Chapter EIGHT
In which our hero solders his dreams to reality and finds the entry code to Miss Acacia’s heart
The next day, Brigitte Heim wakes me with her witch’s voice devoid of charm.
‘Get up, midget! Today you’d better start frightening people, or I’m kicking you out on no pay.’
First thing in the morning, her vinegary voice makes me feel sick. I’ve got a lover’s hangover; and waking up is a shock to the system.
Perhaps I got dreams and reality muddled up last night? Next time, will I still be able to feel that fizz of excitement? Just thinking about it makes my clock tingle. I know I’m blatantly disregarding Madeleine’s advice. I’ve never felt so happy, or so distraught.
I go to see Méliès to get my clock checked.
‘Your heart has never worked better, my boy,’ he reassures me. ‘If you could only see yourself in the mirror as you talked about what happened last night, you’d know from your eyes that your heart’s barometer is showing fair weather.’
All day long I drift about the Ghost Train, thinking about how I’ll play alchemist again this evening, transforming my dream into reality.
We only see each other at night. Miss Acacia’s proud coquettishness gives her away, because she always bumps into something. It’s her way of knocking on the door of the Ghost Train.
We love each other like two matches in the dark. We don’t talk, we just catch fire instead. Our kisses are an inferno as an earthquake registers across my entire body, all one metre sixty-six and a half centimetres of it. My heart escapes its prison. It flies away through the arteries, settling in my head. My heart is in every muscle, all the way through to my fingertips. A savage sun, everywhere. It’s a romantic disease with reddish glints.
I can’t survive without her; the scent of her skin, the sound of her voice, the mannerisms that make her the strongest and most fragile girl in the world. Take her obsession with not wearing glasses, so she only gets to look at the world through the smokescreen of her damaged sight; perhaps it’s a form of self-protection? That way she can see without really seeing and, more importantly, without knowing when she’s being watched.
I learn about the strange mechanics of her heart: a protective outer shell hides her mysterious lack of confidence, whereby low self-esteem is constantly vying with the sheer force of her determination. The sparks that fly when Miss Acacia sings are fiery splinters of the soul. She can project this confidence on stage, but as soon as the music stops the balance tilts the other way. I haven’t yet found the broken gear inside her.
The entry code to her heart changes every evening. Sometimes, the shell is as hard as a rock. I might try a thousand combinations in the form of caresses and comforting words, but I’m stuck at the door. What a treat when I do eventually crack the combination. To hear her tiny sigh of surrender, I gently blow and her outer shell flies off in a thousand pieces.
‘How to tame a shooting star. That’s the instruction manual I need,’ I tell Méliès.
‘A handbook of pure alchemy, you mean . . . Ha! Shooting stars can never be tamed, my boy. Could you see yourself comfortably settled at home with a shooting star in a cage? Its blinding heat would set fire to the cage and burn you with it, you wouldn’t even get close to the bars.’
‘I don’t want to put her in a cage. I just want to give her more confidence.’
‘Pure alchemy, that’s right.’
‘Put it this way, I was dreaming of a love as great as Arthur’s Seat, and now I find that my bones are growing into a mountain range.’
‘You’re exceptionally lucky, you know, few people ever get near to that feeling.’
‘Perhaps, but now that I’ve tasted it, I can’t do without it. And when she holds back, I feel so empty.’
‘Just enjoy the fact that you’re experiencing so many emotions. I knew a shooting star once as well, and I can tell you those girls are like mountain weather: unpredictable. Even if Miss Acacia loves you, you’ll never be able to master her.’
We love each other secretly. Our combined age is no more than thirty. She’s the little singing girl, famous since childhood. I’m the outsider who works in the Ghost Train.
The Extraordinarium is like a village, where everybody knows everyone else and gossip travels fast. You get all types of people: jealous, affectionate, moralising, small-minded, brave, well-intentioned but intrusive.
I’d like to think I’m not the type to worry about what-people-might-say, especially if it means I get to kiss her for a little longer. Miss Acacia, on the other hand, can’t abide the idea of anybody finding out about our secret.
This state of affairs suited us rather well to begin with. We felt like pirates, and what kept us going was the magic of stowing away. But when love becomes something greater than its first intense moments, it sets off like a steamboat in a bath. We need space, more and more space . . . Much as we enjoy the moon, we want the sun too.
‘I’m going to kiss you in front of everybody,’ I tell her. ‘Nothing will happen to us.’
‘I’d like to kiss you in broad daylight too, and do the things everybody else does. But as long as people can’t see us, we’re safe from gossip. We’ll never live in peace again if someone like Brigitte discovers our secret.’
Of course, her sweet words are delicious; I’d happily slip them under my tongue. But I’m finding it harder and harder to watch her disappear into the chinks of the night, as dawn approaches. Her stilettos are like clock hands, beating out a rhythm as she heads off into the distance, triggering my insomnia. When day breaks, my back aches and the birds let me know how short a time I have left to sleep.
In a few months, our love has grown still more. The night is not enough for us. Send us sunlight and fresh air; we need calcium for our growing bones. I don’t want to wear the mask of a romantic bat! I want to laugh in the light of day.
Almost a year after we first caught fire, our situation hasn’t changed. Nothing more, nothing less. I can’t assuage Miss Acacia’s fears of what might happen if people find out about us. Méliès tells me to be patient with her. I study the mechanics of her heart passionately. I try opening jammed locks with affectionate keys. But certain places seem closed for ever.
Her reputation as an ardent singer has travelled beyond the confines of the Extraordinarium. I enjoy visiting the cabarets in nearby towns to hear her sing; to feel the movement of her flamenco steps. I always arrive after the show has begun, and vanish before it ends, so nobody notices I’m a regular.
After the concerts, crowds of well-dressed men wait in the rain to offer her bouquets of flowers as tall as she is. They court her under my nose. They marvel at the talents of the great little singer, but I have no right to show myself. Here I am on the fringes of her public life, witnessing the eyes of strong-hearted men sparkling in adoration. All this only fans the flames of my passion – and jealousy. The underside of love’s medal glints darkly.
This evening, I’ve decided to try out an experiment to keep her in my bed. I’m going to block my clock hands and stop time. I’ll only start the world again if she asks me to. Madeleine forbade me to touch my clock hands but I’m sure it’s because she was afraid I would meddle with the passage of time. If Cinderella had owned a clockwork heart, she’d have stopped time at one minute to midnight and stayed at the ball for the rest of her life.
While Miss Acacia slips on her court shoes with one hand and fixes her hair with the other, I block the minute hand. It has been 4.37 a.m. for a good quarter of an hour, according to my clockwork heart, when I let it go. Meanwhile, Miss Acacia has disappeared into the silent labyrinth of the Extraordinarium, and the first birds of dawn accompany her footsteps.
I wish I had more time to watch her birdlike ankles, to move on up to her streamlined calves, as far as the amber pebbles she has for knees. Then I’d follow her gently open thighs to land on the tenderest of landing strips. There, I’d practise becoming the greatest kisser-caresser in the world. Each time she wanted to go back home, I’d perform my trick. Stopping time, followed by a lesson in languages not foreign. Then, I’d set the world off again, and she’d feel so alive she wouldn’t be able to resist spending a few more light-filled minutes in the haven of my bed. For those moments stolen from time, she’d be all mine.
But as perfectly as my old heart measures time, ticktocking its way through my sleeplessness, it refuses to help me when it comes to magic. I’m sitting here alone on my bed, trying to relieve my aching clock by squeezing the gears between my fingers. Madeleine, how furious you’d be . . .
The next morning, I decide to pay Méliès a visit. He’s built himself a workshop where he labours at his dream: photography in motion. I drop by to see him nearly every afternoon, before going on to the Ghost Train. I often walk in on him with his belles. One day it might be a long-haired brunette, the next a little redhead. But he’s still working on his famous voyage to the moon that he wanted to give to the woman of his life.
‘As a cure for my own failed love, I indulge in small doses of comfort. It’s a gentle medicine that stings a bit sometimes, but it helps me put myself back together again. The magic has turned against me; I told you nothing’s guaranteed to work every time. I need to make a full recovery before throwing myself into full-scale emotions again. But don’t use me as an example. Carry on soldering your dreams to reality, without forgetting the most important thing: today, Miss Acacia is in love with you.’