The Boy with the Cuckoo-Clock Heart Page 0,17

an emotional shock.’

‘Really? I see . . .’

He screws up his eyes and strokes his chin.

‘That might be her opinion . . . but you don’t have to share it, do you?’

‘I don’t agree with her, you’re right. But when I saw the little singer for the first time, I felt as if an earthquake was going on underneath my clock. The gears grated, my tick-tock sped up. I started suffocating, getting myself all tangled up, everything was topsy-turvy.’

‘Did you like that?’

‘I loved it.’

‘Ah! So what was the problem?’

‘Well, I was terrified Madeleine might be right.’

Georges Méliès shakes his head and strokes his moustache. He’s searching for the right words, the way a surgeon might choose his instruments.

‘If you’re frightened of damaging yourself, you increase the risk of doing just that. Consider the tightrope walker. Do you think he spares any thought for falling while he’s walking the rope? No, he accepts the risk, and enjoys the thrill of braving the danger. If you spend your whole life being careful not to break anything, you’ll get terribly bored, you know . . . I can’t think of anything more fun than being impulsive. Just look at you! I only have to say the word “impulsive” and your eyes light up. Aha! When a person aged fourteen decides to cross Europe to track down a girl, that means that they’ve got rather a taste for impulsiveness, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes, yes . . . But have you got something that would make my heart a bit more robust?’

‘Of course I have. Listen to me carefully. Are you ready? Listen to me very carefully: the only thing, as you say, that will allow you to seduce the woman of your dreams, is your heart. Not the clockwork version that was grafted on to you at birth. I’m talking about the real one, the one that’s underneath, made of flesh and blood, pulsing. That’s the one you’ve got to work with. Forget about your clockwork problems and they’ll seem less important. Be impulsive and above all give, give without counting the cost.’

Méliès is very expressive. All his features are active when he speaks. Cat-like, his moustache follows his smile.

‘It doesn’t work every time. I’m not guaranteeing anything. Take me, for example: I’ve just failed with the woman I thought was the love of my life. There simply is no trick that works every time.’

I’ve been given a lesson in love by a conjurer (some might call him a genius) who’s just confessed that his most recent potion blew up in his face. But I have to concede that his words are doing me as much good as his adjustments to my gears. He’s gentle and he knows how to listen. You can tell he understands the way that humans work. Perhaps he’s succeeded in penetrating the secrets of man’s psychological machinery. In just a few hours, we’ve struck up a friendly alliance.

‘I could write a book about your story. I know it as well as if it was my own now,’ he tells me.

‘So write it. If I have children one day, they’ll be able to read it. But if you want to find out what happens next, you’ll have to come with me to Andalusia.’

‘Surely you don’t want a depressed conjurer accompany ing you on your pilgrimage of love?’

‘Actually yes, I’d like that a lot.’

‘You know I might mess up a miracle?’

‘Of course you won’t.’

‘Give me the night to mull it over, will you?’

‘It’s a deal.’

As the first rays of sunshine begin to sneak through the shutters of Georges Méliès’ workshop, I hear shouting:

‘Andalusia! Anda! Andalusia! Anda! AndaaaAAAH!’

A madman in pyjamas appears, straight out of an opera.

‘All right, young man. I could do with “travelling” in every sense of the word, I’m not going to let myself be crushed by my misery for ever. A great blast of fresh air, that’s what we’re both going to enjoy! If you still want me as a companion, that is.’

‘Of course! When are we leaving?’

‘Straight away, after breakfast!’ he answers, pointing to his travel bag.

We sit down at a rickety table to drink scalding hot chocolate and eat jam on toast that’s too soft. It’s not as tasty as one of Madeleine’s breakfasts, but it’s fun to be eating in the midst of paper cut-out extra-terrestrials.

‘You know, when I was in love, I was always inventing things. A whole array of tricks, illusions and optical effects to amuse my lady friend. I think she’d had enough of