The Marigold Tattoo

I will never forget her marigold tattoo. She told me it symbolized grief but because of its color it also symbolized the sun and was therefore hopeful—optimistic even. It was particularly appropriate for her. Like the tattoo, she encompassed many seemingly contradictory qualities at once and I never knew from one moment to the next which of her many moods would be on display. She was as changeable as island weather, dark clouds and torrential rain one moment, bright and sunny the next.

We met at a dive bar in San Francisco called Persia Aub Zam Zam. She was a regular but I went in for the first time and rubbed Bruno—the owner and sole bartender—the wrong way. I made the mistake of ordering a margarita and the only mixed drink Bruno served was a gin martini. No vodka. Olives only, no lemon twist or onions.

“He’s with me,” she said.

Bruno nodded at me to take a seat next to her at the bar. “Tell him how to behave Mary,” he growled. He gave me a martini in an old school martini glass, not the swimming pool of alcohol you get when you order a martini these days. We raised our glasses.

“To you, Mary,” I said and took a sip.

“My name’s not Mary,” she said. I must have looked like a lost child because she laughed and then raised her sleeve to show me her Marigold tattoo.

“It’s because of this. Bruno can’t remember my actual name so he calls me Mary. For Marigold.”

I nodded. “So what is your name?”

She just laughed and started to explain the rules of the place.

“Now you know about the martinis. You can’t sit at the tables, only at the bar. If there’s no space at the bar you have to leave and come back another time. Cash only. And no hippies.”

“But why have tables at all,” I asked.

“Who knows? Those are the rules. Also, no talking loudly. No loud laughing. No public displays of affection. No discussions of politics or religion.

“Well what can you do then?”

“You can drink. This is a place for serious drinking.”

I nodded and took another sip. It was ice cold and delicious. The perfect martini.

We had an intense affair for about 6 weeks. But I didn’t have the emotional depth to deal with her complexity and I think she grew tired of me. I was young and simple and I had no idea what to do with her, how to keep her happy or even interested.

We parted after a night of arguing and makeup sex. I awoke to find the bed empty and her side cold. I wandered around in my boxers and finally found her sitting on the fire escape smoking a cigarette and drinking a cup of coffee.

“You’re a sweet boy, but it’s time for you to go,” she said. She took a deep drag and exhaled slowly, the stream of smoke drifting away on the breeze. I stood there, dumbfounded. I wasn’t sure what to do. “Off you go,” she said, making a shooing motion with her hands.

I’d been dismissed. I collected my clothes and left her apartment and returned to my mundane life, in the mundane flat I shared with other students, finishing art school and starting a career in advertising. I thought about her a lot at first, but over time the memory faded and became a part of my young manhood, a wonderful moment that helped me to grow up. A treasured but distant moment in my life.

My career in advertising flourished. I created several campaigns that were very successful and I eventually moved to New York. I met and married a beautiful Englishwoman and we had a couple of children and I lived the life of a successful, well respected ad man.

But my career and marriage were rotten at the core. I married my wife because I thought I deserved her, not because I genuinely felt a connection. And while that was good enough to keep us together for 7 or 8 years, the cracks were starting to show and we separated ‘just to see how things worked out.’ It was clear that there would be no reconciliation after several trips to a marriage counselor. As I entered my 40s the advertising industry decided I was out of touch with the younger generation and it became very clear that I was on the way out. My life was in tatters. I was lost and confused and getting old.

I decided I needed to take a trip to clear my head. I flew to London and rented a car. Spent several weeks touring the English countryside and then took the car ferry to Calais and drove to Paris. I wandered around the city aimlessly, finally deciding to take the stairs to the top of the Eiffel Tower. I got off to a good start but my pace slowed after about 10 minutes. I had given myself too much credit for good health without acknowledging the 25 extra pounds I’d acquired living the good life. I stood about a third of the way up gasping for air and gazing out over the city when I heard a voice behind me.

“Hello, stranger.”

It was Mary. Beautiful Mary. Still as amazing as ever even though she was a good 10 years older than me. I wished I’d aged so well.

“Come on,” she said, and led me back down the steps. I follow willingly even though I had no idea where we were going. We ended up at a little bar that looked nothing like Persia Aub Zam Zam yet somehow managed to channel the same atmosphere. The martinis were excellent. We talked and laughed, reminisced and she wanted to know all about what had happened to me since we had parted those many years ago. I kept it light. I didn’t want to kill the mood but as usual she saw much more deeply into me than I ever could.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “You’ll get through this.”

We made love that night. It was slow and beautiful. We took our time, appreciating each other, marveling at how our once familiar bodies had changed but still knowing how to please each other.

I awoke to find her side of the bed empty. I found her sitting naked by her window, smoking a Gauloise and drinking a cup of coffee and looking out over the city. Her Marigold tattoo had faded over the years but it still looked beautiful on her shoulder. “I like you as a man,” she said. “Much more interesting. Now you have dents and chips and flaws. You have a nice patina about you that makes up for the ravages of time. I approve.”

I knew what came next. She smiled and made the shooing motion with her hands. I went over to her, kissed her gently on the cheek, collected my things and left.

Though many years have passed since then I’ve though about Mary often. How someone with whom I’d spent only a few weeks had such a profound impact on my life. It’s funny how some people stand out in memory like dew drops on a leaf in the morning sunshine, small but brilliant, shivering delicately in the breeze, fragile but compelling admiration.

She never told me her real name.