Mathias Ardizzone - The Boy with the Cuckoo-Clock Heart

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 . . .’