§ § § -- July 18, 1995
AN ICON PASSES ON (the Fantasy Island Chronicle)
PARIS, FRANCE, JULY 18—Tattoo, former assistant to our own Mr. Roarke and an artist of world renown, died yesterday morning at his home. He was 52 years old. Born in France, he came to Fantasy Island as a very young man and served as Mr. Roarke's assistant for many years, leaving the island in 1983 upon his marriage to dancer Solange Latignon. They made their home in the Parisian suburbs, where Mr. Tattoo gained fame as a highly talented painter and operated an art gallery specializing in the work of new and rising artists. Among his regular patrons was Prince Errico V of Arcolos, as well as dignitaries and celebrities from all over Europe and North America. The artist is survived by his wife; their three children, Patrick, 10, Antoinette, 9, and Mireille, 3; and Mr. Roarke and his daughter, Leslie Hamilton, whom Mr. Tattoo considered an "honorary niece". The funeral is to be held here on Fantasy Island, where Mr. Tattoo will be buried.
The charter bearing Solange, the children, the lawyer, and Tattoo's coffin landed early that evening, shortly past sunset when dusk had begun to slowly reveal the brightest stars. Roarke and Leslie were the only ones at the dock. Word had spread across the island within an hour, as soon as the paper distributed its morning edition with Tattoo's obituary and a few attendant photographs taking up the entire front page.
Greetings were murmured and hugs exchanged; little Mireille made a beeline for Leslie and stretched her arms up. Solange noticed. "Mireille, don't bother cousine," she began, but Leslie shook her head.
"It's okay, Solange," she said, lifting the little girl and hugging her tightly as Mireille wrapped her arms around Leslie's neck and buried her face in the young woman's shoulder. Leslie clung to the child almost as tightly in return, squeezing her eyes shut as a fresh wave of grief assaulted her, yet feeling comforted in some odd way simply from holding Tattoo's youngest child. The others gathered around and stood for a few moments, reigning in their emotions, while Patrick and Antoinette both wiped away tears and Solange looked wistfully at Roarke. Roarke smiled slightly.
"Mr. Roarke, this is Tattoo's lawyer, Donatien Moreau," Solange explained, and Moreau and Roarke shook hands. "M'sieur, I think you know Mr. Roarke already, and this is his daughter, Leslie Hamilton." Leslie managed a weak smile of greeting, shifted Mireille slightly and shook hands with Moreau.
"I am sorry that we must meet at such a sorrowful time," Moreau said to Leslie and Roarke, looking genuinely sympathetic. "Mr. Tattoo was a friend and one of my very best clients. I believe you know, Mr. Roarke, that he requested burial here."
Roarke nodded. "Yes, indeed I did. Undoubtedly you have all had an extremely long and exhausting trip, and we have set aside bungalows for you to rest. We have closed down business for the next five days, and if necessary, we can extend that period."
"I can't sleep," Solange murmured through an ironically-timed yawn. "I want to, but I still can't believe he's gone. I haven't been able to accept it yet. Donatien, when do you want to have the reading?"
"I think after the funeral is soon enough," Moreau said. "We all need rest. Thank you, Mr. Roarke, for your kind hospitality, even in the face of such tragedy."
"Maman, I want to stay with Leslie," Mireille announced unexpectedly, lifting her head from her shoulder to address Solange.
"Mireille, Leslie doesn't have room for you," Solange said, looking assaulted. "I'm sorry, Leslie, but she knew all the while that we would be seeing you, and all she could talk about was you. If she bothers you, just leave her to me."
Leslie shook her head. "She doesn't bother me at all," she said. "I'll stay with her as long as you need me to, Solange…read her a story or whatever." She swallowed back the tears that had begun to thicken her voice and moved swiftly out ahead of the group, still carrying Mireille. Solange cast Roarke a helpless look, but Roarke smiled again.
"I think Leslie derives some comfort from Mireille's attachment to her," he said softly to Solange. "She was hit quite hard by this latest loss in her life, and she has refused to see anyone else all day, although a few of her friends stopped by hoping to express their sorrow and condolences. Tattoo's passing has been a tremendous blow to all of us. Perhaps it would be beneficial for both Leslie and Mireille if you indulge the child, just for tonight."
Solange sighed. "I just don't want Mireille imposing on Leslie. You and she have enough to deal with as it is."
"Don't worry, Solange," Roarke said. "I'm sure Leslie doesn't mind at all."
They dropped off Moreau at the hotel, where he had insisted on taking a room, and then brought Solange and the children to their bungalow. Patrick and Antoinette, though clearly as worn-out as Solange, found themselves unable to sleep either, and before Roarke and Leslie could leave the Latignon family to themselves, Antoinette suddenly spoke up. "Mr. Roarke? Cousine? What was Papá like when he lived here?"
Roarke and Leslie stopped and looked at each other in surprise. Mireille, clinging to Leslie's hand, piped up, "Leslie, tell me a story about Papá."
For the first time since the telegram had arrived, a light appeared in Leslie's eyes, and she grinned, surprising and relieving Roarke. "I have an idea," she whispered to him and turned to the little girl. "Mireille, if I do tell you a story, will you put on your nightgown and get into bed? For that matter, I'll tell your brother and sister and mother the same story. It's a funny one."
The Latignons looked at one another curiously. "We need a good laugh," Solange said at last. "I'm so tired of crying."
"Me too," Patrick admitted. "Papá never talked much about his life when he was here. He just said he missed you and Mr. Roarke, but when we asked questions he didn't feel like answering them. So I'd like to hear stories about him."
"What kind of story is it?" Antoinette asked.
"Well, it's about how your father once became the invisible man," Leslie said with an impish little grin. "Will you get ready for bed so I can tell you about it, Mireille?"
The little girl bobbed her head eagerly. "Okay! Maman, come help me!"
Within a few minutes Mireille was tucked in, and the older children had also changed into their nightclothes and were seated on the bed near their little sister, waiting eagerly. Roarke had taken a seat in one of the chairs, while Solange had stretched her tired legs on the loveseat. Leslie settled on the side of the bed nearest Mireille and took in Tattoo's three children with a smile that wavered only slightly. "It happened the year I turned fifteen," she said. "Your father came in from some rounds on a very hot day, noticed a glass of something on Father's desk, and drank it before Father could tell him not to. And when Father looked around for your papá, he couldn't see him anywhere!"
"You mean he was really invisible?" Antoinette exclaimed.
Leslie nodded, grinning. "He certainly was. He'd drunk a potion that Father was still working on, so he stayed invisible for the rest of the weekend." She focused on Solange, whose hand had gone up in a vain attempt to cover a wide smile. "That's the last time Tattoo drank anything without knowing what it was."
Solange snickered. "I just bet it was! How did you come into the picture, though?"
"Oh…he and Father decided to play a little trick on me," Leslie said, and proceeded to relate the story of Tattoo's taking advantage of his invisibility.
§ § § -- March 1, 1980
At the pool, Roarke spotted his ward sitting with all five of her friends. Leslie was clearly surprised to see him. "Is something wrong, Mr. Roarke?" she asked.
"No…it's only that Tattoo had a slight mishap, and I may have to send you out to do some of his errands," Roarke told her and surveyed her friends. "Hello, girls. I'm afraid Leslie's free time has just ended, but if all is well, you might come by for her tomorrow."
Leslie's friends looked at one another in curiosity, but they didn't ask questions; like most of the islanders, they generally expected Roarke to be cryptic. They simply nodded in acceptance and said goodbye to Leslie, who waved back and trailed Roarke out of the pool area and to the car. "Where is Tattoo?" she asked.
"At the house," Roarke said, then added under his breath, "I hope." Starting the car, he asked Leslie if she had enjoyed her swim, the answer to which kept her occupied for the short drive back to the main house. He parked the car near the fountain and followed her into the house, where once she got inside, she tossed her towel across a chair and started to lean down to remove her sandals.
Before she could move more than a fraction, or Roarke have time to react, the towel went flying right back into the air again. "Watch where you're throwing things!" squawked an indignant voice.
Leslie's eyes popped and stark terror radiated from her face; she stumbled backwards toward the stairs, and nearly tripped on the bottom step. As it was, she sat down hard enough to make Roarke wince on her behalf. Speechless, she gaped at Roarke and pointed at the chair, mouth open, eyes enormous and her entire arm shaking.
"Yes, I know," Roarke said calmly, picking up the towel. "Take that upstairs, if you would be so kind, and then change your clothing." He watched Leslie attempt to gather her widely scattered wits for a long moment, while he stood holding the proffered towel at her and very carefully controlling a smile. Finally she took the towel from him and eased up the stairs backwards, one wary step at a time, all the while staring at the seemingly empty chair. Roarke watched her go for a moment, then shook his head and retreated behind his desk.
"I scared her to death, didn't I," Tattoo's voice remarked.
"Undoubtedly you shortened her lifespan by at least five years," Roarke agreed and spread out some balance sheets across the desk. Tattoo chuckled, and Roarke quirked a smile before putting his full attention to the paperwork.
It took Leslie an unusually long time to return downstairs, and when she did come back, she took the steps warily, carefully scanning the room. By then Roarke was adding up columns of figures, and the room was quiet. But when she finally stepped off the last stair tread and stopped there, Roarke looked up. "What's the matter, Leslie?"
"You said Tattoo was here," she said accusingly. "But he's not."
"Oh yes I am," Tattoo immediately responded, all wounded dignity. "I'm right in this room, the same as you. So you better watch out where you sit."
"I don't get it," Leslie finally exploded in exasperation. "Would someone kindly tell me what's going on around here, or are you having too much fun at my expense to bother?"
Roarke relented then, chuckling. "The reason you can't see Tattoo is that he accidentally drank the invisibility potion I've been working on," he explained to her. "So far he shows no signs of becoming visible again, and as you can see if you think it over, that makes it difficult for him to carry out most of his usual duties."
"Oh," Leslie said softly, drawing the word out as she considered the ramifications of this explanation. "So that's what this is all about. Well, then, Tattoo, if you don't want me accidentally squashing you, you might want to tell me which chair you're in."
"The same one you threw the towel on," he said pointedly.
"Oh," she said again, this time sheepishly. "Sorry about that." She rounded the chair Tattoo claimed to be occupying and took the one beside it, all the while eyeing the first chair as if she expected Tattoo to abruptly reappear in it. "So what's it feel like?"
"What, being invisible? I don't feel any different," Tattoo said. Silence fell for about fifteen seconds; then he lost patience. "What are you staring at?"
"Nothing," Leslie answered before she thought, then gasped and clapped a hand over her mouth, her guilty gaze shifting to Roarke, who burst out laughing. Stricken then by the funny side of her remark, she slumped in her chair, convulsed with giggles.
"Oh, very funny," snapped Tattoo in irritation. "You know, I'm not so sure you two aren't playing a little joke on me. I can see myself, after all, so how do I know you two can't see me?"
"Honest, Tattoo, I can't see you," Leslie insisted, trying to control her merriment. "I know you're in that chair only because you say you are, but…" At that point Tattoo, testing her, picked up the book he had laid aside earlier. From Leslie's point of view it suddenly floated off the floor, and she yanked her entire upper torso to one side, shock all over her face. "Oh my God," she blurted.
"Well, I suppose that proves you can't see me at least," Tattoo said. "Come on, boss, tell me the truth…you can see me, right?"
"No, Tattoo, I can't," Roarke said serenely, having regained his composure.
"Really, boss, you can tell me," Tattoo insisted.
Roarke shook his head. "Truly, my friend, I can't see you at all. In actual fact, that wasn't my intention with regard to that potion. It leaves far too much room for malicious intent, and I can't have that. I'll have to adjust the formula again."
"I would too," Leslie said, shuddering despite the heat. "It's really creepy not knowing if somebody's there or not—look what Tattoo did to me when I first walked in here with you." A shutter banged closed then on one of the windows and she started violently in her seat, gasping loudly.
"Tattoo," Roarke admonished.
"Just checking, boss," Tattoo said blithely.
"I believe we have established that you cannot be seen by anyone, and certainly not by Leslie," Roarke reminded him a little testily. "If I had any doubt that the formula isn't ready for use, you have utterly eradicated it. Enough is enough."
"Oh, all right, boss," Tattoo said, sighing. "But I can't help myself. I'm bored and I was just trying to have a little fun."
"I can live without that kind of fun," Leslie said shortly.
Roarke resumed adding figures. "Perhaps you'd better return home after all, Tattoo," he said. "You can't do much in your current condition, and there is no way to know when the formula will wear off. So consider this an afternoon off."
"Oh, okay, thanks, boss!" Tattoo said, sounding considerably more cheerful. They heard the sounds of his shoes crossing the floor and climbing the steps into the foyer; the door opened, then closed again. Leslie blew out a breath and relaxed at last.
"Thank you," she said wholeheartedly to Roarke. "I might've gotten up and throttled him if you hadn't done that…that is, if I could've found him first." Roarke laughed again.
§ § § -- July 18, 1995
By the time she was through, they were all laughing, Mireille in particular. "Solange, have the children ever met Tattoo's cousin Hugo?" Roarke asked. Solange shook her head and rolled her eyes, and Roarke and Leslie laughed. "He spent several years falling for Hugo's plans to make millions overnight, and every one of them failed spectacularly. I recall an idea Hugo gave him about a cigarette lighter that supposedly worked only on water. I finally suggested he market it to smokers who were trying to quit."
"What about the time when he was working on some kind of rocket fuel, and blew up the study?" Leslie put in. "And then, even worse, he tried to turn it into an alcoholic drink, and almost killed you with it."
Roarke winced playfully. "Indeed…and then, of course, there were his assorted impersonations. We were particularly impressed by his Bing Crosby imitation…until we learned he was merely lip-synching to a recording." At that even Solange broke into merriment at last, in spite of the tears that had overflowed.
Patrick said wistfully, "I wish he had told us this stuff. We never knew about all those things."
"Why did he call you his niece?" Antoinette wanted to know. "He talked about you and Mr. Roarke a lot, but he didn't tell us why he said you were his niece."
"Well, his honorary niece, really," Leslie said, casting back half a lifetime and more. "As a matter of fact, it goes all the way back to my very first day on Fantasy Island, several months after my family died. Your father was the first person here to try to set me at ease. He could see I was very scared and felt as if I didn't belong, and he tried to make me feel better." She gazed into space, letting the memory play across her mind's eye as the others watched her. "I was completely in awe of Father then and sort of frightened of him too, and Tattoo acted as something of a bridge between us. He tended to tease us both, and now that I think about it, I can see what he was doing. He'd get us to laugh and join in, and I think Father and I slowly developed a bond without really realizing it, thanks to Tattoo."
"My papá was nice to you," Mireille murmured sleepily, as if confirming things to herself. "He made you feel better."
"That's right, sweetie," Leslie said with a soft smile. "He had a way of making everybody feel better. He had a big smile and an even bigger heart. He'd do anything for you and never expect anything in return, but it always made me want to do something nice back. Remember the paints I gave him for his birthday the year you first met him, Solange?"
Solange smiled mistily. "I could never forget that. He was so amazed—I can still see his expression when he opened the packages." She caught Patrick's and Antoinette's looks of surprise. "I was here for your father's birthday a couple of years before we were married. We felt something even then, but he insisted that I have my chance to dance. But before I left with the dance company, he painted my portrait—the same one that hangs in the family room." Patrick and Antoinette looked at each other, round-eyed with discovery. A tiny sigh broke the momentary silence, and Leslie focused on Mireille, who had fallen asleep.
"She's down for the count, Solange," Leslie said softly, and smiled at the other children. "I think we're all tired. Father and I couldn't sleep last night, and I'm feeling it now. I'm sure he is too."
"Yes, I must admit, I am," Roarke confessed. "Perhaps it's best to leave further tales for tomorrow. It's late, and we are all exhausted, even if we don't all feel it." He winked at Patrick and Antoinette.
"I'm so glad you both stayed," Solange said, rising with them and accompanying them to the door. "Just hearing your stories about Tattoo has been a real help. I'll look forward to more tomorrow. Thank you both, and I hope you have a restful night."
"You too," Leslie said, and the two young women shared a rueful look. "As much as possible, at least." Solange nodded knowingly, and they all bid one another good night.