Mathias Ardizzone - The Boy with the Cuckoo-Clock Heart

I’m ashamed I even asked her.

‘After one particular day of sobbing, I noticed the tears were comforting to drink, especially when mixed with cider vinegar. But you mustn’t drink when you’re feeling fine, otherwise you’re caught in a vicious circle of only feeling happy when drinking your own tears, so you have to keep on crying in order to drink.’

‘But you spend your time mending other people, so why drown your wounds in the alcohol of your own tears?’

‘Let’s not worry about all that, we’re heading down into town today! Haven’t we got a birthday to celebrate?’ she asks, forcing a smile.

After t he disturbing story of Madeleine’s tears, it takes a while for me to feel excited as we head down the hill. But as soon as I see Edinburgh, my dreams get the upper hand.

I feel like Christopher Columbus discovering America. The twisted maze of streets beckons like a lover. Houses lean towards each other, shrinking the sky. I’m running! A single breath could bring the whole city tumbling down in a game of brick dominoes. I’m running! The trees are still stuck up there on top of the hill, but down here people are springing up everywhere, the women an explosion of flowers, poppy-hats, poppy-dresses. I see them leaning out of balcony windows, as far as the market that brightens Salisbury Place.

I’m taking it all in: clogs ringing out over the cobblestones; mingled voices that carry me away. And the great bell tower, tolling with a heart ten times bigger than mine.

‘Is that my father?’

‘No, no, it’s not your father . . . It’s chiming for one o’clock, it only tolls once a day,’ Madeleine answers, out of puff.

We cross the square. Music can be heard round the corner of a side street, as mischievous and melancholic as harmonious glitter. The melody takes my breath away; inside me, it’s raining and shining at the same time.

‘That’s a barrel organ. Nice, isn’t it?’ Madeleine tells me. ‘It functions in much the same way as your heart, which is probably why you like it so much. It’s mechanical on the outside, with emotions on the inside.’

I’m convinced I’ve just heard the most delightful sound of my life, but the fiery surprises have only just begun. A minuscule girl, like a tree in blossom, steps out in front of the barrel organ and begins to sing. Her voice is like a nightingale’s, but with words.

‘My spectacles have been mislaid

I didn’t want to wear ’em

Fire-girl behind those shades

My face looked funny, I’m afraid.’

Her arms look like branches and her curly black hair sets her face aglow, playing the shadow to its fire. Her tiny nose is so perfect, I don’t know how she can breathe through it – perhaps it’s just for decoration. But she dances like a bird, on the feminine scaffolding of stiletto heels. Her eyes are so huge that you can take your time plunging in. They betray a fierce determination. She carries her head high, like a miniature flamenco dancer. Her breasts resemble two meringues so exquisitely baked it would be rude not to eat them on the spot.

‘I don’t mind if I’m half blind

When I sing or when I kiss ,

I prefer to close my eyes

In this hazy state of bliss. ’

I feel hot. The little singer’s merry-go-round terrifies me, but I’m also dying to climb up there. The smell of candyfloss and dust makes my throat feel parched, I’ve got no idea how this pink carousel works, but I have to climb on board.

Suddenly, just like in a musical comedy, I burst into song. Dr Madeleine gives me a look that says ‘take-yourhands-off-that-stove-now’.

‘Oh my little fire, let me taste your attire ,

Shred your clothes to a tatter ,

As confetti make them scatter ,

Then I’ll kiss you in that shower . . . ’

Did I hear myself say ‘confetti’? Madeleine’s gaze speaks volumes.

‘Lost in a heartbeat ,

Far away on my own street ,

Can’t look the sky in the eye ,

All I see is fire. ’

We began to sing together, back and forth.

‘I’ll guide you through this city’s passes ,

And be your special pair of glasses ,

You’ll be the match I strike ,

Yes, you’ll be the match I strike. ’

‘I’ve got something to admit,

I hear you now but should you sit

Upon a bench, I couldn’t tell

Between your handsome self and it!’

‘Let’s stroke each other, eyes shut tight ,

’Til our skeletons catch alight ,

Let’s start a fire on the hour

My cuckoo-clock chimes midnight. ’

‘I’m a little fire-girl, so it’s no surprise

When the music stops I can’t open my eyes .

I blaze like a match, a thousand flames burn my glasses ,

So it’s no surprise, I can’t open my eyes. ’

As our voices rise in unison, her left heel gets caught between two cobblestones, she teeters like a spinning top at the end of its flight and lands spread-eagled on the icy path. An accident of comical violence. Blood runs down her dress in feathers and she looks like a crushed gull. Sprawled on the cobblestones, she still stirs me. She struggles to put on a pair of spectacles with wonky sides, then staggers like a sleepwalker. Her mother holds her more firmly by the hand than is usual for a parent; you could say she’s restraining her.

I try to say something, but the words stick in my throat. I wonder how eyes as huge and wonderful as hers can be so ineffectual, that she bumps into things.

Dr Madeleine and the little girl’s mother exchange a few words, like the owners of two dogs who’ve just been in a fight.

My heart races again, I’m finding it hard to catch my breath. Is my clock swelling and rising up in my throat? Has this fire-girl just stepped out of an egg? Is she edible? Is she made of chocolate? What the hell is going on?

I try to look her in the eye, but her mouth has kidnapped my gaze. I didn’t know it was possible to spend so much time staring at a mouth.

All of a sudden, my cuckoo-clock heart starts ringing loudly, far louder than when I’m having an attack. I can feel my gears whirring at top speed, as if I’ve swallowed a helicopter. The chiming hurts my eardrums so I block my ears, which only makes it worse. My clock hands are going to sever my throat. Dr Madeleine moves to calm me with slow hand gestures, like a bird tamer trying to catch a panicked canary in its cage. I’m horribly hot.

I’d like to be a golden eagle, or a majestically cool seagull. But instead I’m a stressed canary ensnared by its own startled movements. I hope the little singer hasn’t seen me. My tick-tock sounds dull. My eyes open and I’m this close to the blue sky. The doctor’s iron fist has clamped down on my shirt collar, gently raising my heels off the ground. Next, Madeleine grabs me by the arm.

‘We’re going back home, immediately! You’ve frightened everybody! Everybody!’

She looks furious and worried at the same time. I feel ashamed. But I’m also busy committing to memory the pictures I have of this tiny shrub of a girl, who sings without glasses and stares the sun in the face. Almost without realising it, I’m falling in love. Except I do realise it too. Inside my clock, it’s the hottest day on earth.

After a quarter of an hour of clock maintenance and a delicious bowl of noodle soup, I’m back to my funny old normal state.

Madeleine looks strained, the way she does when she has to sing for too long to get me to sleep, but this time she seems more worried.