The Boy with the Cuckoo-Clock Heart Page 0,19

a sinister air. But it’s just Luna’s old carrier pigeon, bringing me news from Edinburgh. I’m so relieved to see him back at last. Despite my simmering dreams of Miss Acacia, I haven’t forgotten about Dr Madeleine for a moment.

The pigeon lands in a tiny cloud of dust. My heart races, I’m impatient to read the letter. But I can’t catch the wretched bird. My mustachioed Red Indian friend tries to tame him by cooing away, and eventually I grab hold of his feathery body.

But it’s all a waste of time. The pigeon is travelling empty-clawed, with just a remnant of string on his left leg. And no letter from Madeleine; the wind must have snatched it. Perhaps in the Rhône Valley around Valence, where the gusts rush in before sloping off to die in the sun.

I feel as disappointed as if I’d just opened a parcel full of ghosts. I perch on my roller-board and hastily scribble a note.

Dear Madeleine,

In your next letter, please could you let me know what you said in your first, because this idiot pigeon went and lost it before delivering it to me.

I’ve found a clockmaker who is taking good care of my clock, and I’m doing well.

I miss you lots. Anna, Luna and Arthur too.

With love from

Jack

Méliès helps me roll the piece of paper correctly around the bird’s claw.

‘If she knew I was at the gates of Andalusia, chasing after my love, she’d be furious.’

‘All mothers are afraid for their children and protect them as best they can, but it’s time for you to leave the nest. Look at your heart! It’s midday! We’ve got to push on. Have you seen what’s written on the sign straight ahead? “‘Granada!’ Anda! Anda!” Méliès roars, with an other-wordly glimmer in his eye.

In a treasure hunt, when the glow from the gold coins starts to glimmer through the keyhole in the chest, the seeker is overcome by emotion, barely able to open the lid. Fear of winning.

As for me, I’ve been nursing this dream for so long. Joe smashed it against my head, and I picked up the pieces. Patiently, I endured the pain, but in my imagination I was already putting the egg back together again, and it was full of pictures of the little singer. Now here she is, about to hatch, and I’m rigid with stage fright. The Alhambra extends its arabesques towards us, outlined against the opal sky. The carriages jolt about. My clock jolts too. The wind picks up, blowing dust all around and lifting up the women’s dresses, turning them into parasols. Will I dare to open you out, Miss Acacia?

As soon as we arrive in the old city, we set about hunting down its theatres. The light is almost blinding. Méliès asks the same question at every theatre we find along the way:

‘Does a little flamenco-singing girl with poor eyesight ring any bells?’

It’d be easier to spot a snowflake in a snowstorm. Dusk finally calms the city’s orangey-red glow, but still there’s no trace of Miss Acacia.

‘There are lots of singing girls like that around here . . .’ replies a skinny man sweeping the square in front of the umpteenth theatre.

‘No, no, no, this one is extraordinary. She’s very young, fourteen or fifteen years old, but she sings like a grown woman. Oh, and she’s always bumping into things.’

‘If she really is as extraordinary as you say she is, then you should try the Extraordinarium.’

‘What’s that?’

‘An old circus converted into a funfair. They’ve got every kind of show there: caravans of troubadours, prima ballerinas, ghost trains, carousels of wild elephants, singing birds, freak shows of real-life monsters . . . I think they might have a little singing girl. It’s at 7, calle Pablo Jardim, in the Cartuja district, about a quarter of an hour from here.’

‘Thank you very much, sir.’

‘It’s a curious place, but if you like that kind of thing . . . Good luck, anyway!’

On the road leading to the Extraordinarium, Méliès is full of last-minute recommendations.

‘Play it like a poker game. Never reveal your fears or doubts. You’ve got a trump card and it’s called your heart. You may think of it as a weakness, but embrace your vulnerability and your clockwork heart will make you special. It’s precisely your difference that will win her over.’

‘My handicap will be a weapon of seduction? Do you really think so?’

‘Of course! Don’t tell me that you weren’t charmed by that singer of yours when she refused