Hannibal's Tattoo

The first story of my Hannibal & Clarice trilogy The Tattoo, The Shirt, and The Scenario.

Disclaimer: The characters of Dr. Hannibal Lecter, Clarice Starling, Mischa, et. al. are the exclusive property of Thomas Harris. The character of Daniel Jamison is my own. The tattooists listed here---Lyle Tuttle, Crazy Eddie of Philadelphia, Guy Aitchinson, and Robin Lambert are all real artists.

The sights and sounds of Florence, Italy could not keep the longings out of his mind. He could still smell the sweet traces of L'Air du Temps and Avyan skin cream in his memory, could still see the sadly piercing grey-blue eyes looking back at him.

He could still hear her sweet, backwoods drawl, which sometimes had an ache in it as she spoke. An ache to forget her past...to start her life anew. The screaming of the lambs, no doubt, still haunted her sleep.

Just as she had been haunting his, these last few nights...

In the sleepscape of his dreams, Dr. Hannibal Lecter is met with images that would drive a lesser man to suicide. He sees the Nazis who murdered his birth parents, Mikhail and Natalya Zorukov...night after night, he sees his mother being raped repeatedly by the soldiers while he, Papa, and little Mischa are forced to watch. He sees them pawing her flesh and tearing into her, but is too frightened to do anything about it.

The next images he sees are of the soldiers beating Mama and Papa senseless, using their fists, feet, belts, even the butts of their pistols, to batter them. Raping Mama is not enough...it is only when the soldiers shoot Mama and Papa that their torture ends.

But for the children, for six-year-old Hannibal and his two-year-old sister Mischa, it is not the end of it...nor is it the end of the now-grown Hannibal's nightmare.

Next, he sees Mischa being led to her death by one of the soldiers. Before she dies, he hears her sobs and screams pierce the deadly silent cold. He knows that she, too, is being raped, but again, he cannot save her. The fall of the axe ends her suffering...

Then he sees her baby teeth in the stinking pit the Nazis are using for a toilet. Like Mama and Papa, she, too, has been cannibalized.

Now, the adult Hannibal is running into the night, running away from the pain and the memories, knowing that there is no peaceful ending to this dream. There never has been...

But wait!... Who's that?

Hannibal Lecter sees a bright light, a shadowy figure standing in the light. She is holding a baby lamb, a wears a flowing gown of deep green silk...

He falls at her feet, shocked by the image. When he hits his knees, the woman sets the lamb down. The tiny baby lamb nudges his hand, but he pays no notice...then the woman walks toward him, reaching for him. Her touch is soft, gentle, like nothing he's felt in so many years. A whiff of the familiar L'Air du Temps...the Avyan skin cream...

The woman now kneels before him, holding him in loving arms. He looks into her face, not believing who she is at first...

Clarice Michelle Starling.

How long has it been...five, six years since he saw that beautiful face? "Clarice...?" he asked, the tears pouring from his eyes.

"Sssshhhhh," she whispers, holding him as he weeps. "It's all right, Dr. Lecter, I'm here now..."

The dream ends this way, with Hannibal crying his heart out...with his beloved Clarice holding him...

Days after the first dream, Hannibal found he could not concentrate on his work at the museum. He was having a difficult time keeping the Dr. Fell facade, but he didn't show it outwardly. The gown, the lamb, Clarice was penetrating his thoughts like never before. It caused him to lose his appetite, for one thing...during lunch with a Swiss client several days ago, at one of Florence's best open-air cafes, he barely touched his foie gras salad and iced cappucino.

In the elegant privacy of his apartments, Hannibal could not even listen to his beloved Goldberg Variations without thinking about Clarice.

All those years ago, in the asylum, he had realized he loved her, but he kept it in the back of his mind. To come forward, to tell her his feelings, his desires, would have been rude...would have made him no better than the other bastards who had made their advances toward her. No, he had to forget it.

But how?

Even when she had resorted to lying to him to get the psychological profile on Jame Gumb? If anyone else had pulled such a con job, they'd have ended up in his freezer or on his dinner plate. Why was Clarice different...why he had forgiven her?

Sure he reaped payback with the "quid pro quo," but still he spared her. Still he let her go her way. How could he...why did he? What made her so special in his eyes?

At first he chalked it up to mutual respect. She had regretted lying to him, had only done so because that was what Jack Crawford had wanted her to do. She was only doing her job...and after all, she had kept her end of the bargain.

In return, he had given her all the information she needed to capture Jame Gumb. He would never have done that for Jack Crawford, although he respected him, too.

Nor had he spared Clarice for being a woman. Just ask the family of the nurse he attacked in Chilton's asylum. The only reason he'd turned her face into breakfast was because, like Chilton, she had treated him terribly. Worse, she had made unwanted advances toward him on several occasions, much like Chilton had tried with Clarice. For some reason, they'd left that out of the report, and of course, Chilton didn't give a shit.

As Hannibal pondered these things, he began sketching Clarice again. He drew the familiar sketch of her with the baby lamb...but tonight, he drew more. Tonight, he drew a nude sketch, perfectly capturing every nuance, every curve, of her 5'4" body without having ever seen her nude.

He drew her lying in bed, amidst soft, silken sheets, as if she were awaiting the first real chance she had had at being made love to. In the brief time they had known each other, he had noticed her lifetime of sexual repression...in her eyes, he had also noticed her secret desire to let it go.

Been there, done that, he reasoned. He, too, had been guilty of repressing himself, and like her, he'd had few experiences. Of course, none had been satifactory...as he pencilled in her genitalia, he thought a moment, then decided to just pencil in a small strip of brunette pubic hair on the top mound.

Drawing this particular sketch aroused him in a way he hadn't felt since their meetings in Baltimore and Memphis. Though he had concealed it, his heart leapt when he first saw her...so, too, had his penis, hardening to full erection under his prison clothes. He had barely been able to contain himself...no woman he had ever slept with had left this effect on him.

No woman had ever made him feel so sexy.

Returning to his sketch, he wondered what it would be like to feel such intimacy...to feel Clarice from the inside. He wondered what it would be like to kiss her lips, to taste her breasts and labia, to feel her body against his...to hear her sighing and screaming as he gave her his penis, feeling her pleasure along with his.

That night, his dreams took a more sensual, erotic tone. After the frightening memories, after running toward her, tonight he and Clarice would make gloriously slow, sensual, passionate love.

The next morning, Hannibal stirred with a sexual glow, still enjoying the dream, still fantasizing about Clarice.

His appetite had, at last, returned, and before he dressed he made himself a nice breakfast. Taking three eggs, some good Gruyere cheese, a crushed clove of garlic, and some chopped proscuitto and tomatoes, he made himself an omelette. Hot buttered toast, chocolate hazelnut cappucino, and lightly fried potatoes with caramelized shallots accompanied the eggs as he sat down to eat.

Before him were the morning paper and the sketches of Clarice. For some reason, his eyes drifted to an ad for a well-known tattoo and piercing shop on the west end of Florence...a club kid's paradise. Besides this shop, called Danny J.'s, there were other tattoo and piercing places, a plethora of dance clubs, a couple of funky coffeehouses, and a few cafes. It was quite a trendy spot, although Hannibal had never ventured in that part of the city before.

Danny J.'s was owned and operated by a young American expatriate, Daniel Jamison, whose work had earned him much acclaim. Hannibal read on...Daniel's specialties were tribals, Celtic, New School, and black-and-grey portraiture.

But why did it hold Hannibal's interest?

In years past, Hannibal would never have been caught dead in such a place. He had felt tattoos were for the dregs of society, that no right-thinking person should cheapen their bodies with such artwork. What had actually turned him off was Benjamin Raspail's ink scratches. His vivid details of his homosexual sex life were disgusting enough, but his tattoos---crude drawings of naked men with overlarge, erect penises---were just as bad, if not worse. Uglier still were the scratchings and piercings possessed by Raspail's last lover, Jame Gumb, then known as John Grant.

Very poorly made, and utterly disgusting.

Still, Hannibal looked over the ad for Danny J.'s. There was even a picture of one of the portraits Daniel had done...and it was exquisite.

Hannibal looked at the ad...then looked at his sketches of Clarice.

Two days later, armed with the sketch of Clarice holding the baby lamb, Hannibal took advantage of his day off from the museum...and strolled to Florence's west end.

Danny J.'s was a neatly kept, hospital-clean establishment. The walls were covered with tattoo flash, fantasy artwork, and portraits the young man had drawn over the years, as well as flash work by his heroes...Crazy Eddie of Philadelphia, Lyle Tuttle, Guy Aitchinson, and Robin Lambert.

To Hannibal's surprise, Daniel Jamison looked to be about Clarice's age. Not surprisingly, he was covered with tattoos, which were not at all scratchings. There were some tribal, some Old School, and some Japanese tattoos covering his arms, sweeping to his back under the tank-top he wore, and decorating his legs.

Most importantly, Daniel was very polite. "Hi, may I help you?" he asked when he saw Hannibal walk in.

Uh...uh, I'm just looking right now, thank you," Hannibal replied, smiling nervously. "I've never been here before."

Daniel returned Hannibal's smile. "Don't worry about it, I get a lot of first-timers," he said. "Just take your time and look around...if there's anything you want, let me know and I'll fix you up, Mr...."

"Fell," Hannibal said. "Dr. Henry Fell. Thank you."

Hannibal looked around the shop, poring over the flash books like a child in a toy store. "Where do you keep your portrait books, young man?" he now asked.

Daniel produced a black book from behind his counter and brought it to him. "Right here," he said. "Help yourself. I won't have a crowd coming in for awhile."

Hannibal now set his briefcase on the table and opened the book. Immediately, he was slapped in the face by the young man's talent. Yes, he had come to the right place. Emboldened, he opened his briefcase and took out his sketch of Clarice.

"Could you do this?" Hannibal asked, showing Daniel the sketch. "Today? I'll pay you handsomely..."

Daniel was blown away by the sketch. "Is she your girlfriend?" he asked. "My God, she's gorgeous!"

Hannibal smiled. "Yes," he half-fibbed. "Yes, she is my girlfriend."

Daniel grinned. You lucky dog," he said. "I'd be honored...it'll take me the rest of the day and a good part of the night to do it, to get it perfect. Question is, where do you want it?"

Hannibal now took off his suit coat and tie, then took off his shirt. "How about here?" he said, flexing his well-toned left bicep and rubbing his entire upper arm.

Daniel, himself a weight-training fanatic, was impressed with the older man's slim, yet buff physique. "Upper arm, huh? You've got it!" he exclaimed, showing Hannibal to the tattoo station.

After filling out the necessary paperwork and paying Daniel the $3000 fee in advance---although Daniel would've let him pay afterward---Hannibal Lecter sat in the chair and, for the first time in his life, submitted himself to the tattoo needle.

"If you don't mind my asking, Dr. Fell, what's her name?" Daniel asked as he put on a pair of fresh surgical gloves, then prepared his ink, set of sanitized needles, and tattoo machine.

"Her name is Clarice," Hannibal replied. "Could you also write her name under the portrait, in Celtic lettering?"

"Sure," Daniel said, prepping Hannibal's upper arm with an antiseptic glaze to better poke the tattoo in, as well as to prevent infection. "No charge."

"No, no, I'll be glad to pay..."

"Dr. Fell, drawing such a beautiful woman on your arm is a pleasure. You owe me nothing else."

Hannibal smiled. "Thank you, Daniel."

Now, the area prepped, the materials at hand, the sketch of Clarice taped to a nearby wall to go by, Daniel began the portrait.

As expected, the process took much of the day and went on into the night. It was one a.m. when the tattoo was completed.

When Hannibal saw the image of Clarice staring back at him in the mirror, he was moved almost to tears. Daniel had captured his sketch perfectly, per Hannibal's details. The Celtic script that spelled her name, encased in a legend ribbon Daniel had drawn under the portrait, had also been beautifully done. He was so moved that he insisted on paying Daniel an extra $2000 for such beautiful handiwork.

After he was bandaged and given the aftercare instructions, Hannibal put his sketch of Clarice back in his briefcase. Then he put on his shirt, tie, and suit coat before shaking Daniel's hand. "Hey, Dr. Fell, maybe you could send some of your friends from the museum over here," Daniel offered. "Maybe I can convert them..."

"No, no, that won't be necessary," Hannibal replied warmly. "It's a very personal piece, you understand..."

Daniel immediately bought the clue. "I understand," he now said. "Anytime you want more work done, just come on in and see me, okay?"

Hannibal's smile deepened. "I'll think about it," he said, turning to leave. "Good night, Daniel, and thank you."

It would be Hannibal's only visit.

The tattoo didn't take long to heal, despite the extensive work that had gone into it, but he didn't dare show it to his colleagues at the museum. To do so would give away who he really was.

Behind closed doors, Hannibal admired the tattoo...dreaming of the day he would be reunited with his Clarice, desiring her...loving her with every breath he took.

A year later, his dream would be made flesh...and gloriously so.

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