The Boy with the Cuckoo-Clock Heart Page 0,38

frozen lake. She buried herself in my arms at that point. Just like before, exactly like before.’

‘I’ll punch your other eye out, you scumbag!’

‘And we kissed. Just like before, exactly like before.’

My head is spinning, I’m losing my grip. Far away, I can hear Brigitte Heim starting to harangue the crowd. The train ride is about to begin. My heart is choking me. I must look as ugly as a condemned man smoking his last cigar.

Before heading off for his performance, Joe taunts me one last time:

‘You didn’t even notice you were losing everything. I thought I’d be dealing with a tougher opponent. You really don’t deserve her.’

I charge at him, my clock hands sticking out. I feel like a miniature bull with plastic horns, and Joe’s the smiling matador preparing to deal the death blow. Effortlessly, he grabs me by the collar with his right hand and sends me sprawling in the dust.

Then he disappears inside the Ghost Train, followed by the crowd. I stay there for what seems an eternity, my left arm propped against my roller-board, unable to react.

I make it back to Méliès’ workshop in the end. But it takes for ever. Each time my minute hand jerks, a knife is being thrust deeper between my bones.

It’s midnight by my heart’s clock. While I’m waiting for Miss Acacia, I stare at the cardboard moon my romantic conjurer has made for his sweetheart. Ten past midnight, twenty-five past, twenty to one. Nobody. My clockwork heart is heating up, there’s trouble brewing. That hedgehog soup is getting fierier, even though I’ve tried not to season it with too many doubts.

Méliès comes out of his bedroom, followed by his jovial retinue of buttocks and bosoms. Even when he’s over the moon, he can spot if I’m down in the dumps. With an affectionate glance, he signals to his belles to tone it down, so their cheeriness doesn’t make me feel any more miserable.

But she doesn’t come.

CHAPTER TWELVE

In which Miss Acacia is attacked by floorboard crocodiles in Granada

The next day, Miss Acacia is giving a concert at a cabaret in the coastal resort of Marbella, a hundred kilometres from Granada. ‘It’s the perfect opportunity to meet up with her again, away from Joe,’ Méliès tells me.

He lends me his best suit and his favourite hat. Feverishly, I ask him to go with me; he agrees, just as he did on the first day.

Fear and doubt jostle with desire as we set off. Why is it so complicated to keep the person you love close to you? Miss Acacia gives without counting the cost; there’s nothing mean-spirited about her. And although I try to return this generosity, she receives less from me. Perhaps I don’t know how to give properly. But I refuse to be kicked off the most magical train-ride of my life, complete with an engine that spits flaming daffodil petals. Tonight, I’ll explain to her that I’m ready to change in every way, provided she loves me. And then things can go back to the way they used to be.

The show is to take place on a tiny stage set along the seashore. Yet the whole world appears to be gathered around it. In the front row sits Joe. A totem invested with powers to make my entire body tremble.

My little singer walks on stage, clicking her heels with a violence that surprises the audience, louder and louder. She shouts, screeches, deals blows with her cries. Today she’s inhabited by a wolf. A gutsy blues weaves in and out of her flamenco. Chilli peppers dance on her tongue. In her sparkling orange dress, she looks like a singing powder keg. She’s got so much tension to exorcise this evening.

All of a sudden, her left leg punctures the floorboard, then her right leg, in a fiery fracas. I rush to help her, but the crowd won’t let me through. People just stand there and shout as she hammers herself in like a living nail. My eyes meet hers, I don’t think she even recognises me – perhaps because of Méliès’ hat. Joe rushes towards her, his long legs slicing efficiently through the crowd. I’m struggling in his wake. He’s gaining ground. In a few seconds, he’ll be able to touch her. I can’t let her inside those arms of his. Miss Acacia’s face tenses, she must be injured. She’s not the kind to complain for no reason. I wish I were a doctor or, better still, a sorcerer able