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
‘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
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;
