Mathias Ardizzone - The Boy with the Cuckoo-Clock Heart

‘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.’

I catch my reflection in the glazed workshop door. Three years. And Dr Madeleine no longer of this world. Three years. I’m one of the living dead. What have you done with these three years, Miss Acacia?

‘Am I really alive, is this a dream, a nightmare, or am I dead?’

‘You’re very much alive; different, but alive.’

Once I’ve got rid of those horrible tubes pinching the hairs on my arms, I try to gather my wits and emotions as I eat my first proper meal.

Miss Acacia has taken over my thoughts. So I can’t be doing too badly. I’m as obsessed by her as I was on my tenth birthday. I’ve got to find her. I can’t be sure about anything any more, except the one thing that matters: I still love her. Just thinking about her being apart from me stokes my fiery nausea. Nothing makes any sense if I don’t try to find her.

It’s not even a choice. I have to go back to the Extraordinarium.

‘You can’t go there like that!’

But I set off in the direction of town without finishing my meal. I’ve never run so slowly. The fresh air in my lungs feels like gusts of steel. I could be a hundred years old.

On the outskirts of Granada, great cauldrons of ochre dust are whipped up so that the whitewashed houses seem to blur into the sky. I see my own shadow in a small street but I don’t recognise it; nor do I recognise the new reflection that bounces off a window pane. With my shaggy locks and beard, I look like Father Christmas before he got a big belly and white hair. But that’s not all. My aching bones have changed the way I walk. My shoulders seem to have expanded, and these shoes hurt my feet, as if they’re too small for me now. Children hide under their mothers’ skirts when they see me.

At a bend in the street, I happen upon a poster starring Miss Acacia. I stare at it for a long time, trembling with melancholic desire. Her gaze has grown more self-assured, although she still doesn’t wear glasses. Her nails are longer, and she paints them now. Miss Acacia is more ravishing than ever, while I’ve turned into a caveman in pyjamas.

When I get to the Extraordinarium I head straight for the Ghost Train. My favourite memories rush up at me, finding their place again inside my head. Unhappy memories don’t waste any time in joining them.

I’m taking a seat in one of the carriages when, all of a sudden, I notice Joe. He’s sitting on the landing, smoking a cigarette. The ride appears to have been extended. Suddenly . . . I can see Miss Acacia, sitting a few rows behind me. Be quiet, my heart. She doesn’t recognise me. Be quiet, my heart. Nobody recognises me. Quite frankly, I’m having a hard time recognising myself. Joe tries to frighten me the way he does the other passengers. He won’t succeed. That said, when I see him kiss Miss Acacia at the exit to the Ghost Train, I know his talents for trampling on other people’s dreams are alive and kicking. But I won’t be discouraged, not this time. Because now I’m the one who’s the Outsider .

Miss Acacia takes a puff of Joe’s cigarette. The intimacy this implies makes me feel as sick as seeing them kiss. They’re only a few metres away. I hold my breath.

He kisses her again; the way you might roll up your sleeves and do the washing-up. How can you kiss a girl like that without thinking about it? I don’t say anything. Give her back to me! You’ll see how much heart I’ll put into it, whatever that heart might be made of. I’m all shaken up, and it takes every bit of strength I’ve got to hold my emotions in check.

Her sparkling voice, like strawberry-flavoured tear gas, stings my eyes. Will she ever recognise me?

Am I strong enough to tell her the truth this time, and if it goes wrong, am I strong enough to hide it from her?

Joe goes back inside the Ghost Train. Miss Acacia walks past me. The wreaths of her perfume are as familiar as an old bedcover full of dreams. I could almost forget she’s the lover of my bitter enemy.

‘Hello,’ she says, noticing me. My shoulders sink under the dead weight of her non-recognition. I notice a bruise on her left knee.

I dive straight in, without really knowing what I’m doing.

‘Still not wearing your glasses, then?’

‘No, but I don’t like people teasing me about it,’ she says with a relieved smile.

‘I know . . .’

‘What do you mean, you know?’

I know we fought because of Joe and jealousy, I know I threw my heart away because I loved you crookedly, but I want to learn everything afresh because I love you more than all the world. There you go, that’s what I should have said. The words flit across my mind and head for my mouth, but they don’t come out. I just cough instead.

‘Why are you wearing your pyjamas outside? You haven’t run away from hospital, have you?’

She talks to me gently, as if I were an old man.

‘I didn’t run away . . . I’ve come back from a very serious illness . . .’

‘Well, Señor, you’re going to need some clothes now!’

We smile at each other, the way we used to. For a moment, I think she’s worked out who I am, or at least that’s what I secretly wish for. ‘See you soon’, we say, and I head back to Méliès’ workshop with a sort of twisted hope.

‘Don’t put off revealing your true identity,’ the nurse insists.

‘I need a bit longer, the time to get used to her again.’

‘Well, don’t take too long about it . . . You’ve already lost her once by hiding your past. Otherwise she’ll bury her head in your chest, only to discover there’s another clock in place of the old one. Speaking of which, why don’t I get rid of it once and for all?’

‘Look, we will get rid of it, but I need more time. It was Dr Madeleine’s masterpiece, after all. Let’s just wait until I’m feeling a bit better, all right?’

‘You’re feeling better already . . . How about I cut your hair and shave off that prehistoric beard of yours?’

‘No, not yet. By the way, you don’t happen to have one of Méliès’ old suits still hanging around?’

Every now and then, I position myself in a key spot, not far from the Ghost Train. That way, we can run into each other, as if by chance. The rapport we strike up resembles what we used to have so closely that I don’t know if I’m laughing or crying. Sometimes, during our silences, I tell myself that she knows but isn’t saying anything. Except that’s not her style.