Shadow Girl

by Mael d'Armor

  After M comes P.

  ‘P-p-p-p-perfect!’ enthuses Yaouen, mimicking her own string of plosives.

  And then S.

  She stretches her lips in an impressive approximation of a gas leak — ‘s-s-s-s-s-s!’

  He presents the box of sweets.

  ‘No thanks, I’m good.’

  ‘Please, Sandra. Humour me,’ he insists, his voice washing over her like a caress, his eyes pulling on her.

  She would like to stand firm but her fingers are not listening and bring another chocolate to her lips.

  The heatwave in her throat is so intense, yet so pleasant, it surprises her again. It spreads out like a balm, dissolving the edge in her mind. She decides to give Yaouen the benefit of the doubt for the next ten minutes.

  ‘T time!’ he exclaims. ‘This is where things get a bit more complicated. You see, the French T is quite different from its English equivalent. While you would naturally place your tongue on the alveolum, a Gallic speaker will reach for the back of the upper front teeth and produce a dental.’

  ‘Plain English, please.’

  ‘Ah, yes, well, all you have to remember, really, is that you should not expel any air from your mouth when you say the sound. Dead simple.’ He conjures up a small mirror from his pocket and places it with a slight flourish right in front of her mouth. ‘In other words, the mirror surface should stay absolutely clear.’

  ‘T,’ she says tentatively. ‘T.’

  The mirror steams up a little.

  ‘Again.’

  ‘Teee!’ she spits out. The mirror does not hear her silent prayer and fogs up even more.

  ‘Can I see the back of your hand?’ he asks, his voice velvety.

  ‘Why? What did I do wrong?’

  ‘The glass went fuzzy. It shouldn’t have.’

  She stares at him, weighing her options. Does this feel right? Does it? She is not a child. What is she getting herself into?

  She looks into his eyes, trying to read those irises for a sign that she is dealing with someone less than reliable, that this is all far too crazy, that she should put a stop to the whole idiotic thing. But she gets lost in his bizarre aura. She finds his coruscated gaze puzzlingly attractive. Compelling. Like a plea reaching out to her from beyond a rainbow veil.

  Benefit of the doubt, she sighs. She holds out her hand. The discreet pat sends a tingle coursing to her elbow. It is not as unpleasant as she imagined.

  ‘One more time,’ says Yaouen.

  She stretches her lips. Nudges out the sound. The mirror blurs. And so again, she consents to the nip of a small tap on her hand. She almost giggles this time. The situation seems so absurd.

  Okay, let’s focus, she tells herself. She can take on a challenge.

  ‘T,’ she says cagily, like someone venturing on a frozen pond at thaw season.

  ‘Paaaarfait,’ warbles Yaouen.

  She savours the small wave of pride surging through her, then looks at the box being offered. This time, she does not protest and takes another chocolate. Even finds comfort in the heat which unfurls down to her chest. She feels quite relaxed now and despite herself is beginning to see the fun side of this.

  ‘I think you are ready for R.’

  Drat! she thinks. Always had trouble with that one.

  ‘The trick here,’ continues Yaouen, ‘is to make the uvular vibrate against the back of the active articulator.’

  ‘But of course, why didn’t you say so before?’ she mocks.

  ‘Forgive me, I always get carried away at this stage. The uvular is the extreme tip of the valum, or soft palate, located at the back of your throat. The active articulator is the phonetician’s codeword for tongue, and contrasts with the passive articulator — the teeth. So basically, you have to shake your uvular. But I shall not bore you with the details. Just imagine you are a cat purring. Not the soft purr of a pampered, overfed suburban pussy, but the contented trills of a street tabby that has just caught and swallowed a mouse.’

  He models for her. ‘R-r-r-r-r-r-r-r! R-r-r-r-r-r-r!’

  Her turn to try.

  ‘Whrrrrribit! Whrrrrribit!’

  Christ. She sounds like a frog calling for a potential mate.

  She submits to another tap on the wrist, slightly more pronounced, it seems. The tingle turns to a prickle. She tries again.

  And again.

  And again.

  The light slaps nip her skin but she is dead set on getting this right. She is an achiever for God’s sake, used to getting results. Surely she can manage a little trill.

  ‘Whrrrrraaaa! Whrrrrraaaa!’

  No proper French purr, alas.

  She has the crestfallen look of a young cat coming back empty-pawed after its first night on the prowl.

  ‘Okay,’ says Yaouen, ‘let’s try a different tack. We have to work on posture and breathing. Would you be so kind as to get down on your hands and knees?’

  ‘On my hands and knees?’ she questions, astonished. ‘Isn’t that a bit extreme?’

  ‘It’s the only way, I’m afraid. You need to master the cat pose to improve your flow and make that uvular quaver. The cat pose, bidalasana, for the perfect purr.’

  She is debating. The ten minutes are up, she thinks. The tongue drills were one thing, but isn’t this more than slightly ridiculous? Sure, she cannot deny she is starting to see the lighter side of this eccentric session, or that at least her interest is piqued, but . . . come on! If her friends could see what she is about to do, they’d have a fit. As for Mark, what wild notions would he entertain if he found her on all fours with the language tutor? But then her friends are not here to giggle and Mark is away on a business trip to China.

  Her eyes flick to the vintage retro table stuck to the side wall, to the small photo of Mark and herself. They both sit there in the first flush of infatuation, hugging, grinning from ear to ear on the golden sand of Wategos Beach, in Edenesque Byron Bay. Happier times, before two years of dating routine blunted their passion and sapped its strength.

  She shakes off the memory and refocuses on the here and now. She got this far with the linguistic charade, she might as well play along a little more.

  6

  As instructed, she settles down on the thick rug, facing the couch. Head looking down, hands directly beneath her shoulders, knees beneath her hips. Her tight-fitting skirt slides up her thighs, revealing too much skin for her liking. She tries to pull it down, in vain. Her arm brushes against the coffee table, causing the potted hibiscus to wobble slightly.

  ‘Please,’ says Yaouen, tendering the box of sweets again. ‘An incentive to keep doing well.’

  ‘I . . . I think I’ve had enough of those.’ She is worried about the effects of the delicacies on her waistline.

  ‘Nonsense. Another teensy treat is not going to hurt you. Allow me,’ he chirps, bringing the sweet directly to her mouth. ‘As I’m sure you know, chocolate is packed full of wonderful compounds which boost wellbeing, increase blood flow, magnify alertness and generally stimulate the receptors in the brain. This will speed up your learning curve. Take my word for it.’

  She parts her lips for one more offering.

  The heat spreads faster this time, suffusing her from head to toe. She has the feeling she has just stepped inside a sauna. She takes in a few deep breaths, hoping to cool herself. But it’s useless. As useless as pouring water upon that sauna’s stove. Luckily, her focus is not affected — though much narrowed. She has acquired tunnel vision. Her mind’s eye is now trained on this fractious R, this bright beacon in the distance, to the exclusion of everything else.

  Her desire for the target rises within her. Keen and sharp. Irrepressible. Under Yaouen’s guidance, she begins to exhale, pulling in her abdominal muscles, rounding her spine upwards. She tucks in her head.

  ‘Good, Sandra. Very good. Now breathe in and fall back into the default posture. Breathe out. Spine up. Good. Concentrate on your diaphragm. On the flow. Excellent.’

  After a
few minutes metronomed by soft-spoken instructions, Yaouen interrupts the routine.

  ‘In order to help you better visualise the target sound, I shall place a headband over your eyes. Please do not be alarmed, there is nothing to fear. Blocking your sight will enhance your hearing. This is standard procedure, an intrinsic part of my methodology.’

  Sandra tries to dispel the hot mist wafting through her mind.

  Shouldn’t she object? Should she allow this perfect stranger to blindfold her? But his voice is so smooth, and so refreshingly cool, and so reassuring. And she can end all this at the drop of a hat, can’t she? Though she is not wearing one but . . . never mind. She is still in charge. And she can get this right. She can do it, she knows.

  Her pride gets the last word.

  She lets him position the headband he has pulled out of a pocket. The cloth is soft against her lashes. His fingers brush against her ears and she almost titters. The sudden loss of sight seems to tighten the sauna grip.

  ‘Another sweet if you’ll permit. I can feel the tension ebbing away. This is very good. Very good, Sandra.’

  Ebbing away? She cannot, in truth, feel anything much ebbing. Quite the reverse. In spite of all her yogic efforts, the hot tide inside her has reached an equinox high.

  But her tunnel focus ties her to the task. Her tunnel focus, and something else besides. Something to do with that suave, captivating voice. With those eyes she can picture in her mind, pleading with her, pulling on her.

  Before she can comment, another chocolate has slipped past her lips and this time, she gets a slight taste of his thumb and finger. Spicy, slightly musky, and far from unpleasant. If she wasn’t so damn hot, she would find this a very appealing bonus to the cocoa.

  ‘Now repeat after me,’ intones Yaouen. ‘R-r-r-r-r-r-r! R-r-r-r-r-r!’

  She focuses, tries to vibrate her ovulation or whatever that thing is called.

  ‘Whrrrriiii!’

  Oh no! She could cry in frustration!

  Then she feels it. A slap on her backside. It takes her completely by surprise.

  ‘Not good,’ disapproves her tutor.

  She would normally be outraged — she should be outraged — but somehow the heat, the persuasiveness of his voice, the memory of those enigmatic eyes have numbed and twisted her response.

  Instead, more blood rushes to her face and a weird kind of shame overcomes her. Can she have deserved this? Perhaps she did, for he must know what he is doing. That cool, confident voice must know what it is doing. She must have brought this on herself. She must do better then. Try harder. Yes, she must try harder.

  Still, she issues a half-hearted protest.

  ‘Weren’t you supposed to slap my hand?’

  ‘I was,’ comes the reply, ‘but now I can’t, since you’re on your knees. Besides, we have to increase the challenge, don’t you agree? To boost your motivation.’

  Challenge, motivation. She can relate to those words. They’ve sustained her for years. I’ll get this right, I’ll get this right, she tells herself.

  Tiny pearls of sweat have appeared on her skin. Glossing her forehead, lining her upper lip.

  God. She is so hot, and not a little woozy. The blood in her face has begun to pulsate.

  ‘Breathe in, breathe out, focus,’ hums Yaouen’s voice.

  ‘R-r-r-r-r-r . . . R-r-r-r-r-r . . .’ she tries again, diffidently, then with greater vigour. Yes, yes, she’s got it! ‘R-r-r-r-r-r! R-r-r-r-r-r!’

  ‘Bravo!’ cheers his voice, nurturing her, caressing her almost. ‘This is a beautiful purr!’

  She is filled by a strange elation. All of a sudden, she has an acute wish to please him. She is so eager to. Yes, she has to keep him happy. She has to keep those cool, wonderful tones wrapped around her.

  Another chocolate is pushed into her mouth. She has forgotten all about her waistline. Her throat is drowning in liqueur. She got the R right, she got the R right, she sings through the dizziness, through the haze dimming her thoughts.

  Fingers linger over her lips, fluttering like mischievous birds.

  ‘You have a tiny smudge on the side there, in the crease of your mouth. Allow me to wipe it clean for you.’

  A thumb brushes against the fullness of her lip, bringing her brief relief as it cuts a small gash in the heat swaddling her.

  She is convinced she is about to lose her balance and grips the rug, searching for anchorage. She senses that she is slipping, losing control. That she should call the whole thing off. But her mind is blunted, caught between inflamed jubilation and a perverse desire to keep going. To respond to the smooth, compelling prompts of his voice. She cannot let herself be diverted from her goal. Her goal.

  Yes, it is her goal to please him.

  ‘Well done, Sandra. You are ready to tackle the ultimate core phoneme. The O sound. The lynchpin of the whole neurolinguistics edifice! But also the most challenging part, it is only fair to warn you.’

  Yaouen’s voice drones on, soothing, caressing.

  ‘The French O is a cardinal vowel described by the late Professor Daniel Jones — may his soul rest in peace. It is a mid-high back vowel, rounded, and requires precise and meticulous positioning of the lips, the upper oral tract, the pharyngeal tissues and the organs of the thoracic cavity.’

  This makes absolutely no sense to her but his voice keeps weaving its hypnotic thread, trapping her more sweetly with every sentence.

  ‘Unlike the English O, it is not a diphthong, or gliding vowel, in which the tongue moves from one position to another, but a pure sound, characterised by lingual fixity.’

  A pause. The blood is pounding in her temples. Flushing her cheeks. Her shirt is a damp paste on her skin.

  ‘Now, let us try,’ resumes Yaouen’s voice. ‘O,’ it demonstrates. ‘Please repeat. O.’

  ‘Ow,’ she says, hesitant.

  ‘As I said, O is a pure vowel, not a mixture of two sounds. Let’s try with a word. Jojo.’

  ‘Jowjow.’

  She braces herself for a slap on her bottom. Nothing. She feels a twitch of disappointment — and then perceives, as through a fog, how unreal this whole situation has become. Disappointment? For not getting spanked? What is happening to her?

  She tries to rally her thoughts, to will herself together. Come on, get a grip, she begs. She gropes for a mental picture of self-assertion. No, this is hopeless. She cannot escape the slow burn in her head, her chest, her limbs. Cannot escape his mesmeric tones.

  She starts longing for his cool reassuring voice. For those seductive eyes. For the taste of his thumb.

  ‘We have to work on the mouth,’ instructs his voice. ‘Purse your lips to make a nice circle.’

  She tries, but he is not pleased.

  ‘Further forward, Sandra. Imagine you want to leave the imprint of a kiss on a glass.’

  Dutifully, she strains her lips and puts on an admirable duck face.

  ‘Well done,’ says his voice, curling around her. ‘Very promising.’

  Another chocolate is offered to her tongue. She chews obediently, succumbing further to the flavour. She has to dig her nails deeper into the rug to stop herself from tipping over.

  And his voice . . . His voice is amplified in her head. Pervasive, inescapable, like a smooth dark presence.

  ‘The orbicularis oris — that’s the muscle around your mouth — needs to be strengthened so you can hold the position. So please relax your lips, then make the circle. Focus, Sandra. Relax those lips. Again. And again.’

  A pause.

  ‘You can do better than that.’

  The voice is not happy. The circle is lopsided, it says. Her heart sinks. She is trying so hard. And she is boiling inside. And feeling so dizzy.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ says the voice, ‘I’ll give you something to model your lips on. Make sure your tongue is positioned correctly, at the back of the mouth, well away from your teeth. Lingual retraction is a feature of the French O.’

  Something is inserted into her
pout. Something round and soft. She cannot tell straight away what it is for the swelter in her flesh has numbed her senses. Then she guesses. A finger. No, a thumb. She should be shocked but the song of the voice is robbing her of the will to object.

  ‘The O, or circle,’ the voice purrs on, ‘is an ancient symbol, used in all cultures. It is found everywhere. On the masterpieces of the great painters, in the sacred books of the astrologers, in the plans of the great walled cities of antiquity, in the Tibetan mandala, in the Aboriginal rock art of the Panaramitee period. It is a reflection of the planets and a symbol of the macrocosm. A figure of completion. But it is also a sign of intimacy and fertility, and as such an emblem of womanhood. This is why it is crucial to get it right. Do you hear me, Sandra?’

  She nods, tensing and relaxing her lips on the thumb, tasting its cool, musky aroma with relief. With relish. Somehow that thumb is keeping her dizziness at bay, offering protection from the fire in her limbs.

  It is no longer motionless but sliding back and forth. Brushing and pressing against her tongue, tickling her.

  Panaramitee, ancient symbol, macrocosm, womanhood . . . The words drift through her without meaning. All she wants is to satisfy the echoes in her mind, indulge that comforting, all-powerful presence. Keep it happy. Drape herself in it so she does not collapse on the floor. She dimly perceives it is no longer her pride which keeps her striving for the elusive sound, but cannot find the strength to care.

  She sucks on.

  The thumb is taken out abruptly. For a moment, she is disoriented. But the voice coils around her again. She is filled with glee, and an odd kind of passivity.

  ‘We have strengthened the lips. We must now stretch the chest and relax the diaphragm further. To achieve this, your position must be altered.’

  This time, her consent is not requested.

  Her hands are dragged along the rug and she slides forward, her shoulders subsiding. Her motion is arrested by the couch. The potted hibiscus on the coffee table sheds a bright red petal, which catches in her hair.

  Her buttocks are positioned much higher than her head. Her blouse has come partially untucked and her skirt, no doubt stretched beyond what is recommended by its manufacturer, has shifted further up her thigh, revealing a large swathe of skin above the boots.