for my liking. I’ll have to ask Méliès to put me up in his workshop. I don’t know how the precious intimacy I share with the little singer will survive such conditions.
That evening, Miss Acacia is singing in a theatre in town. As usual, I slip into the back of the auditorium after the first song. The new Scareperson is sitting in the first row. He’s so tall that he’s blocking half the audience’s view. At any rate, I can’t see a thing.
This new eye fixed on Miss Acacia makes me stew in my shirt. The man doesn’t turn off his revolving light once during the entire evening, not even after the concert is over. I’d like to tell him to get lost, that great big walking lamppost. But I hold back. My heart, on the other hand, doesn’t waste any time shouting itself hoarse, singing la in a minor key and decidedly out of tune. The whole auditorium turns round to laugh. Some of the audience members ask how I produce such strange noises, then one of them calls out:
‘I recognise you! You’re the guy who makes everybody laugh on the Ghost Train!’
‘As of yesterday, I don’t work there any more.’
‘Ah, sorry . . . I liked your gag, it was very funny.’
I could be back in the school playground. All the confidence I’ve gained in Miss Acacia’s arms has taken flight. I’m being slowly dismantled.
After the show, it’s hard not to open up to my chosen one, who retorts:
‘That great oaf? Pahhh . . .’
‘He looks hypnotised by you.’
‘You’re the one who’s always talking about trust, and now you’re kicking up a fuss about that one-eyed pirate over there?’
‘I’m not blaming you. I can see that he’s the one who’s circling you like a shark.’
The ground’s gone from under my feet. Much as I trust her, I’ve no doubt this pirate will do everything in his power to seduce her. There’s no mistaking certain looks, even those cast by a single eye. In fact that only makes it worse, because the intensity is doubled.
But just when the hedgehog soup gets too fiery to swallow, the great one-eyed oaf comes over to us and says:
‘Don’t you recognise me?’
As he utters these words, a long shudder runs down my spine. It’s a familiar feeling, one I haven’t experienced since school, and I detest it.
‘Joe! What on earth are you doing here?’ Miss Acacia exclaims, embarrassed.
‘I’ve been on a long journey to find you, both of you, a very long journey . . .’
His diction is slow and deliberate. Apart from the eye and a few wispy bits of beard, he hasn’t changed. It’s odd I didn’t recognise him straight away. I’m finding it hard to register that Joe is here in person. In an attempt to remain cheerful, I keep repeating to myself: This isn’t the right backdrop for you, Joe, go back to your Scottish mists, right now!
‘Do you two know each other?’ asks Miss Acacia.
‘We went to school together. We’re – how can I put it – old acquaintances,’ he answers, with a smile.
The hatred I feel towards Joe paralyses me. I’d happily put out his second eye on the spot, if it would send him back to where he’s come from, but I’m trying to keep my cool in front of my little singer.
‘We need to talk,’ he tells me, fixing me with his cold eye.
‘Midday tomorrow, in front of the Ghost Train, just the two of us.’
‘All right. And don’t forget to bring your spare set of keys,’ he replies.
Sure enough, that same evening Joe takes up his quarters in what used to be my bedroom. He’ll be sleeping in the bed where Miss Acacia and I first made love, walking down corridors where we so often kissed, catching glimpses of our dreams in mirrors . . . Hidden in the bathroom, we can hear him unpacking his things.
‘Joe’s one of your ex-lovers, isn’t he?’
‘Oh come off it, a lover? I was a child at the time. When I see him now, I wonder what on earth I saw in a boy like him!’
‘I’m wondering exactly the same thing . . . In fact, I’m asking you.’
‘He was the big shot at school, everybody was in awe of him. I was very young, end of story. Isn’t it a funny coincidence that we both know him!’
‘Not really, no.’
I don’t want to tell her the story about the eye. I’m worried she’ll think I’m some kind of