Mathias Ardizzone - The Boy with the Cuckoo-Clock Heart

Lovingly,

Dr Madeleine

I’m overjoyed at the arrival of the pigeon, but the contents of the letter he’s carried all this way are ever so frustrating. There’s something odd about that signature: Dr Madeleine. And I’d have expected her to be more chatty. She probably wanted to spare her messenger. Still, I feel a twinge of guilt. If Madeleine knew what I was up to tonight, how furious she’d be . . . I send the bird straight back:

Send me some long letters by normal post, I may stay here for some time. I miss you. I want to read more than a few words attached to a pigeon’s leg. Everything’s going well over here, I’ve got a job and am friends with a clockmaker-conjurer who makes sure my heart is working properly. You can send your letters to his workshop – he always knows where to find me. Are the police leaving you alone? Write back quickly!

With love,

Jack

PS–c/o Monsieur Méliès, The Extraordinarium, 7 calle Pablo Jardim, La Cartuja, Granada

Midnight, I’m waiting like a happy idiot. I’m wearing an electric-blue jumper, a sort of vitamin kick for my green eyes. The Ghost Train is silent.

Twenty-past midnight, nothing. Half-past midnight, still no sign of Miss Acacia. At twenty to one, my heart is growing cold, and the tick-tock is dwindling.

‘Hey!’

‘I’m over here . . .’

She stands poised on the walkway, perfectly balanced on the doormat. Even her shadow against the door is sexy; I’d happily get in some kissing practice with that , for starters . . .

‘I’ve come disguised as you, without even realising it!’ says the real Miss Acacia.

She’s wearing a thick jumper almost identical to mine.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t have time to find a proper outfit for our date, but it looks like you had the same problem!’

I smile, even though I’ve pulled out all the sartorial stops. I can’t help staring at the way her lips move. I sense she picks up on this. As she listens to the noises produced by my clock, the silences between our words grow longer. It’s as if an angel is passing overhead, but then she goes and decapitates it:

‘You’re a hit on the Ghost Train, all the girls came out smiling.’

‘That’s not a good sign, I’m supposed to survive by frightening others . . . I mean, that’s what I’ve got to do if I want to keep my job here.’

‘Does it really matter whether you make them laugh or cry, as long as you’re getting a reaction?’

‘That old bag Brigitte told me it wouldn’t do the Ghost Train’s image any good if people came out giggling. I think I’ll have to learn how to scare people if I want to keep on working there.’

‘Scaring is just another form of seduction . . . and as far as seducing people is concerned, it looks like you’re doing a pretty good job.’

I want to tell her I’ve got a prosthesis instead of a heart and I don’t know anything about love. I want her to understand that I’m feeling these emotions for the first time. Yes, I know I’ve had a few lessons in romantic magic with an illusionist, but that was just to help me find her. I want to seduce her without her mistaking me for a skirt-chaser. It’s a delicate balancing act. So all I say is:

‘I’d like to hold you in my arms.’

Silence, a new sulky doll pout, eyes shut.

‘We could keep talking about it afterwards, but can we hold each other first?’

Miss Acacia lets out an ‘all right’ so tiny it barely escapes her lips. A tender silence falls over our gestures. She teeters towards me. Close up, she’s even more beautiful than her shadow – and more intimidating too. I pray to some unknown deity to keep my clock from chiming.

Our arms interlace and become one. I’m embarrassed by my clock, and I don’t dare crush my chest against hers. I don’t want to scare her with my bric-à-brac heart. But how can I avoid frightening this little bird of a woman when my sharp clock hands jut out from my lungs? My clockwork panic whirrs into action again.

I’m avoiding her with my left side, as if I had a glass heart. This makes our dance more complicated, especially as she appears to be a tango champion. The volume of my ticktock rises from inside me; Madeleine’s warnings flash through my mind. What if I die before I’ve even kissed Miss Acacia? I feel like I’m jumping into the unknown: joy of flying, fear of going splat.

Her fingers are languid behind my neck and my own are pleasantly lost somewhere beneath her shoulder blades. I try to solder my dreams to reality, but I’m working without a protective mask. Our mouths draw closer. Time slows, until it has almost ground to a halt. Our lips take over, in the softest relay race in the world; they mingle, delicately and intensely. It feels as though her tongue is a sparrow gently landing on mine; curiously, she tastes of strawberries.

I watch as she hides her huge eyes under the parasols of her eyelids. I feel like a weightlifter, with the Himalayas on my left arm and the Rockies on my right; Atlas is a hard-working dwarf by comparison. A giant wave of joy engulfs me. The train’s ghosts echo with each of our gestures. We’re wrapped inside the sound made by her heels tapping against the floor.

‘Silence!’ shrieks a vinegary voice.

Brusquely, we pull apart. It seems we’ve woken the Loch Ness Monster. We don’t dare breathe.

‘Is that you, midget? What are you up to on the premises at this hour?’

‘I’m trying to find new ways of scaring people.’

‘Well, find them in silence. And don’t touch my brand new skulls!’

‘Yes, yes . . .’

Terrified, Miss Acacia buries herself deeper in my arms. Time has come to a standstill and I’ve got no desire for it to pick up its normal pace again. I even forget about keeping my heart at a distance. Laying her head against my chest, she suddenly makes a face.

‘What’s under there? It’s hurting me!’

I don’t answer, I just break out in a cold sweat. She’s found me out. I consider lying, making something up, faking it, but there’s so much sincerity in her question that I can’t bring myself to do that. I open my shirt slowly, button by button. The clock appears, and the tick-tock resounds more loudly. I await my sentencing. She brings her hand near, murmuring:

‘What is it?’

The compassion in her voice is enough to make me want to be an invalid for the rest of my days, just to have her as a nurse by my side. The cuckoo begins to sing. She jumps. Turning the key, I whisper:

‘I’m sorry. It’s my secret. I wanted to tell you about it sooner, but I was scared of frightening you for good.’

I explain to her that this clock has functioned as my heart since the day I was born. I don’t say anything about love – along with anger – being strictly off limits. She asks if my feelings would alter if the clock were changed, or whether this would simply be a mechanical operation. There’s something malicious in her voice; she seems to find it all rather amusing. I explain that my clockwork heart can’t function without emotions, but I don’t venture any further into that slippery terrain.

She smiles, as if I’m explaining the rules of a fabulous game. No cries of horror, no laughter. Until now, Arthur, Anna, Luna and Méliès are the only people who haven’t been shocked by my clockwork heart. I take it as an important love token, the way she seems to be saying: So you’ve got a cuckoo between your bones? AND? Simple, so simple . . .

But I mustn’t get too carried away. Perhaps it’s just that the clock looks less repulsive through her defective eyes.

‘That’s very handy. If you grow weary of love as all men do, I could try replacing your heart before you replace me with another woman.’