by François Charles Bernadi
For a long time, it was the only tattoo I knew. I had never seen one before and I would not see another for the next ten years.
I would see it once a year when, for a day or two, we visited my grandfather. I looked forward to it.
– Grandpa can you show me the tattoo?
Smiling, with neither humility nor pride, he would proceed to take off his shirt to reveal on his arm the blue portrait of a sailor in an oblong frame. The faded ink under his old skin had blurred the image. The face was unrecognizable but I was sure it was him.
It was not a beautiful tattoo but it was a real one, drawn by a minor artist in Japan. Where else does a sailor get a tattoo?
He was amused by my curiosity. After all, that was its purpose, this strange souvenir from the far east. He did not show it off with an excess of pride because he knew it was a modest tattoo compared to those of other sailors he knew – beginning with his own father. I never knew my great-grandfather but I heard that his whole torso was decorated. His back was covered by a giant sailing ship complete with all its sails. Now that was a mean sailor!
My grandfather was not a mean sailor and yet he had his share of sea adventures.
He belonged to a long line of fishermen. His father had his own boat, the “Jaurès”. It had taken him sixteen years to pay for it. His son would succeed him in leading a seven man crew. Every summer, their main catch was sardines and anchovies.
In the winter the fishing stopped and the men would leave town. They would take the train to Marseille where they boarded the big merchant ships. There they began the long trip to Yokohama via the Suez Canal, with a stop in Shanghai. As souvenirs, they would bring back all kinds of porcelain, color prints, fans and of course tattoos. You had to take the trip and make it back to get those drawings on your skin. They were a mark of distinction. The diploma of a true sailor.
Of course, during the wars, all the boys were automatically drafted into the navy because of their skills. This is how grandpa ended up at the battle of the Dardanelles during the First World War, a historic French Navy disaster that left its sailors stranded in abominable conditions.
Wounded and sick, my grandfather eventually landed in a military hospital on the Riviera. There he met an Italian nurse who became his wife.
When they went back to his village, his mother, traditionally the banker of the family, did not want to accept the newcomer. So my grandfather told her: she lives with us or I give up the fishing business. That solved the problem and the bright summer catches resumed and went on until the Germans arrived twenty years later.
Out of all the objects he had brought back, I always kept a little tin replica of the Angkor temple. Had he been there? I know he visited the Shanghai zoo where he saw an enormous snake. He did not tell us much. The child I was did not care to ask. I often think about all the stories I missed.
I would spend my all my visits in the attic. It was marvelous. Trunks full of hooks, guns, swords, medals, coins, photos – I was Ali Baba. One day, among the fabrics, I found a curious multicolored piece of patchwork. I brought it down. When he saw it he laughed and said: – Oh! You found the pirate flag. He briefly explained that this pavilion belonged to pirates they captured in the China Seas. Why didn’t I ask for more details?
Of his trip to the far east, the only feeling of his I can recall is how amused he was by the children of Shanghai. They would jump in the water to catch the pieces of food he and his crew mates would throw overboard. I was shocked by his coarseness and yet I knew he was not a mean sailor.
By the time I met him, his sailing days were long past. He kept a framed picture of the battleship “République”. She was his ship during the battle of the Dardanelles. I guess he was proud of her, no matter the suffering and the defeat or that he had been given rotten poisonous meat during their long period of being stranded. Battle of the Dardanelles
The family fishing boat had been consumed by fire in the 60’s, along with all the town’s fishing fleet. The government had paid their owners to burn them. Their carcasses were occupying precious beach space that now belonged to summer tourists. Although he wanted to teach me the names of all the sails of the square riggers, If he had any nostalgia for the sea, I never heard him express it. However, he held on to one thing – the love of grilling sardines on the pavement in front of his house.
Today I would film his hands, thick claws that could hardly grab a spoon. I would record some oral history treasures. Back then, all I wanted was to get a glimpse of his tattoo.
Grilling sardines with Grandpa.