The Boy With the Cuckoo-Clock Heart Page 2

  He takes off his coat and asks me to take a look at his back. It’s embarrassing, but I can’t say no.

  ‘To mend the broken section, Dr Madeleine grafted on a wee bit o’ musical spine and tuned its bones. So I can play different tunes if I tap my back with a hammer. It sounds nice, but I walk sideways like a crab. Go on, play something if ye like,’ he says holding out his little hammer.

  ‘I don’t know how to play anything!’

  ‘Dinnae worry, pet, we’ll sing together, ye’ll see.’

  He starts singing ‘Oh When the Saints,’ accompanying himself with his bone-o-phone. His voice is as comforting as a crackling fire in the hearth on a winter’s evening.

  When he leaves he opens up his pouch, which is full of hen’s eggs.

  ‘What are you carrying all those eggs around for?’

  ‘Because they’re full o’ memories . . . My wifey used to cook them wonderfully. When I cook them just for me, I feel like I’m back wi’ her again.’

  ‘Can you cook them as well as she did?’

  ‘Nae, they always turn out mingin’, but at least it’s easier to keep our memories alive. Take one, pet, if ye like.’

  ‘I don’t want you to be missing a memory.’

  ‘Och, dinnae worry, pet, I’ve got plenty. Ye won’t ken what I mean yet, but one day ye’ll be content to open yer bag and find a memory from when ye were a bairn.’

  For the time being, as soon as the minor chords of ‘Oh When the Saints’ start to play, my worries fade away for a few hours.

  After my fifth birthday, the doctor stops showing me to her customers, the prospective parents. There are more and more questions in my head, and every day the need for answers grows stronger.

  My desire to discover the ‘ground floor of the mountain’ becomes an obsession. I notice a mysterious rumbling when I climb up on to the roof, alone with the night. The moonlight tinges the streets of the town centre with a sugary halo, which I dream of tasting.

  Madeleine keeps on reminding me that there will be time to confront the reality of the city soon enough.

  ‘Each beat of your heart is a small miracle, you know, so don’t get carried away. It’s a fragile, makeshift repair. Things should get better as you grow up, but you’ll have to be patient.’

  ‘How many times will the big hand have to go round?’

  ‘A few . . . a few. I want your heart to become a bit more robust before I let you out into nature.’

  There’s no denying that my clock causes me a worry or two. It’s the most sensitive part of my body. I can’t bear anyone to touch it, apart from Madeleine. She winds me up every morning using a small key. When I catch a cold, the coughing hurts my gears. It feels as if they’re about to poke out through my skin. And I hate that sound of broken crockery they make.

  But mostly I’m worried about being always out of kilter. By evening, the tick-tock that reverberates through my body stops me from sleeping. I might collapse with exhaustion in the middle of the afternoon, but I feel on top of the world in the dead of night. I’m not a hamster or a vampire, just an insomniac.

  Then again, as is often the case with people who suffer from an illness, there are a few advantages. I love those precious moments when Madeleine glides into my bedroom like a ghost in her nightgown, a cup of hot choc olate in her hand, to calm my insomnia with haunting lullabies. Sometimes she sings until dawn, caressing my gears with her fingertips. It’s a tender moment. Love is dangerous for your tiny heart, she repeats hypnotically. She could be chanting from an old book of magic spells, to help me get to sleep. I like to hear her voice ringing out under a star-filled sky, even if there’s something strange about the way she whispers love is dangerous for your tiny heart.

  On my tenth birthday, Dr Madeleine finally agrees to take me into town. I’ve been pleading with her for such a long time . . . Even so, right up until the last moment, she can’t help trying to postpone the big event, tidying things instead, walking from one room to another.

  While I’m down in the cellar, stamping my feet im patiently, I discover a shelf lined with jars. Some are labelled ‘Tears 1850–1857’, and others are filled with ‘Apples from the Garden’.

  ‘Who do all those tears belong to?’ I ask her.

  ‘They’re mine. Whenever I start crying, I collect my tears in a flask and store them in the cellar to make cocktails.’

  ‘How did you manage to shed so many tears?’

  ‘When I was young, an embryo got lost on its way to my womb. It became stuck in one of my tubes, causing me to bleed inside. Ever since that day, I’ve been unable to have children. I cried a lot, even though I’m happy to bring other people’s children into the world. But things are better now that you’re here . . .’

  I’m ashamed I even asked her.

  ‘After one particular day of sobbing, I noticed the tears were comforting to drink, especially when mixed with cider vinegar. But you mustn’t drink when you’re feeling fine, otherwise you’re caught in a vicious circle of only feeling happy when drinking your own tears, so you have to keep on crying in order to drink.’

  ‘But you spend your time mending other people, so why drown your wounds in the alcohol of your own tears?’

  ‘Let’s not worry about all that, we’re heading down into town today! Haven’t we got a birthday to celebrate?’ she asks, forcing a smile.

  After t he disturbing story of Madeleine’s tears, it takes a while for me to feel excited as we head down the hill. But as soon as I see Edinburgh, my dreams get the upper hand.

  I feel like Christopher Columbus discovering America. The twisted maze of streets beckons like a lover. Houses lean towards each other, shrinking the sky. I’m running! A single breath could bring the whole city tumbling down in a game of brick dominoes. I’m running! The trees are still stuck up there on top of the hill, but down here people are springing up everywhere, the women an explosion of flowers, poppy-hats, poppy-dresses. I see them leaning out of balcony windows, as far as the market that brightens Salisbury Place.

  I’m taking it all in: clogs ringing out over the cobblestones; mingled voices that carry me away. And the great bell tower, tolling with a heart ten times bigger than 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 mer
ry-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 my gears whirring at top speed, as if I’ve swallowed a helicopter. The chiming hurts my eardrums so I block my ears, which only makes it worse. My clock hands are going to sever my throat. Dr Madeleine moves to calm me with slow hand gestures, like a bird tamer trying to catch a panicked canary in its cage. I’m horribly hot.

  I’d like to be a golden eagle, or a majestically cool seagull. But instead I’m a stressed canary ensnared by its own startled movements. I hope the little singer hasn’t seen me. My tick-tock sounds dull. My eyes open and I’m this close to the blue sky. The doctor’s iron fist has clamped down on my shirt collar, gently raising my heels off the ground. Next, Madeleine grabs me by the arm.

  ‘We’re going back home, immediately! You’ve frightened everybody! Everybody!’

  She looks furious and worried at the same time. I feel ashamed. But I’m also busy committing to memory the pictures I have of this tiny shrub of a girl, who sings without glasses and stares the sun in the face. Almost without realising it, I’m falling in love. Except I do realise it too. Inside my clock, it’s the hottest day on earth.

  After a quarter of an hour of clock maintenance and a delicious bowl of noodle soup, I’m back to my funny old normal state.

  Madeleine looks strained, the way she does when she has to sing for too long to get me to sleep, but this time she seems more worried.

  ‘Your heart is only an implant. It’s more fragile than a normal heart and it will always be that way. A clockwork mechanism can’t filter emotions as well as human tissue. You have to be very careful. What happened in town today when you saw that little singer only confirms my fears: love is too dangerous for you.’

  ‘I couldn’t take my eyes off her mouth.’

  ‘Don’t say that!’

  ‘Her dimples are a never-ending game, her smile is always changing, I could watch her for ever.’

  ‘You don’t understand, you think it’s a game, but you’re playing with fire and that’s very dangerous when you have a heart made of wood. Your gears hurt when you cough, don’t they?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, that’s nothing compared to the suffering that love can inflict. All love’s pleasures and joys are paid for one day with suffering. And the more passionately you love, the more your pain will increase. You’ll find out what it means to miss somebody, the torment of jealousy and incomprehension, what it feels like to be rejected and unfairly treated. You’ll be chilled to the bone, and your blood will form little blocks of ice that float underneath your skin. Your cuckoo-clock heart will explode. I was the one who grafted that clock on to you, and I have a perfect understanding of its limits. It might survive the intensity of pleasure, and beyond. But it is not robust enough to endure the torment of love.’

  Madeleine smiles sadly – still that twitch that vanishes instantly, but at least she’s not angry this time.

  CHAPTER THREE

  In which Little Jack befriends Anna, Luna, and a hamster called Cunnilingus

  The mystery surrounding the little singer tantalises me. In my mind’s eye, I stockpile images of her long eyelashes, her dimples, her perfect nose and the curve of her lips. I nurture her memory the way you’d tend a delicate flower. This fills my days.

  I can only think of one thing: finding her again. I want to taste that sensation I can’t put into words; preferably as soon as possible. So what if the cuckoo risks being spat out through my nose? So what if my heart needs mending more often? I’ve been having it repaired ever since I was born. So what if I’m in danger of dying? My life’s in danger if I don’t see her again and, at my age, that’s even more serious.

  I’m beginning to understand why the doctor was so keen to put off my encounter with the outside world. You only ask for strawberries with sugar every day once you’ve discovered a taste for them.

  Some evenings, the little singer pays me a visit in my dreams. Tonight, she’s two centimetres tall. She enters my heart through its keyhole and straddles my hour hand. She fixes me with her elegant doe-like eyes. I may be asleep, but it’s still an impressive sight. Gently, she starts licking my minute hand. She’s gathering my nectar; something clockwork starts whirring into action, and I’m not sure it’s just my heart . . . TICK-TOCK DING! TICK-TOCK DONG! Bloody cuckoo! I wake up with a jolt.

  ‘Love is dangerous for your tiny heart, even in your dreams, so please dream softly,’ Madeleine whispers to me. ‘Go back to sleep . . .’

  As if that was easy with a heart like mine.

  The next day, I’m woken by the tapping of a hammer. Madeleine is standing on a chair, banging a nail into the wall above my bed. She looks very determined, and she’s got a piece of slate between her teeth. She might as well be driving a nail straight into my skull. Then she hangs up the slate, which has the following words inscribed sinisterly upon it:

  Firstly: don’t touch the hands of your cuckoo-clock heart. Secondly: master your anger. Thirdly: never, ever fall in love. For if you do, the hour hand will poke through your skin, your bones will shatter, and your heart will break once more.
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  The slate terrorises me. I don’t even need to read what’s on it, I know the words inside out and back to front. And they blow an ill wind between my gears.

  But fragile as my clock may be, the little singer has settled in comfortably. She’s set down her heavy suitcases in every corner, and yet I’m lighter than before I met her.

  It doesn’t matter what it costs, I have to find a way of tracking her down again. What’s her name? Where can I find her? I know she can’t see very well and sings like a bird, but with words. That’s all.

  I try discreetly asking the young couples who come to Dr Madeleine’s to adopt. No answer. I hazard my luck with Arthur. ‘I heard her singing in town once, but I haven’t seen her for a wee while now, pet.’ The girls might be more inclined to point me in the right direction.

  Anna and Luna are two prostitutes who always turn up around Christmas time with downcast looks at their rounded tummies. From the way they keep saying: ‘No, no, we don’t know anything, absolutely nothing . . . nothing at all, do we Anna? Not a single thing, not us’, I can tell I’m on the right track.

  They look like two overgrown kids. Which is what they are, two thirty-year-old kids, with clingy leopard-skin costumes. Their clothes always have a strange whiff of Provençal herbs, even when they’re not smoking. Their cigarettes create a foggy halo and make the girls laugh so hard they must be getting their brains tickled. Their favourite game involves teaching me new words. They never reveal the meanings, they just want to make sure I can pronounce everything perfectly. Of all the wonderful names they teach me, my favourite is cunnilingus. I imagine him as an ancient Roman hero, this Cunnilingus. You have to say it again and again, Cu-ni-lin-guss, Cunnilingus, Cunnilingus. What a fantastic word!

  Anna and Luna never show up empty-handed. There’s always a bunch of flowers nicked from the cemetery, or the frock coat of a client who croaked during coitus. For my birthday, they gave me a hamster. I called it Cunnilingus. They seemed very touched that I chose that name. ‘Cunnilingus, my love!’ Luna always sings to it, as she taps the bars of its cage with her painted nails.