The Boy with the Cuckoo-Clock Heart Page 0,2

and begins to connect the gears to the arteries of my heart. It’s a delicate process; nothing can afford to be damaged. She uses an ultra-fine, solid steel wire to make a dozen miniature knots. The heart beats from time to time, but only a feeble quantity of blood is pumped into the arteries. ‘How white he is!’ she whispers.

It’s the hour of truth. Dr Madeleine sets the clock to dead on midnight . . . Nothing happens. The clockwork apparatus doesn’t seem powerful enough to stimulate the heart. I’ve had no heartbeat for a dangerously long time. My head is spinning, in an exhausting dream. The doctor presses down gently on the gears to set things in motion. Tick-tock, goes the clock. Bo-boom, the heart replies, and the arteries run red. Little by little, the tick-tock gets faster, and so too does the bo-boom. Tick-tock. Bo-boom. Tick-tock. Bo-boom. My heart is almost beating at normal speed. Dr Madeleine gently removes her fingers from the gears. The clock slows down. She restarts the device; but as soon as she takes her fingers away, the heartbeat grows weaker. She’s like someone cuddling a bomb, wondering when it’ll explode.

Tick-tock. Bo-boom. Tick-tock. Bo-boom.

The first rays of light bounce off the snow and sneak in through the shutters. Dr Madeleine is exhausted. As for me, I’ve fallen asleep; perhaps I’m dead, because my heart stopped for too long.

Just then, a cuckoo sings so loudly in my chest that I cough in surprise. Eyes wide open, I spot Dr Madeleine with her arms in the air, like she’s just scored a penalty in a World Cup final.

She starts stitching my chest with the skill of an accomplished tailor; I’m not exactly battered but my skin looks old, with wrinkles like Charles Bronson. Stylish. The dial is protected by an enormous bandage.

Every morning, I need to be wound up with the key. Otherwise I risk drifting off to sleep for ever.

My mother says I look like a big snowflake with clock hands sticking out. Madeleine replies that it’s a good system for finding me again in a snowstorm.

It is midday and the doctor, with her warm habit of smiling in the midst of catastrophes, escorts this wisp of a girl to the door. My young mother walks slowly. Her lips tremble.

Off she heads into the distance, a dejected old woman in the body of a teenager. As she merges with the mist, she becomes a porcelain ghost. I will never set eyes on her again after this strange and miraculous day.

CHAPTER TWO

Makeshift hearts, rusty spines, and a trip to the ground floor of the mountain

Every day, Madeleine has visitors knocking on her door. Patients end up here when they’ve broken something but can’t afford a ‘qualified’ doctor. Whether she’s fine-tuning, or mending and discussing, Madeleine likes tinkering with people’s hearts. I don’t feel such an oddity with my clockwork heart when I hear a client complaining about his rusty spine.

‘It’s made of metal, what did you expect?’

‘Yes, but it creaks when I move my arm!’

‘I’ve already prescribed an umbrella for you. I know it can be hard to find one at the chemist’s. I’ll lend you mine this time, but try to get hold of one before our next meeting.’

I am also witness to the parade of young, well-dressed couples who climb the hill to adopt the children they haven’t managed to have themselves. It’s rather like a house-viewing. Madeleine sings the praises of this or that child who never cries, eats a balanced diet and is already potty-trained.

Made to sit on a sofa, I await my turn. I’m the smallest model; you could almost squeeze me into a sock box. When the prospective parents turn their attention to me, they always start off with fake smiles, until one of them pipes up: ‘Where is that tick-tock-tick-tock coming from?’

At which point the doctor sits me on her knee, unbuttons my clothes and reveals my bandage. Some shriek, others just pull a face and say:

‘Oh my God! What on earth is that thing?’

‘If it had been up to God, we wouldn’t be talking now. This “thing“, as you call it, is a clock that allows this child’s heart to beat normally,’ she answers drily.

The young couples look embarrassed and go off to whisper in the next room, but the verdict is always the same:

‘No, thank you. Could we see some other children?’

‘Yes, follow me, I have two little girls who were born during Christmas week,’ she suggests,