My Life in Paris
to them. Etiquette. I did not want to jeopardize my new and pleasant life. But everything had
changed the day I had met Joaquín. Joaquín. I assume that only Constance had an idea to what
an extent my whole life had changed. That very day, rather irrevocable decision than fateful
coincidence, I crossed the borderline forever.
I had met him in a Paris nobleman’s house. Joaquín had only recently arrived in Paris. He
looked different, his manners were different, and he spoke French with a hard accent. Where
had this guy come from? Later I found out that he had come from abroad. New Spain. I
greeted him politely. He did not say a word, yet looked me straight into the eyes and returned
a smile, divulging and challenging, disturbing and appealing at the same time. And wherever I
moved, his dark and fiery eyes followed me.
Ever since Joaquín had been my constant companion, my lover and my friend.
With another kind nod Madame Constance encouraged me to answer her question. I thought
of Joaquín, the smell of his skin and the fire in his eyes. His hands and his lips on my body.
His longing and his desire and my devotion and my lust.
A smile played on my lips when I finally looked into Constance’s eyes. “Madame, you want
to know what I’m addicted to in life? I suggest you call it Passionate Devotion, ma chère.“
“Alors, une vie française, n’est-ce pas ?“ she responded with a knowing and perfect charming