a beautiful girl could be so instantly transformed; the not-so-simple act of speaking made her ugly.
"I would advise you not to get one," Alice said.
"If you won't do it, Trond Halvorsen will," Ingrid struggled to say. "He's not very good--he gave William an infection. He gives everyone an infection, I think."
Perhaps hearing the girl say William made Alice flinch--more than the news that he'd been infected by dirty needles or a bad tattooist. But Ingrid Moe misunderstood Alice's reaction.
"He got over it," the girl blurted out. "He just needed an antibiotic."
"I don't want to tattoo y
ou," Alice told her.
"I know what I want and where I want it," Ingrid answered. "It's on a part of me I don't want Trond Halvorsen seeing," she added. The way she contorted her mouth to say the name Trond Halvorsen made him sound like a kind of inedible fish. Ingrid spread the long fingers of her right hand on the side of her left breast, near her heart. "Here," she said. Her hand cupped her small breast, her fingertips reaching to her ribs.
"It will hurt there," Alice informed her.
"I want it to hurt," Ingrid replied.
"I suppose it's a heart you want," Alice said.
Maybe a broken one, Jack was thinking. He was playing with his silverware--his attention had wandered off again.
Alice shrugged. A broken heart was such a common sailor tattoo that she could have done one with her eyes closed. "I won't do his name," she said to Ingrid.
"I don't want his name," the girl answered. Just a heart, ripped in two, Jack was thinking. (It was something Ladies' Man Madsen used to say.)
"One day you'll meet someone and have to explain everything," Alice warned Ingrid.
"If I meet someone, he'll have to know everything about me eventually," the girl responded.
"How will you pay for it?" Alice asked.
"I'll tell you where to find him," the girl said. But Jack wasn't listening; Ingrid's speech impediment disturbed the boy. The girl might have said, "I'll tell you where he wants to go."
So much for rules. Ingrid Moe was not too young to be tattooed after all. She was no child; she just looked like one. Despite her baby face, even Jack knew that. If he'd had to guess, Jack would have said she was sixteen going on thirty. He didn't know that a world of older women awaited him.