I’m fourteen years old. I like girls who eat the skin like good fruits and curl up in the clay when seized by rapture, printing their serpentine shape into the soft soil. I like boys undulating with flowing pleasure, hesitating on which curves to hold on to from the breasts or buttocks or thighs or cheeks, as their hands are so small and their hunger so great.
In a convent built by women’s hands on the edge of the boreal forest, twenty-four sisters give birth to a little girl who will grow up learning the language and laws of Ina Maka, Mother Earth. A little further away, a worker at the Kohle Co. mine dies in childbirth, leaving an albino baby to her father, who’ll work himself to death so the young one can one day become a doctor.
The novel recounts the encounter, mating and destiny of these two dissimilar beings, Daã and Laure, and that of their offspring. It carries the smells of the taiga and the sounds of the city; stories of women fleeing, debacle and children left behind. It goes back to the origins of a lineage from which Noé of Oss and The Body of the Beasts will come out