This story is based on a winter George Sands and Frederick Chopin spent in Majorca. Funny, desperate and sensory, it is narrated by a ghostly voyeur seeking revenge for the suffering she endured in her own life. She indulges in both experience and emotion by occupying the bodies and memories of the living. This offers an unexpected tale in the ghost story genre and a different view of Majorca. It will make you laugh, seethe and wonder.
I should explain: when I was alive, I lived in a time of beautiful men. They were everywhere: big and broad and manly, managing everything mannishly, manifesting whatever they wanted and manhandling what they didn’t. I ogled them, it’s true. Everyone did. It was normal. They were so beautiful. As my mother used to say: we had two religions; there was the Church and then there were the men.
After I died, I found myself in a time of beautiful women.
It was a shock, of course, when I noticed this. It was not something I’d considered in my life. Women had represented only safety to me, comforting boredom. My mother, for instance, single-handedly managing the family pig business. My sister. Girls in the village who understood me completely and had their item worries and secrets and fears that were just like mine. I had never seen anything remotely alluring in them. The idea! Like being attracted to a glass of milk.
