wanting to wake Brigitte. Her bedroom is on the other side of the wall and we can hear her coughing.
There are silvery reflections: the sky has just fallen into the bathtub. Miraculously, an ordinary tap pours tender stars into the silence of the night. We enter the water gingerly, so as not to splash about in this delight. We are two starry granules of confectioner’s hundreds and thousands, writ large. And we make the slowest love in the world, with just our tongues. The lapping of the water makes us feel as if each of us is inside the other. I’ve rarely experienced anything as pleasurable.
We whisper our cries. We have to hold back. Then suddenly she gets up, turns around, and we’re transformed into jungle animals.
My whole body collapses; I’m in a western and I’ve just been shot. She starts groaning slowly. The cuckoo chimes in slow motion. Madeleine . . .
Later, after Miss Acacia has drifted off to sleep, I find myself staring at her. The length of her painted eyelashes emphasises her ferocious beauty. She’s so desirable, I wonder if her singing career hasn’t conditioned her to pose for imaginary painters even when she’s fast asleep. She looks like a Modigliani painting – a Modigliani that snores just a tiny bit.
Her life as a little singer with a burgeoning career continues; with its admirers who hang around her with no particular purpose, like fleshy ghosts.
All those perfumed human bodies frighten me more than a pack of wolves beneath a full moon. It’s all fake, and the chitchat is as hollow as a funeral vault. I think how brave she is to swim over this eddy of make-believe.
One day, they’ll send her to the moon to test out how aliens react to such an erotic display. She’ll sing and dance and answer local journalists’ questions; then they’ll take her photo and she’ll never come back. Sometimes I think all that’s missing is Joe: the worm-eaten cherry on top of the rotten cake.
A week later, Miss Acacia is singing in Seville. I ride my roller-board over the red mountains to catch up with her in her hotel bedroom after the show.
Along the way, the carrier pigeon drops off a new letter from Madeleine. Did my previous letter not get to her? Her note is only a few words long, and, worse, they’re words that don’t seem to be hers. They leave me wanting more . . . I’d give anything for Madeleine to meet Miss Acacia. Of course, our love would frighten her, but she couldn’t help liking my little singer’s personality. Imagining these two she-wolves talking together is a dream that always soothes me.
The day after the concert, we’re walking around Seville like proper lovers. The temperature’s just right and a warm wind strokes our skin. Our fingers fumble when it comes to doing the things that normal people do in broad daylight. At night, remote-controlled by desire, they know each other intricately; but for now, they are like four left hands being asked to write ‘hello’.
How clumsy we are from head to toe. Like a couple of vampires who’ve forgotten their sunglasses, out on a supermarket trip. But it’s a romantic dream for us. And kissing on the banks of the River Guadalquivir, in the middle of the afternoon, is a complete turn-on.
Above this sweet and simple happiness hovers a menacing cloud. I’m proud of Miss Acacia as I’ve never been proud before in my life. But the ecstatic looks from other men are making me feel increasingly jealous. I try persuading myself that, since she’s not wearing her spectacles, she might not be able to see this herd of men more handsome than me. But when the ever-expanding crowds rise to applaud, I feel alone in their midst; it’s time to play the role of the outsider and head back home to my shadowy attic.
Her refusal to acknowledge my suffering only makes things worse. I still don’t think she really believes in my cuckoo-clock heart.
I haven’t yet explained to her that behaving the way I do, with a makeshift heart, is
There are silvery reflections: the sky has just fallen into the bathtub. Miraculously, an ordinary tap pours tender stars into the silence of the night. We enter the water gingerly, so as not to splash about in this delight. We are two starry granules of confectioner’s hundreds and thousands, writ large. And we make the slowest love in the world, with just our tongues. The lapping of the water makes us feel as if each of us is inside the other. I’ve rarely experienced anything as pleasurable.
We whisper our cries. We have to hold back. Then suddenly she gets up, turns around, and we’re transformed into jungle animals.
My whole body collapses; I’m in a western and I’ve just been shot. She starts groaning slowly. The cuckoo chimes in slow motion. Madeleine . . .
Later, after Miss Acacia has drifted off to sleep, I find myself staring at her. The length of her painted eyelashes emphasises her ferocious beauty. She’s so desirable, I wonder if her singing career hasn’t conditioned her to pose for imaginary painters even when she’s fast asleep. She looks like a Modigliani painting – a Modigliani that snores just a tiny bit.
Her life as a little singer with a burgeoning career continues; with its admirers who hang around her with no particular purpose, like fleshy ghosts.
All those perfumed human bodies frighten me more than a pack of wolves beneath a full moon. It’s all fake, and the chitchat is as hollow as a funeral vault. I think how brave she is to swim over this eddy of make-believe.
One day, they’ll send her to the moon to test out how aliens react to such an erotic display. She’ll sing and dance and answer local journalists’ questions; then they’ll take her photo and she’ll never come back. Sometimes I think all that’s missing is Joe: the worm-eaten cherry on top of the rotten cake.
A week later, Miss Acacia is singing in Seville. I ride my roller-board over the red mountains to catch up with her in her hotel bedroom after the show.
Along the way, the carrier pigeon drops off a new letter from Madeleine. Did my previous letter not get to her? Her note is only a few words long, and, worse, they’re words that don’t seem to be hers. They leave me wanting more . . . I’d give anything for Madeleine to meet Miss Acacia. Of course, our love would frighten her, but she couldn’t help liking my little singer’s personality. Imagining these two she-wolves talking together is a dream that always soothes me.
The day after the concert, we’re walking around Seville like proper lovers. The temperature’s just right and a warm wind strokes our skin. Our fingers fumble when it comes to doing the things that normal people do in broad daylight. At night, remote-controlled by desire, they know each other intricately; but for now, they are like four left hands being asked to write ‘hello’.
How clumsy we are from head to toe. Like a couple of vampires who’ve forgotten their sunglasses, out on a supermarket trip. But it’s a romantic dream for us. And kissing on the banks of the River Guadalquivir, in the middle of the afternoon, is a complete turn-on.
Above this sweet and simple happiness hovers a menacing cloud. I’m proud of Miss Acacia as I’ve never been proud before in my life. But the ecstatic looks from other men are making me feel increasingly jealous. I try persuading myself that, since she’s not wearing her spectacles, she might not be able to see this herd of men more handsome than me. But when the ever-expanding crowds rise to applaud, I feel alone in their midst; it’s time to play the role of the outsider and head back home to my shadowy attic.
Her refusal to acknowledge my suffering only makes things worse. I still don’t think she really believes in my cuckoo-clock heart.
I haven’t yet explained to her that behaving the way I do, with a makeshift heart, is
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