The Boy with the Cuckoo-Clock Heart (13 page)

Méliès comes out of his bedroom, followed by his jovial retinue of buttocks and bosoms. Even when he’s over the moon, he can spot if I’m down in the dumps. With an affectionate glance, he signals to his
belles
to tone it down, so their cheeriness doesn’t make me feel any more miserable.

But she doesn’t come.

C
HAPTER TWELVE

The next day, Miss Acacia is giving a concert at a cabaret in the coastal resort of Marbella, a hundred kilometres from Granada. ‘It’s the perfect opportunity to meet up with her again, away from Joe,’ Méliès tells me.

He lends me his best suit and his favourite hat. Feverishly, I ask him to go with me; he agrees, just as he did on the first day.

Fear and doubt jostle with desire as we set off. Why is it so complicated to keep the person you love close to you? Miss Acacia gives without counting the cost; there’s nothing mean-spirited about her. And although I try to return this generosity, she receives less from me. Perhaps I don’t know how to give properly. But I refuse to be kicked off the most magical train-ride of my life, complete with an engine that spits flaming daffodil petals. Tonight, I’ll explain to her that I’m ready to change in every way, provided she loves me. And then things can go back to the way they used to be.

The show is to take place on a tiny stage set along the seashore. Yet the whole world appears to be gathered around it. In the front row sits Joe. A totem invested with powers to make my entire body tremble.

My little singer walks on stage, clicking her heels with a violence that surprises the audience, louder and louder. She shouts, screeches, deals blows with her cries. Today she’s inhabited by a wolf. A gutsy
blues
weaves in and out of her flamenco. Chilli peppers dance on her tongue. In her sparkling orange dress, she looks like a singing powder keg. She’s got so much tension to exorcise this evening.

All of a sudden, her left leg punctures the floorboard, then her right leg, in a fiery fracas. I rush to help her, but the crowd won’t let me through. People just stand there and shout as she hammers herself in like a living nail. My eyes meet hers, I don’t think she even recognises me – perhaps because of Méliès’ hat. Joe rushes towards her, his long legs slicing efficiently through the crowd. I’m struggling in his wake. He’s gaining ground. In a few seconds, he’ll be able to touch her. I can’t let her inside those arms of his. Miss Acacia’s face tenses, she must be injured. She’s not the kind to complain for no reason. I wish I were a doctor or, better still, a sorcerer able to pop her back on her feet. I clamber over the roof of the crowd, walking over people’s heads as if I were back on the Ghost Train. I’m going to catch up with him, I’m going to catch up with her. She’s hurt herself, I can’t bear for her to be in pain. People are pressing against the stage now, keen to ‘see what’s going on’. I’m level with Joe, I’m going to stop those floorboard crocodiles from gobbling her up. It’ll be me this time. I’ll rescue Miss Acacia, and in doing so I’ll rescue myself.

From the bottom of my gears a pain shoots across my lungs. Joe has overtaken me. In slow motion, his long fingers scoop up Miss Acacia. I got carried away with my dream of saving her. He covers her bird’s body. My clock screeches like a thousand chalks across a board. He lifts up Miss Acacia like a newlywed. She looks so beautiful, even in his arms. They disappear into the dressing room. I try not to shout, I tremble instead. Help, Madeleine! Send me an army of steely hearts.

I’ve got to break this door down. I smash my head against it. The door doesn’t budge. I pick up my body and some of my mind from the floor. I notice my reflection in the pane. A bluish bump has sprung up on my left temple.

After several attempts the door opens, to reveal Miss Acacia lying in Joe’s arms. Her red dress, gently pulled up, matches the drops of blood forming on her calves. You’d think he’d just taken a bite out of her and was getting ready to eat her alive.

‘Whatever happened to you?’ she asks, reaching out to stroke the bump on my head.

I dodge her.

My heart detects the affection in her movement, but can’t process it yet. My anger is still raging. Miss Acacia’s eyes harden. Joe holds her little bird’s body tight to his powerful chest, protecting her from me. Oh Madeleine, your slate must be trembling above my bed. The clock is pounding under my tongue.

Miss Acacia asks Joe to go outside. He does so with the old-fashioned politeness of a judo master. But before exiting, he gently puts Miss Acacia down on a chair; he’s clearly frightened she might break. His solicitous gestures are unbearable.

‘Did you kiss Joe?’

‘Sorry?’

‘You did!’

I’ve set off an avalanche.

‘How could you even think such a thing? He just helped me free my leg from that rotten plank. You saw what happened, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, but yesterday, he . . .’

‘Do you honestly believe I want to get back together with him? Do you really think I could do that to you? You don’t understand anything!’

Fear of losing her and a raging headache come together in an electric storm; I’m out of control. I’m about to vomit glowing embers. I can feel them rising up in my throat, invading my brain. My head is short-circuiting. I say dreadful things, sentences I’ll never be able to retract.

I wish I could roll those words back up with my tongue, but the venom is already taking effect. The bonds between us are snapping, one by one. I’m sinking our boat, smashing it with cruel accusations. I have to stop this machine that spits resentment before it’s too late, but I can’t.

Joe opens the door quietly. He doesn’t say a word, just sticks his head round, to show Miss Acacia he’s keeping an eye on her.

‘Everything’s fine, Joe. Don’t worry.’

Her pupils glow with infinite sadness, but her pretty mouth betrays anger and disdain. I used to watch those eyelashes blossoming: now they give off blind fog.

The only advantage of this coldest of showers is to put me back in touch with reality. I’m destroying everything, I can see it in the shattered mirror of her gaze; I’ve got to turn the clock back, and fast.

I give everything I’ve got, opening the floodgates wide on to what I’ve always hidden from her. I should have started with this, I know, I’m doing it all the wrong way round, but I’m still trying to change tack, even now.

‘I love you crookedly because my heart’s been unhinged from birth. The doctors gave me strict instructions not to fall in love: my fragile clockwork heart would never survive. But when you gave me a dose of love so powerful – far beyond my wildest dreams – that I felt able to confront anything for you, I decided to put my life in your hands.’

No sign of a dimple on her cheeks.

‘I’m doing everything back to front today because I don’t know how to stop losing you and it’s making me sick. I love yo—’

‘The worst is you actually believe your lies!’ she cuts me off. ‘It’s pathetic. There’s no way you’d be behaving like this if there was a grain of truth in what you’re saying . . . No way. Get out, get out, please!’

The short-circuiting intensifies, spreading to my clock which glows red. Mournful screeching as the gears crash against each other. My brain is on fire, and my heart is rising up into my head. Surely the person with the controls can see this, by looking into my eyes.

‘So I’m a fraud, am I? A con artist? Well, let’s see about that, shall we, why waste any time?’

I wrench my clock hands as hard as I can. It’s horrifically painful. I grab hold of the dial with both hands and, like a person deranged, try ripping out the clock. I want her to see me banishing this millstone and throwing it in the bin, so she understands. The pain is intolerable. First jolt. Nothing happens. Second, still nothing. The third, more violent, feels like knife blows raining down on me. Far away, I can hear her voice calling out:
‘stop it . . . stop it!’
But it’s too late, a bulldozer is smashing everything between my lungs.

Some people claim to see intense light as death approaches. I only saw shadows. Giant shadows as far as the horizon. And a storm of black snowflakes; black snow progressively covering my hands, then my outstretched arms. The dressing table is so drenched in blood that red roses appear to be growing out of it. Then the roses vanish, and my body with them. I’m relaxed and anxious at the same time, as if getting ready for a long-haul flight.

A last spray of sparks flashes up on the screen of my eyelids: Miss Acacia dancing, poised on those stilettos spindly as clock hands, Dr Madeleine leaning over me, winding up my clockwork heart, Arthur roaring his swing to the beat of ‘Oh When the Saints,’ Miss Acacia dancing on clock hands, Miss Acacia dancing on clock hands, Miss Acacia dancing on clock hands . . .

The terrified screams of Miss Acacia finally rouse me from my trance. I raise my head and look up at her. I’ve got two broken clock hands in my palms. The sadness and anger in her gaze have given way to fear. Her cheeks are hollow; her eyebrows punctuate her forehead like two circumflex accents. Yesterday her eyes were filled with love; today they’re leaky cauldrons. I feel as though I’m being stared at by a pretty corpse. A sense of shame overwhelms me, as the rage I feel towards myself outstrips even the fury Joe provokes in me.

Miss Acacia walks out of her dressing room. The door slams like a gunshot. A bird shakes itself on my hat; Méliès must have forgotten to remove it. I’m feeling cold, so cold. This has to be the coldest night on earth. I’d be more relaxed if somebody was knitting my heart with icy pokers.

She walks past me without looking back, and disappears into the dark like a sad comet. I hear the sound of her bumping into a lamppost, followed by swearing in Spanish. My brain orders up a smile from my memories, but the message gets lost along the way.

A few metres above the stage, lightning rips across the sky. Umbrellas open like funeral flowers; I’m rather tired of dying all the time.

I hold my clock in place with the flat of my hand. Blood on the gears. My head is spinning, I don’t know how to make my legs work any more. When I try walking, I’m as knock-kneed as a first-time skier.

My cuckoo coughs with each of my spasms, leaving wood chippings all around. Heavy sleep overcomes me. I melt into the mist with Jack the Ripper on my mind. Will I end up like him, only successful in relationships with dead women?

Everything I did, I did for Miss Acacia. But my dreams – and my reality – haven’t worked out. I wanted it to work, wanted it so badly, probably too much. I thought I could do anything for her, crumbling the moon to make her eyelids sparkle; never sleeping before the sound of birds yawning at dawn; going to the ends of the earth to find her . . . Is this what it’s all come to?

A flash of lightning slaloms between the trees, ending its journey in silence on the beach. The sea lights up for a moment. Perhaps Miss Acacia still has something to say to me?

Then the foam retreats and Marbella switches back into darkness. The spectators bolt from the rain like rabbits into a warren. It’s time for me to pack up my suitcase of dreams.

C
HAPTER THIRTEEN

It takes Méliès two days to drag my carcass from Marbella back to Granada. When we finally reach the city’s outskirts, the Alhambra looms like an elephants’ graveyard. Its fortifications glint in the darkness, ready to butcher me.

‘Get up! Get up!’ whispers Méliès, ‘don’t give in, don’t leave me!’

Everything’s coming apart inside me. I squint over the stumps of my clock hands. It’s a terrifying sight that reminds me of when I was born.

Nothing makes sense any more. As a newly fledged adult, I used to want to look after my clock, so I would last long enough to realise my dream of having a family of my own: but all that has dissolved like snowflakes in the flames. What rose-tinted nonsense love is! Madeleine had warned me, of course, but I wanted to follow my heart.

I’m dragging myself along with painstaking slowness. A huge fire rages inside my chest, but I feel anaesthetized. I wouldn’t notice if an aeroplane flew straight between my eyes.

I’d give anything to see Arthur’s Seat rise up before me. Oh Madeleine, if only! I’d dive straight into my bed. There must be a few childhood dreams still hidden under my pillow. I’d do my best not to crush them, heavy though my head is with grown-up worries. I’d go to sleep thinking I’d never wake up again; which is a strangely comforting idea. The next morning I’d have a hard time coming to, knocked out like a failed boxer. But Madeleine would lavish her attentions on me, restoring me to how I was before. Just because the post never came doesn’t stop me from talking to my midwife-mother in my head . . .

Back in his workshop, Méliès tucks me up in his bed. Blood spreads across the white sheets. Snow-roses reappearing, twirling.
Bloody hell, I’m staining the sheets
, I think in a flash of consciousness. My head weighs a ton, and my brain is as tired of being trapped inside my head as my heart is under my clock dial.

‘I want to change my heart. Make me different, I don’t want to be me any more. Don’t you see, I’ve had enough of this wooden heart; it’s like a dead weight that keeps cracking all the time.’

Méliès watches over me, concerned.

‘Your problem goes much deeper than your wooden clock, you know.’

‘I feel as if a giant Acacia tree is growing between my lungs. This evening,
I saw
Joe carrying Miss Acacia in his arms and it was like being stabbed. I’d never have believed it could be so hard. And when she slammed the door and left, it was harder still.’

‘You knew the risks, my boy, when you gave a shooting star the keys to your heart.’

‘I want you to fit me with a new heart and set the counter back to zero. I never want to fall in love again.’