Go moan for man

Paris, latin quarter, June 2009.

A small, peach-shaped fist crashing into the keys of an old, chipped piano. This is how the story begins: Clang clang clang.

Valentina is sitting at the old upright Steinway. Eyes closed and humming along with the imaginary melodies, dancing with her mind like children, as the hands they react violently and inept, at what ever violence is felt in not-knowing the right chords, and all of that.

She is wearing nothing but a cigarette in her sharp soft mouth, and I am sleeping, or was just, as the morning sun is striking the catapulted dots of dust and ash that fly and escape the piano's cold vibrating wood and the tin, cold ashtray.

On the floor is a collection of poems - half of them handwritten, half ripped from anthologies, with underlined passages and enthusiastic, blue ink - a wine bottle, red and drained to its syrupy, ash-laden botton - books, paper back Millers and Doestoevskies - and scattered remains of the violence and fucking, love making, from nights before: a pair of scissors, bloodied from when the police came and nearly arrested us both, used condoms and rappers, three packs of cigarettes, Marlboro Gold.

Here I am, here, here I am, clang, her tiny fruit shaped hands proclaim, hands which I know smell like cigarettes and perfume and semen and her pussy; and I rub my head and block out the sun, and I can smell her on my hands too: "Good morning, Bella, good evening," cigarettes and her sex. And my throat is sore, so I stay silent waiting for a response, which I will not receive.

And she is whistling an opera, and laughing like a child in between, whistle and laugh, rage and laughter and whistling. The neighbours will soon start up, it is Sunday.

I take some easy first exploratory steps, and the wood floor feels cold against my feet. The sunlight fills the room after I draw wide the heavy tweed curtains, which had hung half closed, and now that I am at the window I light a cigarette and run my fingers along my chest and yawning I examine the street below. Two ladies are sitting with a lap dog each and they are smoking, sitting at a table of the cafe, on the patio stones.

Over to the piano, as I walk Valentina is still barking, but I see her now and she is lit like gold, and her breasts glow softly and she is exactly, exactly beautiful; "Do you have to do this?" I ask, not thinking, sitting next to her on the wooden bench. I rest a hand on her shoulder but she puffs and with rage she smacks my hand away.

"Fuck you, you pig." And her blue eyes seem grey and are wide with rage. And she plays louder, and smacks down each fist in long extended stone webs, burstingly. And the neighbours have now started shouting something from above, but it is muffled and impossible to understand. And outside the dogs start to bark.

Suddenly she halts completely. She now just rests there, head over her own breasts, hands perched on keys, ready to strike, but calm and gentle, like ten lionesses, her fingers.

Just as I am about to start to play the piano myself, I think better of it and stand up, putting on my jeans. "I am making coffee, do you want some?"

"No. Yes. I will need more cigarettes."

"And you want me to get them?"

She says yes.