The Boy with the Cuckoo-Clock Heart (11 page)

Will I be able to rise to the occasion? Will my old ticker hold out?

To spice up an already fiery sauce, Miss Acacia is at least as jealous as I am. She frowns like a lioness ready to pounce the moment any kid-girl, who’s bothered to brush her hair, enters my field of vision; even outside the Ghost Train.

I was flattered at first and able to rise above such obstacles. My wings were new. I was sure she believed in me. But when I found out she thought I was a cheat, I felt more vulnerable. In the depths of my nocturnal solitude, I’ve stopped believing in myself.

That fiery sauce is threatening to turn into hedgehog soup.

C
HAPTER TEN

One day, a peculiar man heads for the Ghost Train, his sights firmly set on my job of Scareperson. That’s when the hedgehog soup gets stuck in my throat.

He’s tall, very tall. His head appears to tower over the roof of the Ghost Train. His right eye is masked by a black patch. His left eye scrutinises the Extraordinarium like a lighthouse casting its beam over the sea. It finally comes to rest on the figure of Miss Acacia. And stays there.

Brigitte, who despairs of ever seeing me pull off a show based on fear, hires him on the spot. I’m kicked out. It all happens much too quickly for my liking. I’ll have to ask Méliès to put me up in his workshop. I don’t know how the precious intimacy I share with the little singer will survive such conditions.

That evening, Miss Acacia is singing in a theatre in town. As usual, I slip into the back of the auditorium after the first song. The new Scareperson is sitting in the first row. He’s so tall that he’s blocking half the audience’s view. At any rate, I can’t see a thing.

This new eye fixed on Miss Acacia makes me stew in my shirt. The man doesn’t turn off his revolving light once during the entire evening, not even after the concert is over. I’d like to tell him to get lost, that great big walking lamppost. But I hold back. My heart, on the other hand, doesn’t waste any time shouting itself hoarse, singing
la
in a minor key and decidedly out of tune. The whole auditorium turns round to laugh. Some of the audience members ask how I produce such strange noises, then one of them calls out:

‘I recognise you! You’re the guy who makes everybody laugh on the Ghost Train!’

‘As of yesterday, I don’t work there any more.’

‘Ah, sorry . . . I liked your gag, it was very funny.’

I could be back in the school playground. All the confidence I’ve gained in Miss Acacia’s arms has taken flight. I’m being slowly dismantled.

After the show, it’s hard not to open up to my chosen one, who retorts:

‘That great oaf? Pahhh . . .’

‘He looks hypnotised by you.’

‘You’re the one who’s always talking about trust, and now you’re kicking up a fuss about that one-eyed pirate over there?’

‘I’m not blaming you. I can see that he’s the one who’s circling you like a shark.’

The ground’s gone from under my feet. Much as I trust her, I’ve no doubt this pirate will do everything in his power to seduce her. There’s no mistaking certain looks, even those cast by a single eye. In fact that only makes it worse, because the intensity is doubled.

But just when the hedgehog soup gets too fiery to swallow, the great one-eyed oaf comes over to us and says:

‘Don’t you recognise me?’

As he utters these words, a long shudder runs down my spine. It’s a familiar feeling, one I haven’t experienced since school, and I detest it.

‘Joe! What on earth are you doing here?’ Miss Acacia exclaims, embarrassed.

‘I’ve been on a long journey to find you, both of you, a very long journey . . .’

His diction is slow and deliberate. Apart from the eye and a few wispy bits of beard, he hasn’t changed. It’s odd I didn’t recognise him straight away. I’m finding it hard to register that Joe is here in person. In an attempt to remain cheerful, I keep repeating to myself:
This isn’t the right backdrop for you, Joe, go back to your Scottish mists, right now!

‘Do you two know each other?’ asks Miss Acacia.

‘We went to school together. We’re – how can I put it – old acquaintances,’ he answers, with a smile.

The hatred I feel towards Joe paralyses me. I’d happily put out his second eye on the spot, if it would send him back to where he’s come from, but I’m trying to keep my cool in front of my little singer.

‘We need to talk,’ he tells me, fixing me with his cold eye.

‘Midday tomorrow, in front of the Ghost Train, just the two of us.’

‘All right. And don’t forget to bring your spare set of keys,’ he replies.

Sure enough, that same evening Joe takes up his quarters in what used to be my bedroom. He’ll be sleeping in the bed where Miss Acacia and I first made love, walking down corridors where we so often kissed, catching glimpses of our dreams in mirrors . . . Hidden in the bathroom, we can hear him unpacking his things.

‘Joe’s one of your ex-lovers, isn’t he?’

‘Oh come off it, a lover? I was a child at the time. When I see him now, I wonder what on earth I saw in a boy like him!’

‘I’m wondering exactly the same thing . . . In fact, I’m asking you.’

‘He was the big shot at school, everybody was in awe of him. I was very young, end of story. Isn’t it a funny coincidence that we both know him!’

‘Not really, no.’

I don’t want to tell her the story about the eye. I’m worried she’ll think I’m some kind of dangerous lunatic. I can feel the trap closing in on me. I’m paranoid about Joe’s comeback and I don’t know how to handle this situation.

‘Why did he ask for the spare set of keys?’

‘Brigitte Heim has just hired him, instead of me, for the Ghost Train. And as of this evening, he’s also taking my bedroom.’

‘That woman doesn’t understand a thing.’

‘The problem is Joe.’

‘She’d have kicked you out anyway. We’ll find a different hiding place, come on . . . We’ll spend our nights in the cemetery if we have to. At least that way you can pretend to give me real flowers. Look, don’t worry about it, you’ll find a job somewhere else in no time. You might not have to frighten people any more for a living. I’m sure if you concentrate on what you’re good at, you’ll find something much better than the Ghost Train. And stop making such a big deal out of Joe’s return. You’re the only one I want, you do realise that?’

Her words catch fire inside me, but then go out. Panic weaves a spider’s web in my throat, ensnaring my voice. I’d like to put on a brave face, but I’m cracking all over the place. Come on, old drum, stand up to the test.

I try restarting my clockwork heart, but it’s no good, I just sink deeper into the Scottish gloom of my childhood memories. Fear gets the upper hand, just like when I was at school. Madeleine, how furious you’d be . . . I wish you could whisper ‘
love is dangerous for your tiny heart’
into my ear this evening. I need you so badly right now . . .

The sun beats down on the Ghost Train roof. It’s exactly midday, going by the clock in my heart. My fair skin burns gently while I’m waiting for Joe. Three birds of prey circle silently.

He’s here for vengeance. Stealing Miss Acacia from me would be the perfect payback. The Alhambra’s arches swallow their own shadows. A drop of salty sweat forms on my forehead, trickles into my right eye and sets off a tear.

Joe appears at the corner of the main avenue that runs through the Extraordinarium. I’m quivering, more with rage than fear. I try to look casual, even though my gears are burning under my skin. My heart’s palpitations are noisier than a gravedigger’s shovel.

Joe stops ten metres away, standing straight across from me. His shadow licks the dust off his footprints.

‘I wanted to see you again, and it’s not just to get my revenge, whatever you might think . . .’

His voice is still a weapon to be reckoned with. Like Brigitte Heim’s, it has the gift of smashing the windows of my dreams.

‘I’m not thinking anything. You humiliated and bullied me for years. One day, all that turned against you. As far as I’m concerned, we’re quits.’

‘I admit I hurt you by cutting you off from everyone at school. I only realised how much you’d suffered afterwards, when I was left with one eye. I saw the scared looks. I felt people changing how they behaved towards me. You’d think I was contagious, the way some of them avoided me, and that by talking to me they risked losing their own eyes. Each day, I understood more about how damaged I must have left you feeling . . .’

‘I don’t suppose you’ve crossed half of Europe to say you’re sorry.’

‘No, you’re right. We still have a few scores to settle. Didn’t you ever wonder why I gave you such a hard time?’

‘Yes, at the beginning . . . I even tried talking to you, but you were a brick wall. I was living in that house, remember, the one belonging to the “
witch who delivers children from prostitutes’ bellies
”. And, as you never stopped reminding me, I probably “
came out of a prostitute’s belly too
” . . . I was new, the smallest kid in the class, and my heart made odd noises. It was easy to make fun of me, to tower above me physically. I was your ideal victim. Until that dreadful day when you took it too far.’

‘Yes, that’s part of the story. But the main reason I picked on you was that on the first day of school, you asked me if I knew somebody you referred to as ‘the little singer’. As far as I was concerned, you’d just signed your own death warrant. I was head over heels in love. I’d spent the whole school year before you turned up trying to get close to Miss Acacia, without success. But one spring day, while she was skating on the frozen river and practising her singing as she liked to do, the ice cracked under her feet. I managed to rescue her with my long legs and big arms. She could have died. I can still picture her shivering as I held her. We were inseparable from that day on until the beginning of summer. I’d never felt so happy. But on the first day of the autumn term, after dreaming all holidays about being reunited with her, I found out that she’d stayed in Granada, and nobody knew when she’d be back.’

Coming from Joe’s mouth, the word ‘dreaming’ sounds as incongruous as an Alsatian dog being careful not to get any crumbs on his coat while he eats a croissant.

‘And that same day you show up like a leprechaun with a satchel, and tell me you want to meet her so you can give her a pair of spectacles! Missing her was bad enough, but you made me feel even more jealous by revealing the terrible thing we had in common. It’s what still links us today: our boundless love for Miss Acacia. I remember the noise your heart used to make when you were talking about her. I despised you on the spot. That tick-tock measured the time slipping away without her. Your clock was a torture instrument filled with your own dreams of love for
my
Miss Acacia.’

‘That doesn’t justify the way you humiliated me every single day. How could I know what had gone on before?’

‘Fine. But just because I humiliated you, it didn’t warrant THIS!’

He lifts his bandage abruptly. His eye is a sort of egg-white, sullied by blood and worm-eaten with grey-blue varicose veins.

‘I told you,’ he goes on, ‘this handicap taught me a great deal about myself and about life in general. As far as you and I are concerned, I agree, we’re quits.’

He finds it insanely difficult to get this last sentence out. And I find it insanely difficult to listen.

‘We
were
quits,’ I answer. ‘But by coming here, you’re picking on me again.’

‘I haven’t come here to get my revenge, I’ve told you that. I’ve come to take Miss Acacia back to Edinburgh. I’ve been chewing this moment over for years. Even while I was kissing other girls. Your bloody tick-tock has been so loud inside my head, you as good as infected me with your disease the day you poked my eye out. If she doesn’t want me, I’ll leave. But if it’s the other way around, you’ll have to disappear. I don’t hold a grudge against you any more, but I’m still in love with her.’

‘I’ve still got plenty of grudges against you.’

‘Well, get used to it, because I’m worthy of Miss Acacia too. It’ll be an old-fashioned contest, and she’s the only judge. May the best man win, Little Jack.’

He smiles that smug smile I’m all too familiar with as he extends his long fingers. I hand over my bedroom keys. I have the sickening feeling that I’m offering him the keys to Miss Acacia’s heart. And I realise that the magical entertainment with my bespectacled fire-girl is over.

What about our dream of a beach-front cabin where we’d be able to walk in peace night and day? Her skin, her smile, her repartee, her sparkling character all made me want to have children with her. But that was yesterday. Now Joe has come to fetch her. I’m foundering in the haze of my oldest demons. My clock arrows shrivel inside their fragile dial. I’m not done yet, but I’m frightened, very frightened.

Instead of watching Miss Acacia’s belly grow, like a happy gardener taking stock, I have to get the armour out of the wardrobe and face Joe one more time.

That evening, Miss Acacia shows up at my bedroom door, her eyes flashing angrily. I’m trying to close my messily packed suitcase, and sense that the next few minutes are going to be stormy.

‘Watch out, mountain weather ahead!’ I joke, trying to calm things down between us.

If her balmy sweetness knows no match, this evening my little singer is the opposite. She spits lightning.

‘So, just like that, you poke someone’s eye out! Who on earth have I fallen in love with?’

‘I . . .’

‘How could you have done anything so hideous? Youpok-ed-his-eye-out!’

Baptism by fire, a flamenco tornado with gunpowder castanets and stilettos digging into my nerves. I wasn’t expecting this. I’m searching for something to say, but she doesn’t give me time.