I have just one question.

What the hell am I doing here?

How is it possible that I am in this room,

with these people, as if there is nothing

extraordinary about my presence

within the inner sanctum?

Why is this young man being told to strip in this

frigid room, and why is he so quickly obeying? A

design runs from his left shoulder, down across his

chest and stomach and ends mid-thigh. It is just the

outline, and the red raised edges tell me it is

no more than a couple of hours old.

The master wants to know what I think, and I answer

quickly so the now shivering canvas can get dressed.

"It's exactly what I had in mind."

I know our very presence here places us on a tightrope

between convention and chaos. We are drawn by feelings

of curiosity mixed with good old-fashioned fear;

can you visualize the egg-shells on which we walk?

We can.

Up to his neck in hot water at the local bathhouse,

my husband had once joined the rest of the men in

averting their eyes...now he sits beside me, and

exchanges puns with the master and his wife

over tea, and octopus dumplings.

She has a small truck, parked in front of a local home

center, from which she sells these self-same dumplings.

Sometimes I visit her when I am in the neighborhood.

Dumplings are not expensive, and I am always amused

by the amount of cold hard cash that changes hands in

that little vehicle. He and I often make jokes about it.

"What did you do this afternoon?"

"Oh, I hung out at the laundry."

We have been invited to their home several times

before, where we have been entertained by tales

of crime and punishment, and persecution. We

have been made privy to inside jokes and we have

been taught cultural nuances that aren't found in

any book. An outsider in every way, I am shocked

by these open arms.

The master is introducing us to other visitors,

they want to know if we are Italian or know anyone

from Sicily. They hide their disappointment when

we say no. Ah, Hollywood...

Sometimes I look in the mirror and try to see what

our friends see. Often, they stare at us and I feel like

a bug with a pin stuck through my abdomen. We are tall,

we are dark; I suppose you could say we are handsome.

I know it amuses them to show us off to other visitors,

and I suppose it does make them look cosmopolitan...

In a back woods, country bumpkin sort of way.

We are fascinated with both the surface and sub-culture

of this country. I have had my ups and downs while living

here, (problems with both language and cultural barriers),

but my love of the more traditional arts of Japan has

never dimmed.

The master is an artist.

He is a tattoo artist, the fifth to use the name HoriHide,

and most of his work adorns the backs of members of the

Japanese Mafia. The power held by the once respected

(and still feared) yakuza is being usurped by new laws

and task forces. They are persona non grata as we sit

and sip this tea...

"Please come for tea! Let's break bread together!" The

master's wife has kind eyes, and her smile is more

genuine than so many others I have seen. They work

side by side, he creates the strong black outlines while

she brings color to his work.

The master himself constantly reminds me of my father,

both of them have artist's hands, (of course, my father

has both pinkies) and a jovial demeanor that occasionally

cracks open to reveal the fire within.

"Please think kindly of us, please help us to place this

mail-order!" We hoped it would be simple, but the orders

change every time the catalogs comes out. I watch this

powerful artist turn into a kid in the proverbial candy

store..."ooh! I want this! I want this too! Can you get

me this in a ten wrap?" When the ordering first began,

the language of the tattoo artist was as foreign to us as

the Japanese which we were attempting to speak.

We have learned a great deal about shaders and liners and

the consistency of inks in the last month; we now feel less

nervous when speaking to the supply houses.

And yet, that new-found confidence flies out the window

when we find ourselves sitting in this room surrounded by

what can only be described as henchmen (two of whom have

newly bandaged fingers), speaking to the grinning pinky-less

artist and his wife. She is smiling at me again, and leaning

forward to offer me more tea. As I smile and thank her, I

wonder why I am numb with a combination of anxiety and

excitement.

I'm also wondering what the hell I'm doing here.

Copyright 1997 Shyana Martin Quasha