The tooth fairy has a strange light in her eyes this morning. Her dress is quite different from the one I remembered, the hair is shorter and her lipstick colour deeper and more, much more sensual. “she must have met a man” (or a fairy man) I think. She keeps a hand in the right pocket of her coat and she’s entering a house. She breaks a window at the groundfloor somewhere in Amsterdam, Holland … waits a while without breathing and opens the way in with a soft “whish” … jumps in and disappears.
As usual, at this hour, I’m havin’ a coffee and a cigarette on the roof of Mr. Van Vermeer’s house. Last sip of my dirty water, last breath of my dirty air, two wings shots and I’m fluctuating right in front of the children’s room. Then it happens: the tooth fairy steps in through a half opened silent door. She slides till one of the two beds, bends gently on the child, slips a hand under the pillow and takes a small, white, beautiful tooth out. She puts it in her teeth bag, turns 180° (door direction) and … she doesn’t leave any money.
“She didn’t leave any money” i think, “she didn’t give any …” “Hey you didn’t pay for my tooth!” the child is not sleeping anymore, probably woken by my thoughts (don’t forget I’m an angel). Smooth, round, flesh made face the child. Sharp, hard, stone made expression the fairy.
A quick bad look she throws me through the window, immediately followed by angry Mr. Bullet, shot out from sleepy Miss Gun who had just jumped out from the famous right pocket of the bloody famous coat. Steel in my right wing smashes me down on a hard cold ground. I can hear the fairy shoutin’ at the children:”shut up you wretched rats or I’ll make you not be able to spell a sigh more … shut up!!” She must have jumped through the window then, ‘cause I feel small glass fragments raining down on me and I dream of a dark shadow flying over me.
The children are screaming. Mr. Van Vermeer is going to work … “6:30”, I think. The district is frozen, clear the sky lightened from his very east early side. I remember the words by a french writer: “children are burks … as angels are” …