mine.
‘Is that my father?’
‘No, no, it’s not your father . . . It’s chiming for one o’clock, it only tolls once a day,’ Madeleine answers, out of puff.
We cross the square. Music can be heard round the corner of a side street, as mischievous and melancholic as harmonious glitter. The melody takes my breath away; inside me, it’s raining and shining at the same time.
‘That’s a barrel organ. Nice, isn’t it?’ Madeleine tells me. ‘It functions in much the same way as your heart, which is probably why you like it so much. It’s mechanical on the outside, with emotions on the inside.’
I’m convinced I’ve just heard the most delightful sound of my life, but the fiery surprises have only just begun. A minuscule girl, like a tree in blossom, steps out in front of the barrel organ and begins to sing. Her voice is like a nightingale’s, but with words.
‘My spectacles have been mislaid
I didn’t want to wear ’em
Fire-girl behind those shades
My face looked funny, I’m afraid.’
Her arms look like branches and her curly black hair sets her face aglow, playing the shadow to its fire. Her tiny nose is so perfect, I don’t know how she can breathe through it – perhaps it’s just for decoration. But she dances like a bird, on the feminine scaffolding of stiletto heels. Her eyes are so huge that you can take your time plunging in. They betray a fierce determination. She carries her head high, like a miniature flamenco dancer. Her breasts resemble two meringues so exquisitely baked it would be rude not to eat them on the spot.
‘I don’t mind if I’m half blind
When I sing or when I kiss,
I prefer to close my eyes
In this hazy state of bliss.’
I feel hot. The little singer’s merry-go-round terrifies me, but I’m also dying to climb up there. The smell of candyfloss and dust makes my throat feel parched, I’ve got no idea how this pink carousel works, but I have to climb on board.
Suddenly, just like in a musical comedy, I burst into song. Dr Madeleine gives me a look that says ‘take-yourhands-off-that-stove-now’.
‘Oh my little fire, let me taste your attire,
Shred your clothes to a tatter,
As confetti make them scatter,
Then I’ll kiss you in that shower . . .’
Did I hear myself say ‘confetti’? Madeleine’s gaze speaks volumes.
‘Lost in a heartbeat,
Far away on my own street,
Can’t look the sky in the eye,
All I see is fire.’
We began to sing together, back and forth.
‘I’ll guide you through this city’s passes,
And be your special pair of glasses,
You’ll be the match I strike,
Yes, you’ll be the match I strike.’
‘I’ve got something to admit,
I hear you now but should you sit
Upon a bench, I couldn’t tell
Between your handsome self and it!’
‘Let’s stroke each other, eyes shut tight,
’Til our skeletons catch alight,
Let’s start a fire on the hour
My cuckoo-clock chimes midnight.’
‘I’m a little fire-girl, so it’s no surprise
When the music stops I can’t open my eyes.
I blaze like a match, a thousand flames burn my glasses,
So it’s no surprise, I can’t open my eyes.’
As our voices rise in unison, her left heel gets caught between two cobblestones, she teeters like a spinning top at the end of its flight and lands spread-eagled on the icy path. An accident of comical violence. Blood runs down her dress in feathers and she looks like a crushed gull. Sprawled on the cobblestones, she still stirs me. She struggles to put on a pair of spectacles with wonky sides, then staggers like a sleepwalker. Her mother holds her more firmly by the hand than is usual for a parent; you could say she’s restraining her.
I try to say something, but the words stick in my throat. I wonder how eyes as huge and wonderful as hers can be so ineffectual, that she bumps into things.
Dr Madeleine and the little girl’s mother exchange a few words, like the owners of two dogs who’ve just been in a fight.
My heart races again, I’m finding it hard to catch my breath. Is my clock swelling and rising up in my throat? Has this fire-girl just stepped out of an egg? Is she edible? Is she made of chocolate? What the hell is going on?
I try to look her in the eye, but her mouth has kidnapped my gaze. I didn’t know it was possible to spend so much time staring at a mouth.
All of a sudden, my cuckoo-clock heart starts ringing loudly, far louder than when I’m having an attack. I can feel