The Boy with the Cuckoo-Clock Heart (14 page)

Noticing the mad suicidal glimmer in my eyes, Méliès realises there’s no point in arguing. He lays me out on the workbench, the way Madeleine used to in the old days, and gets me to wait.

‘Hold on, I’m going to find something for you.’

I can’t relax. My gears are making atrocious grating noises.

‘I must have a few spare parts somewhere . . .’ he adds.

‘I’m fed up with being mended. I want something strong enough to withstand powerful emotions, like everybody else. Haven’t you got a spare clock?’

‘That won’t solve anything. We need to mend your flesh-and-blood heart. And you don’t need a doctor or a clockmaker for that. You just need love, or time – but lots of time.’

‘I don’t want to wait! I don’t have any love left, so please, just change this clock for me.’

Méliès heads into town to find me a new heart.

‘Try to rest up until I’m back. And no silly business.’

I decide to wind up my old heart one last time. My head is spinning. A guilty thought flies away to Madeleine, who made so many sacrifices for me to be able to stand on my own two feet and keep going forward without snapping. I feel thoroughly ashamed.

I thrust the key into my lock and a sharp pain rises up beneath my lungs. Drops of blood form at the intersection of my clock hands. I try to pull out the key, but it sticks in the lock. Then I try un-jamming it with my broken clock hands. I force it, but my strength is fading fast. By the time I’ve finally succeeded, blood is pouring out of the lock. Curtain.

Méliès is back. I can only see a blurred moustache, you’d think my eyes had been replaced by Miss Acacia’s.

‘I found you a new heart – with no cuckoo and a much quieter tick-tock.’

‘Thank you . . .’

‘Do you like it?’

‘Yes, thank you . . .’

‘You’re quite sure you don’t want the heart Madeleine saved your life with?’

‘I’m sure.’

‘You’ll never be the same again, you do understand?’

‘That’s exactly what I want.’

I don’t remember anything after that, except for a hazy dream, followed by a gigantic hangover.

C
HAPTER FOURTEEN

When I finally open my eyes, I can see my old clock lying on the bedside table. It’s odd being able to pick up your own heart. The cuckoo doesn’t work any more. And there’s dust on it. I feel like a ghost leaning against a gravestone and calmly smoking a cigarette, except for the fact that I’m alive. I’m wearing a strange pair of pyjamas and two tubes have been fitted into my veins – something else to drag around with me.

I inspect my new heart without clock hands. It doesn’t make any noise. How long have I been asleep? Getting up is hard. My bones ache. Méliès is nowhere to be found. But there’s a woman dressed in white sitting at his desk. His new
belle
, I guess. I wave at her. She looks startled, as if she’s just seen an apparition. Her hands tremble. I think I might have frightened somebody at last.

‘You’ve no idea how happy I am to see you back on your feet . . .’

‘Me too. Where’s Méliès?’

‘Sit down, I need to explain a few things.’

‘I feel like I’ve been lying down for a hundred and fifty years, so standing up for five minutes isn’t going to hurt me.’

‘Honestly, it’s better if you sit down . . . I’ve got something important to tell you. Something nobody ever wanted to explain before.’

‘Where’s Méliès?’

‘He went back to Paris a few months ago. You’ve been asleep for a long time. He asked me to look after you. He loved you very much, you know. He was fascinated by the effect your clock had on your imagination. When you had your accident, he blamed himself terribly for not telling you about your true nature, even if he couldn’t be certain whether doing so would have changed the course of events. But you need to know the truth, now.’

‘What accident?’

‘Don’t you remember?’ she says sadly. ‘In Marbella, you tried to wrench out the clock that was stitched on to your heart.’

‘Oh yes . . .’

‘Méliès tried to graft on a new heart, to cheer you up.’

‘Cheer me up? I was at death’s door!’

‘Yes, we all think we’re going to die when we’re separated from someone we love. But I’m talking about your heart in the mechanical sense of the word. Listen carefully, because I know you’ll find what I’m about to say hard to believe . . .’

She sits down by my side and takes hold of my right hand. I can feel her trembling.

‘You could have lived without either clock, old or new. They don’t interact directly with your physical heart. They aren’t real prosthetics, they’re just placebos which, medically speaking, don’t do anything.’

‘But that’s impossible. Why would Madeleine have made all that up?’

‘For psychological reasons, I expect. To protect you from her own demons, as many parents do, one way or another.’

‘Look, you don’t understand this kind of medicine, it’s as simple as that. At least now I realise why she always insisted I got my heart looked after by clockmakers and not doctors.’

‘I know it’s a shock to wake up to this. But if you plan to live a real life at all, then you’ve got to stop getting wound up – if you’ll forgive the pun – by all this nonsense.’

‘I don’t believe you for a single second.’

‘And that’s a perfectly normal reaction. You’ve believed in this cuckoo-clock heart story all your life.’

‘How do you know about my life?’

‘I’ve read about it . . . Méliès wrote your story down in this book.’

The Man Who Was No Hoax,
it says on the cover. I leaf through it quickly: our epic journey across Europe; Granada; meeting up with Miss Acacia; Joe’s comeback . . .

‘Don’t read the end right away,’ she admonishes me.

‘Why not?’

‘First, you need to get used to the idea that your life isn’t linked to your clock. That’s the only way for you to change the ending of this book.’

‘I could never believe that, let alone accept it.’

‘You lost Miss Acacia because of your iron belief in your wooden heart.’

‘I don’t have to listen to this.’

‘You might have realised what was going on, if the story of your heart wasn’t anchored so deeply inside you . . . But you must believe me now. Right, now you can go ahead and read the third section of the book, if you like, even though it’ll be painful for you. One day, you’ll be able to put all this behind you.’

‘Why did Méliès never tell me?’

‘Méliès said you weren’t ready to hear it yet, psychologically speaking. He deemed it too dangerous to reveal the truth to you on the evening of the “accident”, given your state of shock by the time you’d made it back to the workshop. He blamed himself dreadfully for not having told you before . . . I think he got seduced by the idea of your cuckoo-clock heart. It doesn’t take much for him to believe in the impossible. It cheered him up to watch you becoming a grown man with such complete belief . . . until that tragic night.’

‘I don’t want those memories dredged up for the time being.’

‘I understand, but I do need to talk to you about what happened immediately afterwards . . . Would you like something to drink?’

‘Yes, please; but not alcohol, my head still hurts.’

While the nurse goes in search of something to help me recover from my emotional overload, I look at my battered old heart on the bedside table, then the new clock under my crumpled pyjamas. A metal dial, with clock hands protected by a pane of glass. A sort of bicycle bell sits on top of the number twelve. The clock feels scratchy, as if somebody else’s heart has been grafted on to me. I wonder what that strange woman in white is going to try and make me believe next.

‘While Méliès headed off into town that day, to find a clock that would temporarily calm you,’ she says, ‘you tried to wind up your broken clock. Do you remember that?’

‘Yes, vaguely.’

‘From what Méliès described to me, you were virtually unconscious and bleeding heavily.’

‘Yes, my head was spinning, I could feel myself being dragged down . . .’

‘You suffered internal bleeding. When Méliès realised this, he suddenly thought of his old friend, Jehanne d’Ancy, and came in great haste to find me. He might have forgotten my kisses all too quickly, but he always remembered my nursing talents. I was able to stem your haemorrhaging just in time, but you didn’t regain consciousness. He still wanted to carry out the operation he’d promised you. He said you’d wake up in a better psychological state if you had a new clock. Call it an act of superstition on his part. He was terrified of you dying.’

I listen to her tell my story; she could be giving me news about somebody I once dimly knew. It’s difficult to connect these wild imaginings with my own reality.

‘I was terribly in love with Méliès, even if it was unrequited. That was why I chose to take care of you at first, to stay in touch with him. Then I grew attached to your character as I read
The Man Who Was No Hoax.
I’ve been immersed in your story ever since, in every sense. I’ve watched over you from the day of your accident.’

I’m completely taken aback. My blood is pumping strange lighthouse signals into the right side of my brain.
It could be true. It could be true.

‘According to Méliès, you destroyed your heart in front of Miss Acacia. You wanted to show her how much you were suffering, and at the same time how much you loved her. It was a rash and desperate act. But you were just a boy then – worse, a young man with childish dreams, who survived by muddling dreams and reality.’

‘I still was that childish teenager, until a few minutes ago . . .’

‘No, that stopped when you decided to let go of your old heart. And that’s precisely what Madeleine was frightened of: you growing up.’

The more I repeat the word ‘impossible’, the more ‘possible’ it sounds inside my head.

‘I’m only telling you what I’ve read about you in the book Méliès wrote. He gave it to me just before setting off for Paris.’

I open the book again. I read how, while I was sleeping, letters arrived for me from Edinburgh. That Méliès wrote to Dr Madeleine to explain everything that had happened. But the letter that came back was penned by Arthur. Then I read the news that, secretly, I had always been half dreading:

Silence.

‘When is Méliès coming back?’

‘I don’t think he’ll ever come back. He’s the father of two children now, and he’s working hard on his idea of photography in motion.’

‘A father? How much time has passed to make Méliès a father? And for me to have lost my Madeleine-mother?’

‘To start with, he used to write to the two of us every week. Now, whole months can go by without me hearing any news; I think he fears I’ll have to announce . . . your death.’

‘What do you mean, whole months?’

‘It’s the fourth of August, 1892. You’ve been asleep for nearly three years. I know you won’t want to believe that. But just look at yourself in the mirror. Your long hair is a measure of how much time has gone by.’

‘I don’t want to look at anything just now. There’s too much to take in as it is.’

‘During the first three months, you used to open your eyes for a few seconds a day at most. Then one day you woke up and uttered the odd word about Dr Madeleine or Miss Acacia, before returning to your state.’

The mere mention of their names stirs up feelings that are contradictory, but stronger than ever.

‘Since the beginning of the year, your periods of wakefulness have become longer and more regular. Right up until today. People do wake up from long comas like yours. After all, it’s just a very long night of sleep. What an unexpected joy to see you standing on your feet at last. Méliès will be beside himself . . . But be warned, you might experience a few after-effects.’

‘Meaning?’

‘No one comes back from such a long journey unscathed; as it is, it’s remarkable you can remember who you are.’