Hebrew script on a forearm
Lettering · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo
A close photograph of a line of Hebrew script tattooed across a forearm, in solid black ink with smooth, even letterforms. The text runs horizontally across the centre of the frame, with the skin lit evenly and a slightly out-of-focus background of blinds and upholstery. The composition is simple, with the lettering as the clear focus.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
Mordecai Lash had signwritten barges on the Lea for forty years, and he would not let Ruth Abrahams touch the brush until she had filled a whole sheet of newspaper with the same letter. "The aleph should not look frightened," he said, tapping the crooked one she had made. "Make it stand like a man who knows where the floor is."
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They worked from the stern of the Esther Rose, moored in Limehouse Basin, with the tide sucking at the hull and a tin of black enamel wedged between two coils of rope. The job was a bakery's name for the flank of a hire barge, and the baker wanted it in the old letters because his customers were old too. Ruth had done the first three lines already. The fourth was the one that mattered, a saying the old man had carried since his own teacher drilled it into him. Ruth had asked him once what it meant. He had said it depended on the day.
On the Friday his hand shook on the last stroke of the final word. Ink ran down the hull in a thin black thread. He looked at it for a long time, then at her, and handed her the brush without a word.
She finished the mem with a steady downstroke, then wiped her fingers on her overall. The baker came down the gangplank, squinted at the lettering against the grey water, and nodded. Mordecai counted out her wages by the letter, the way he always did, and when she asked for the extra one he pretended not to hear.
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