The Boy with the Cuckoo-Clock Heart by Mathias Malzieu Read Free Book Online Page B

at least. I ring on the door of a jeweller on the Boulevard Saint-Germain. An old man appears, dressed to the nines; he wants to know the reason for my visit.
    ‘To repair my clock . . .’
    ‘Have you brought it with you?’
    ‘Yes!’
    I unbutton my jacket, then my shirt.
    ‘I’m not a doctor,’ he says drily.
    ‘Couldn’t you just look at it, to make sure the gears are in the right place?’
    ‘I’m not a doctor, I told you, I am not a doctor !’
    His tone is haughty, but I try to stay calm. The way he looks at my clock you’d think I was showing him something dirty.
    ‘I know you’re not a doctor! This is a perfectly normal clock, which just needs adjusting from time to time to make sure it functions properly . . .’
    ‘Clocks are objects intended to measure time, nothing else. Get away from here with that diabolical apparatus of yours. Go away, or I’ll call the police!’
    It’s just like at school, or with the young couples, all over again. It may be horribly familiar, but I’ll never get used to this feeling of injustice. In fact, the older I get, the more painful it becomes. It’s only a bloody wooden clock after all, nothing but gears that allow my heart to beat.
    An old metal clock with a thousand pretentious gold-plate flourishes dominates the entrance to the shop. It resembles its owner, in the same way that certain dogs resemble their masters. Just as I’m walking past the door, I give it a good kick, professional footballer style. The clock teeters, its pendulum slamming violently against its sides. As I bolt along the Boulevard Saint-Germain, I hear the tinkle of broken glass behind me. It’s amazing how much that sound relaxes me.
    The second clockmaker, a fat balding chap in his fifties, seems more sympathetic.
    ‘You should pay a visit to Monsieur Méliès. He’s a most inventive illusionist. I’m sure he’ll be better placed than I am to sort out your problem, little one.’
    ‘I need a clockmaker, not a magician!’
    ‘Some clockmakers have a whiff of the magician about them, but this particular magician has something of the clockmaker about him. He’s like the famous Robert-Houdin – whose theatre he’s just bought,’ he adds, cheekily. ‘Pay him a visit and say I sent you. I’m sure he’ll fix you up properly!’
    I don’t understand why this nice gentleman won’t mend me himself, but his easy acceptance of my problem is comforting. And I’m keen to meet a magician who’s actually a magician-clockmaker. He’ll probably look like Madeleine; he might even come from the same family.
    I cross the Seine. My eyes nearly pop out at the elegance of the giant cathedral, not to mention the parade of derrières and chignons . This city is a cobblestone wedding cake with a Sacred Heart on top. Finally, I reach the Boulevard des Italiens, where the famous theatre is situated. A young man with lively eyes opens the door.
    ‘Does the magician live here?’
    ‘Which one?’ he replies, talking in riddles.
    ‘A man called Georges Méliès.’
    ‘That’s me!’
    He walks like an automaton, jerky and elegant at the same time. He speaks quickly, his hands punctuating his words like living exclamation marks. But when I tell him my story, he listens very carefully. Above all, it’s the conclusion that interests him:
    ‘Even if this clock functions as my heart, the mainten ance work I’m asking of you is straightforward for a clockmaker.’
    As the clockmaker-conjurer opens my dial, he listens to my chest with a stethoscope that allows him to hear the minuscule elements. His attitude softens, as if his childhood is flashing before his eyes. He activates the system, setting off the clockwork cuckoo, then promptly expresses his admiration for Madeleine’s work.
    ‘How did you manage to bend the hour hand?’ he asks.
    ‘I’m in love but I don’t know anything about love. So I get angry, I get into fights, and sometimes I even try to speed time up or else to slow it down.