Chapter NINE
In which a couple of vampires go on a supermarket trip, and fleshy ghosts hang around . . .
Each day, Brigitte Heim threatens to throw me out if I go on making her Ghost Train look comical; but she never makes good her threat, because the customers keep coming in their droves. I do my best to frighten them but I can’t help it if I make them laugh instead. No matter how much energy I put into singing ‘Oh When the Saints’ as I limp along like Arthur, or silently smash eggs on my heart under the glow of the candelabra, or playing the violin on my gears to produce creaking melodies, or leaping from carriage to carriage and even on to people’s knees for the finale, it’s just hopeless: they all burst out laughing. Every single time, I mess up my surprise effects because my ticktock rings out loud and clear. So the customers know exactly when I’m supposed to scare them, and some regulars even laugh ahead of time. Méliès thinks I’m far too much in love to frighten people properly.
Occasionally, Miss Acacia comes for a ride on the Ghost Train. My clock always tick-tocks more loudly when I see her settling her bird’s bottom into a carriage. I slip her a few intimations of ardour, as a precursor to our nocturnal encounters.
Come, my blossoming tree, this evening we’ll turn out the light and I’ll lay your spectacles to rest on two swelling buds that promise to bring forth leaves. You’ll score the celestial vault with the tips of your branches, and shake your invisible trunk as it props up the moon. New dreams will fall back down like warm snow at our feet. You’ll plant your high-heeled roots firmly in the earth. Let me climb over your bamboo heart, I want to sleep by your side.
Midnight chimes. I notice a few wood shavings on my bed; my clock is crumbling. Miss Acacia arrives without her glasses, but her eyes look focused as if we were due to have a business meeting.
‘You were behaving oddly yesterday evening,’ she says. ‘You even let me go without saying goodbye – no kiss, nothing. You were tinkering with your clock, hypnotised. I was frightened you’d cut yourself on those pointy arrows.’
‘I’m sorry. I just wanted to try out an experiment to make you stay a little longer, but it didn’t work.’
‘No, it didn’t. Don’t play that game with me. I love you, but you know I can’t stay until morning.’
‘I know, I know . . . that’s why I was trying to . . .’
‘And while we’re on the subject, why don’t you take off your clock when we’re together? I get bruises from our making—’
‘Take off my clock? But I can’t!’
‘Of course you can! I don’t keep my stage make-up on to join you under the sheets, do I?’
‘Yes, you do sometimes! And you’re very beautiful when you’re naked with painted eyes.’
A gentle twinkle flashes beneath her eyelashes.
‘The point is I could never remove my clock. It’s not an accessory.’
Her luscious lips pout, as if to say: I don’t even believe seventy per cent of what you’re saying.
‘You know what, it’s great that you believe in your dreams, but you’ve got to come down off your cloud every once in a while and grow up. You can’t go through life with your clock hands sticking out of your coat,’ she says, sounding like a teacher.
I may be in the same room as her, but not since our first encounter have I been so far away from her embrace.
‘Sorry,’ I tell her, ‘but yes I can. That really is how I function. This clock is a vital part of me. It’s what makes my heart beat. There’s no getting away from it. I draw on who I am to overcome my situation, to feel alive. It’s just like you on stage; when you sing, it’s the same thing.’
‘It’s not the same thing, you naughty boy!’ she says, sliding her fingernails over my dial.
That she could even think my clock might just be an ‘accessory’ makes my blood run cold. I couldn’t love her if I thought her heart was a fake, whether it was made of glass or flesh or eggshell.
‘Well, keep it on if you like, but be careful with your clock hands . . .’
‘Do you believe in me one hundred per cent?’
‘I’d say seventy per cent, for the time being. It’s up to you to get me all the way to a hundred per cent, Little Jack . . .’
‘Why am I thirty per cent short?’
‘Because I know what men are like.’
‘I’m not like the others.’
‘Is that what you think?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘You’re a born cheat! Even your heart is a cheat.’
‘The only real thing I have is my heart.’
‘You see, you always land on your feet. But that’s what I love about you.’
‘I don’t want there to be things you “love about me”, I want you to love “all of me”.’
Her eyelids are like black parasols, blinking in time to the tick-tock of my heart. Her lips, which I haven’t kissed for too long, betray amusement and doubt. The palpitations speed up under my dial. A familiar tingling.
She starts the drum roll as a hint of a dimple lights up her cheeks.
‘I love all of you,’ she concludes.
She places her hands strategically and the wind is taken out of me. My thoughts dissolve into my body. She turns off the light.
Her neck is sprinkled with tiny beauty spots, in a constellation that descends to her breasts. I guess at the astronomy of her skin and bury my nose in her stars. I can’t take my eyes off her gently opened mouth. My blood froths and there are sparks flying between my thighs. I graze on her skin and she becomes my flower. A mild electric current flows from her hands. I draw closer.
‘To increase my trust ratings, I’m going to give you the key to my heart. You won’t be able to remove it, but otherwise you can do whatever you like, whenever you like. You are the key that opens up all of me. And since I trust all of you, why don’t you put on your glasses and let me see your eyes through those lenses?’
My little singer agrees and pulls her hair back. Her doe’s eyes leap out from her elegant face. Then she puts on a pair of Madeleine’s glasses and leans her head to one side. Madeleine, how furious you’d be if you could see her!
I’d like to tell Miss Acacia how gorgeous she looks in those glasses, but she wouldn’t believe me, so I stroke her hand instead. I start worrying that she might like me less if she could see me as I really am. Now I’m the one who’s panicking.
I place the key in her right hand. I’m nervous, which makes me rattle like a toy train.
‘Why have you got two holes?’
‘The right-hand one is to open me up and the left-hand one to wind me up.’
‘Can I open you?’
‘All right.’
She nudges the key delicately into my right keyhole. I close my eyes then open them again, just like when we’re kissing for a long time. I want to see everything ablaze.
Her eyelids are closed, magnificently drawn down. It’s such a serene moment. She grips a gear between her thumb and index finger, gently, without slowing it down. All of a sudden a tide of tears wells up and overwhelms me. She relaxes her subtle grasp and the waters of melancholy are cut off. Miss Acacia caresses my second gear – will she tickle my heart? I laugh lightly. Then, without letting go of the second gear in her right hand, she returns to the first one with the fingers of her left hand. When she brings her lips to the teeth of my cogs, she works her Blue Fairy magic on me, like in Pinocchio, but more real. Except it’s not my nose that’s growing longer. She senses this and her movements accelerate, increasing the pressure on my gears. Sounds escape from my mouth before I can check myself. I’m surprised, embarrassed, but above all excited. She uses my gears as if they were resistors and my sighs turn to groans.
‘I’d like to take a bath,’ she whispers.
I signal my consent – what is there to disagree with? I land back on my feet so I can head to the bathroom and run a hot bath.
I make my way quietly, not wanting to wake Brigitte. Her bedroom is on the other side of the wall and we can hear her coughing.
There are silvery reflections: the sky has just fallen into the bathtub. Miraculously, an ordinary tap pours tender stars into the silence of the night. We enter the water gingerly, so as not to splash about in this delight. We are two starry granules of confectioner’s hundreds and thousands, writ large. And we make the slowest love in the world, with just our tongues. The lapping of the water makes us feel as if each of us is inside the other. I’ve rarely experienced anything as pleasurable.
We whisper our cries. We have to hold back. Then suddenly she gets up, turns around, and we’re transformed into jungle animals.
My whole body collapses; I’m in a western and I’ve just been shot. She starts groaning slowly. The cuckoo chimes in slow motion. Madeleine . . .
Later, after Miss Acacia has drifted off to sleep, I find myself staring at her. The length of her painted eyelashes emphasises her ferocious beauty. She’s so desirable, I wonder if her singing career hasn’t conditioned her to pose for imaginary painters even when she’s fast asleep. She looks like a Modigliani painting – a Modigliani that snores just a tiny bit.
Her life as a little singer with a burgeoning career continues; with its admirers who hang around her with no particular purpose, like fleshy ghosts.
All those perfumed human bodies frighten me more than a pack of wolves beneath a full moon. It’s all fake, and the chitchat is as hollow as a funeral vault. I think how brave she is to swim over this eddy of make-believe.
One day, they’ll send her to the moon to test out how aliens react to such an erotic display. She’ll sing and dance and answer local journalists’ questions; then they’ll take her photo and she’ll never come back. Sometimes I think all that’s missing is Joe: the worm-eaten cherry on top of the rotten cake.
A week later, Miss Acacia is singing in Seville. I ride my roller-board over the red mountains to catch up with her in her hotel bedroom after the show.
Along the way, the carrier pigeon drops off a new letter from Madeleine. Did my previous letter not get to her? Her note is only a few words long, and, worse, they’re words that don’t seem to be hers. They leave me wanting more . . . I’d give anything for Madeleine to meet Miss Acacia. Of course, our love would frighten her, but she couldn’t help liking my little singer’s personality. Imagining these two she-wolves talking together is a dream that always soothes me.
The day after the concert, we’re walking around Seville like proper lovers. The temperature’s just right and a warm wind strokes our skin. Our fingers fumble when it comes to doing the things that normal people do in broad daylight. At night, remote-controlled by desire, they know each other intricately; but for now, they are like four left hands being asked to write ‘hello’.
How clumsy we are from head to toe. Like a couple of vampires who’ve forgotten their sunglasses, out on a supermarket trip. But it’s a romantic dream for us. And kissing on the banks of the River Guadalquivir, in the middle of the afternoon, is a complete turn-on.
Above this sweet and simple happiness hovers a menacing cloud. I’m proud of Miss Acacia as I’ve never been proud before in my life. But the ecstatic looks from other men are making me feel increasingly jealous. I try persuading myself that, since she’s not wearing her spectacles, she might not be able to see this herd of men more handsome than me. But when the ever-expanding crowds rise to applaud, I feel alone in their midst; it’s time to play the role of the outsider and head back home to my shadowy attic.
Her refusal to acknowledge my suffering only makes things worse. I still don’t think she really believes in my cuckoo-clock heart.
I haven’t yet explained to her that behaving the way I do, with a makeshift heart, is as dangerous as a diabetic eating chocolate éclairs from morning till night. I’m not sure I want to explain this to her, either. If Madeleine’s theories are to be believed, I’m knocking on death’s door.
Will I be able to rise to the occasion? Will my old ticker hold out?
To spice up an already fiery sauce, Miss Acacia is at least as jealous as I am. She frowns like a lioness ready to pounce the moment any kid-girl, who’s bothered to brush her hair, enters my field of vision; even outside the Ghost Train.
I was flattered at first and able to rise above such obstacles. My wings were new. I was sure she believed in me. But when I found out she thought I was a cheat, I felt more vulnerable. In the depths of my nocturnal solitude, I’ve stopped believing in myself.
That fiery sauce is threatening to turn into hedgehog soup.