astronomy of her skin and bury my nose in her stars. I can’t take my eyes off her gently opened mouth. My blood froths and there are sparks flying between my thighs. I graze on her skin and she becomes my flower. A mild electric current flows from her hands. I draw closer.
‘To increase my trust ratings, I’m going to give you the key to my heart. You won’t be able to remove it, but otherwise you can do whatever you like, whenever you like. You
My little singer agrees and pulls her hair back. Her doe’s eyes leap out from her elegant face. Then she puts on a pair of Madeleine’s glasses and leans her head to one side. Madeleine, how furious you’d be if you could see her!
I’d like to tell Miss Acacia how gorgeous she looks in those glasses, but she wouldn’t believe me, so I stroke her hand instead. I start worrying that she might like me less if she could see me as I really am. Now I’m the one who’s panicking.
I place the key in her right hand. I’m nervous, which makes me rattle like a toy train.
‘Why have you got two holes?’
‘The right-hand one is to open me up and the left-hand one to wind me up.’
‘Can I open you?’
‘All right.’
She nudges the key delicately into my right keyhole. I close my eyes then open them again, just like when we’re kissing for a long time. I want to see everything ablaze.
Her eyelids are closed, magnificently drawn down. It’s such a serene moment. She grips a gear between her thumb and index finger, gently, without slowing it down. All of a sudden a tide of tears wells up and overwhelms me. She relaxes her subtle grasp and the waters of melancholy are cut off. Miss Acacia caresses my second gear – will she tickle my heart? I laugh lightly. Then, without letting go of the second gear in her right hand, she returns to the first one with the fingers of her left hand. When she brings her lips to the teeth of my cogs, she works her Blue Fairy magic on me, like in Pinocchio, but more real. Except it’s not my nose that’s growing longer. She senses this and her movements accelerate, increasing the pressure on my gears. Sounds escape from my mouth before I can check myself. I’m surprised, embarrassed, but above all excited. She uses my gears as if they were resistors and my sighs turn to groans.
‘I’d like to take a bath,’ she whispers.
I signal my consent – what is there to disagree with? I land back on my feet so I can head to the bathroom and run a hot bath.
I make my way quietly, not 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
