The Boy with the Cuckoo-Clock Heart by Mathias Malzieu

there.’
    ‘Scaring is just another form of seduction . . . and as far as seducing people is concerned, it looks like you’re doing a pretty good job.’
    I want to tell her I’ve got a prosthesis instead of a heart and I don’t know anything about love. I want her to understand that I’m feeling these emotions for the first time. Yes, I know I’ve had a few lessons in romantic magic with an illusionist, but that was just to help me find her. I want to seduce her without her mistaking me for a skirt-chaser. It’s a delicate balancing act. So all I say is:
    ‘I’d like to hold you in my arms.’
    Silence, a new sulky doll pout, eyes shut.
    ‘We could keep talking about it afterwards, but can we hold each other first?’
    Miss Acacia lets out an ‘all right’ so tiny it barely escapes her lips. A tender silence falls over our gestures. She teeters towards me. Close up, she’s even more beautiful than her shadow – and more intimidating too. I pray to some unknown deity to keep my clock from chiming.
    Our arms interlace and become one. I’m embarrassed by my clock, and I don’t dare crush my chest against hers. I don’t want to scare her with my bric-à-brac heart. But how can I avoid frightening this little bird of a woman when my sharp clock hands jut out from my lungs? My clockwork panic whirrs into action again.
    I’m avoiding her with my left side, as if I had a glass heart. This makes our dance more complicated, especially as she appears to be a tango champion. The volume of my ticktock rises from inside me; Madeleine’s warnings flash through my mind. What if I die before I’ve even kissed Miss Acacia? I feel like I’m jumping into the unknown: joy of flying, fear of going splat.
    Her fingers are languid behind my neck and my own are pleasantly lost somewhere beneath her shoulder blades. I try to solder my dreams to reality, but I’m working without a protective mask. Our mouths draw closer. Time slows, until it has almost ground to a halt. Our lips take over, in the softest relay race in the world; they mingle, delicately and intensely. It feels as though her tongue is a sparrow gently landing on mine; curiously, she tastes of strawberries.
    I watch as she hides her huge eyes under the parasols of her eyelids. I feel like a weightlifter, with the Himalayas on my left arm and the Rockies on my right; Atlas is a hard-working dwarf by comparison. A giant wave of joy engulfs me. The train’s ghosts echo with each of our gestures. We’re wrapped inside the sound made by her heels tapping against the floor.
    ‘Silence!’ shrieks a vinegary voice.
    Brusquely, we pull apart. It seems we’ve woken the Loch Ness Monster. We don’t dare breathe.
    ‘Is that you, midget? What are you up to on the premises at this hour?’
    ‘I’m trying to find new ways of scaring people.’
    ‘Well, find them in silence. And don’t touch my brand new skulls!’
    ‘Yes, yes . . .’
    Terrified, Miss Acacia buries herself deeper in my arms. Time has come to a standstill and I’ve got no desire for it to pick up its normal pace again. I even forget about keeping my heart at a distance. Laying her head against my chest, she suddenly makes a face.
    ‘What’s under there? It’s hurting me!’
    I don’t answer, I just break out in a cold sweat. She’s found me out. I consider lying, making something up, faking it, but there’s so much sincerity in her question that I can’t bring myself to do that. I open my shirt slowly, button by button. The clock appears, and the tick-tock resounds more loudly. I await my sentencing. She brings her hand near, murmuring:
    ‘What is it?’
    The compassion in her voice is enough to make me want to be an invalid for the rest of my days, just to have her as a nurse by my side. The cuckoo begins to sing. She jumps. Turning the key, I whisper:
    ‘I’m sorry. It’s my secret. I wanted to tell you about it sooner, but I was scared of frightening you for good.’
    I explain to