The Boy with the Cuckoo-Clock Heart Page 0,20

to put on her glasses? When she began bumping into things?’

‘Oh, it’s not that . . .’

‘It’s not just that, of course, but her “difference” is all part of her charm. And now is the time to make the most of yours.’

It’s ten o’clock at night by the time we enter the Extraordinarium. We travel up and down the alleyways as music rings out from every corner, several melodies blending together in a joyful brouhaha. Stalls give off a smell of frying and dust – people must be thirsty all the time here.

The crackpot collection of fairground attractions looks set to topple at the slightest puff. The House of Singing Birds is just like my heart, only bigger. You have to wait for the hour to strike in order to see those birds popping out from behind the dial; it’s easier to adjust a clock when there’s nothing alive inside.

After wandering around for some time, I notice a wall with a poster announcing that evening’s shows, complete with photos.

Miss Acacia, fiery flamenco sauce, 10 p.m., on the Small Stage, opposite the Ghost Train

I recognise her features instantly. I’ve been searching in my dreams for four years, and now, right at the end of the race, reality is finally taking over. I feel dizzy, like a fledgeling bird on the day it first takes flight. The cosy nest of my imagination is receding; it’s time to jump.

The paper roses stitched on to the little singer’s dress trace the treasure map that is her body. The tip of my tongue tastes electric. I’m a bomb ready to explode – a terrified bomb, but a bomb all the same.

We head towards the stage, and take our seats. The stage is a simple platform set up under a trailer awning. To think that in a few moments I’m about to see her . . . How many millions of seconds have been and gone since my tenth birthday? How many millions of times have I dreamt of this moment? The euphoria is so intense I’m finding it hard to stay still. Meanwhile, inside my chest, the proud windmill has reverted to a tiny Swiss cuckoo.

The spectators in the front row turn towards me, annoyed by the increasingly audible racket my clock is making. Méliès responds with his cat-like smile. Three girls burst out laughing and say something in Spanish, presumably along the lines of: ‘those two just escaped from the freakshow’. It’s true our clothes could do with a good ironing.

The little singer walks on stage, clicking her yellow high heels along the platform. She launches into her bird dance and my clock hands become windmill blades once again: I’m flying! Her voice echoes like a slender nightingale, sounding even more beautiful than in my dreams. I want to take the time to watch her calmly, to adjust my heart to her presence.

Miss Acacia arches the small of her back and her lips part a little, as if being kissed by a ghost. She closes her large eyes as she claps her raised hands like castanets.

During a particularly intimate song, my cuckoo whirrs into action. I’m more embarrassed than ever. The twinkle in Méliès’ eyes helps to calm me down.

We’re in such a rundown place, yet the little singer transcends our surroundings. You’d think she was lighting her own Olympic flame in a plastic model stadium.

At the end of the show, she’s mobbed by all sorts of people wanting to exchange a word or get her autograph. I have to queue like everybody else, even though I’m not asking for an autograph, just the moon. The two of us curled up in its crescent. Méliès tips me off:

‘Her dressing-room door is open and there’s nobody inside!’

I slip in like a burglar.

Closing the door of the tiny dressing room behind me, I take a moment to study her make-up, her sequined ankle boots and her wardrobe – Tinkerbell would have approved. I’m embarrassed to be looking at her personal belongings, but it’s delicious to be this close to her. As I perch on her chaise-longue, her delicate perfume intoxicates me. I wait.

The door bursts open and the little singer enters like a hurricane in a skirt. Her yellow shoes go flying. Hairpins rain down. She sits in front of her dressing table. I am more silent than the deadest of corpses.

She starts taking off her make-up, as delicately as a pink snake might shed its skin, and then puts on a pair of glasses. She