Melies helps me roll the piece of paper correctly around the bird’s claw.
‘If she knew I was at the gates of Andalusia, chasing after my love, she’d be furious.’
‘All mothers are afraid for their children and protect them as best they can, but it’s time for you to leave the nest. Look at your heart! It’s midday! We’ve got to push on. Have you seen what’s written on the sign straight ahead?
In a treasure hunt, when the glow from the gold coins starts to glimmer through the keyhole in the chest, the seeker is overcome by emotion, barely able to open the lid. Fear of winning.
As for me, I’ve been nursing this dream for so long. Joe smashed it against my head, and I picked up the pieces. Patiently, I endured the pain, but in my imagination I was already putting the egg back together again, and it was full of pictures of the little singer. Now here she is, about to hatch, and I’m rigid with stage fright. The Alhambra extends its arabesques towards us, outlined against the opal sky. The carriages jolt about. My clock jolts too. The wind picks up, blowing dust all around and lifting up the women’s dresses, turning them into parasols. Will I dare to open you out, Miss Acacia?
As soon as we arrive in the old city, we set about hunting down its theatres. The light is almost blinding. Melies asks the same question at every theatre we find along the way:
‘Does a little flamenco-singing girl with poor eyesight ring any bells?’
It’d be easier to spot a snowflake in a snowstorm. Dusk finally calms the city’s orangey-red glow, but still there’s no trace of Miss Acacia.
‘There are lots of singing girls like that around here . . .’ replies a skinny man sweeping the square in front of the umpteenth theatre.
‘No, no, no, this one is
‘If she really is as extraordinary as you say she is, then you should try the Extraordinarium.’
‘What’s that?’
‘An old circus converted into a funfair. They’ve got every kind of show there: caravans of troubadours, prima ballerinas, ghost trains, carousels of wild elephants, singing birds, freak shows of real-life monsters . . . I think they might have a little singing girl. It’s at 7, calle Pablo Jardim, in the Cartuja district, about a quarter of an hour from here.’
‘Thank you very much, sir.’
‘It’s a curious place, but if you like that kind of thing . . . Good luck, anyway!’
On the road leading to the Extraordinarium, Melies is full of last-minute recommendations.
‘Play it like a poker game. Never reveal your fears or doubts. You’ve got a trump card and it’s called your heart. You may think of it as a weakness, but embrace your vulnerability and your clockwork heart will make you special. It’s precisely your difference that will win her over.’
‘My handicap will be a weapon of seduction? Do you really think so?’
‘Of course! Don’t tell me that you weren’t charmed by that singer of yours when she refused to put on her glasses? When she began bumping into things?’
‘Oh, it’s not that . . .’
‘It’s not
It’s ten o’clock at night by the time we enter the Extraordinarium. We travel up and down the alleyways as music rings out from every corner, several melodies blending together in a joyful brouhaha. Stalls give off a smell of frying and dust – people must be thirsty all the time here.
The crackpot collection of fairground attractions looks set to topple at the slightest puff. The House of Singing Birds is just like my heart, only bigger. You have to wait for the hour to strike in order to see those birds popping out from behind the dial; it’s easier to adjust a clock when there’s nothing alive inside.
After wandering around for some time, I notice a wall with a poster announcing that evening’s shows, complete with photos.
I recognise her features instantly. I’ve been searching in my dreams for four years, and now, right at the end of
