‘I’m going to sing you a song that is sung without any accompaniment at all. No instruments. Just my voice. It’s a song I’m sure you know, “Forever Young”, but this time I would ask you not to sing along with me. Except those who can (she gave the crowd a smile like a kiss). I’m going to sing it in Corsican. Just for you. ‘Sempre giovanu’.

A white spotlight settled on Maria-Chjara. The Italian chanteuse closed her eyes, letting her unadorned voice defy the waves and climb ever higher, making even the moon weep.

And, carried by a soprano voice purer than anyone could have imagined, the tune became a hymn, the crowd shivering in the darkness, not even one nervous laugh, like a small miracle, as if everyone had understood that the singer was only agreeing to perform in this circus on the grounds that she was allowed these four minutes, that she was left in peace for the duration of her prayer, her a cappella credo.

A parenthesis that had to close again.

The sound of the drum machine exploded even before Maria-Chjara had opened her eyes again, even before the last octave was whispered by her parted lips, followed by an insipid synth note which all the beachgoers seemed to recognise from the first chord.

Maria-Chjara’s dress had just fallen to the stage. As if by magic she appeared in her bikini.

White. Immaculate. Clinging.

The crowd began to shout the chorus of ‘Boys, boys, boys’ even before the backing tape started up.

Maria-Chjara stopped, swayed, smiled, stepped forward, stepped back and then took a swift run.

The crowd continued to chant, repeating the words again and again.

She dived.

And re-emerged from the pool below the stage, under a shower of sequins, her hair sticking to her head, her make-up washed away, her foundation furrowed, but it didn’t matter, the important aspect was elsewhere: the top of her wet bikini was shining, intoxicating, transparent, just as the legend said it was, almost like a trademark.

Maria-Chjara now took up the refrain, repeating it ad infinitum. She had been brought a different microphone, a big rainbow-coloured plastic ball, and cannons spewed forth foam. The singer held out her hand as if blowing a kiss, and beckoned to the crowd.

As if expertly choreographed, the three bodyguards parted at last and clothes rained down on the beach. Soon there were a hundred people in the tiny pool, singing the words to ‘Boys, boys, boys’ for the thousandth time.

The more daring of the girls took off their bikini tops.

But not Maria-Chjara.

As if she were too old for that.

Because only the hits never get older.

~

‘I’m a friend of Maria-Chjara’s. I knew her when we were children.’

The bodyguard didn’t seem convinced.