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.
C HAPTER TEN
In which a walking lamppost crosses half of Europe
One day, a peculiar man heads for the Ghost Train, his sights firmly set on my job of Scareperson. That’s when the hedgehog soup gets stuck in my throat.
He’s tall, very tall. His head appears to tower over the roof of the Ghost Train. His right eye is masked by a black patch. His left eye scrutinises the Extraordinarium like a lighthouse casting its beam over the sea. It finally comes to rest on the figure of Miss Acacia. And stays there.
Brigitte, who despairs of ever seeing me pull off a show based on fear, hires him on the spot. I’m kicked out. It all happens much too quickly for my liking. I’ll have to ask Méliès to put me up in his workshop. I don’t know how the precious intimacy I share with the little singer will survive such conditions.
That evening, Miss Acacia is singing in a theatre in town. As usual, I slip into the back of the auditorium after the first song. The new Scareperson is sitting in the first row. He’s so tall that he’s blocking half the audience’s view. At any rate, I can’t see a thing.
This new eye fixed on Miss Acacia makes me stew in my shirt. The man doesn’t turn off his revolving light once during the entire evening, not even after the concert is over. I’d like to tell him to get lost, that great big walking lamppost. But I hold back. My heart, on the other hand, doesn’t waste any time shouting itself hoarse, singing la in a minor key and decidedly out of tune. The whole auditorium turns round to laugh. Some of the audience members ask how I produce such strange noises, then one of them calls out:
‘I recognise you! You’re the guy who makes everybody laugh on the Ghost Train!’
‘As of yesterday, I don’t work there any more.’
‘Ah, sorry . . . I liked your gag, it was very funny.’
I could be back in the school playground. All the confidence I’ve gained in Miss Acacia’s arms has taken flight. I’m being slowly dismantled.
After the show, it’s hard not to open up to my chosen one, who retorts:
‘That great oaf? Pahhh . . .’
‘He looks hypnotised by you.’
‘You’re the one who’s always talking about trust, and now you’re kicking up a fuss about that one-eyed pirate over there?’
‘I’m not blaming you. I can see that he’s the one who’s circling you like a shark.’
The ground’s gone from under my feet. Much as I trust her, I’ve no doubt this pirate will do everything in his power to seduce her. There’s no mistaking certain looks, even those cast by a single eye. In fact that only makes it worse, because the intensity is doubled.
But just when the hedgehog soup gets too fiery to swallow, the great one-eyed oaf comes over to us and says:
‘Don’t you recognise me?’
As he utters these words, a long shudder runs down my spine. It’s a familiar feeling, one I haven’t experienced since school, and I detest it.
‘Joe! What on earth are you doing here?’ Miss Acacia exclaims, embarrassed.
‘I’ve been on a long journey to find you, both of you, a very long journey . . .’
His diction is slow and
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.
C HAPTER TEN
In which a walking lamppost crosses half of Europe
One day, a peculiar man heads for the Ghost Train, his sights firmly set on my job of Scareperson. That’s when the hedgehog soup gets stuck in my throat.
He’s tall, very tall. His head appears to tower over the roof of the Ghost Train. His right eye is masked by a black patch. His left eye scrutinises the Extraordinarium like a lighthouse casting its beam over the sea. It finally comes to rest on the figure of Miss Acacia. And stays there.
Brigitte, who despairs of ever seeing me pull off a show based on fear, hires him on the spot. I’m kicked out. It all happens much too quickly for my liking. I’ll have to ask Méliès to put me up in his workshop. I don’t know how the precious intimacy I share with the little singer will survive such conditions.
That evening, Miss Acacia is singing in a theatre in town. As usual, I slip into the back of the auditorium after the first song. The new Scareperson is sitting in the first row. He’s so tall that he’s blocking half the audience’s view. At any rate, I can’t see a thing.
This new eye fixed on Miss Acacia makes me stew in my shirt. The man doesn’t turn off his revolving light once during the entire evening, not even after the concert is over. I’d like to tell him to get lost, that great big walking lamppost. But I hold back. My heart, on the other hand, doesn’t waste any time shouting itself hoarse, singing la in a minor key and decidedly out of tune. The whole auditorium turns round to laugh. Some of the audience members ask how I produce such strange noises, then one of them calls out:
‘I recognise you! You’re the guy who makes everybody laugh on the Ghost Train!’
‘As of yesterday, I don’t work there any more.’
‘Ah, sorry . . . I liked your gag, it was very funny.’
I could be back in the school playground. All the confidence I’ve gained in Miss Acacia’s arms has taken flight. I’m being slowly dismantled.
After the show, it’s hard not to open up to my chosen one, who retorts:
‘That great oaf? Pahhh . . .’
‘He looks hypnotised by you.’
‘You’re the one who’s always talking about trust, and now you’re kicking up a fuss about that one-eyed pirate over there?’
‘I’m not blaming you. I can see that he’s the one who’s circling you like a shark.’
The ground’s gone from under my feet. Much as I trust her, I’ve no doubt this pirate will do everything in his power to seduce her. There’s no mistaking certain looks, even those cast by a single eye. In fact that only makes it worse, because the intensity is doubled.
But just when the hedgehog soup gets too fiery to swallow, the great one-eyed oaf comes over to us and says:
‘Don’t you recognise me?’
As he utters these words, a long shudder runs down my spine. It’s a familiar feeling, one I haven’t experienced since school, and I detest it.
‘Joe! What on earth are you doing here?’ Miss Acacia exclaims, embarrassed.
‘I’ve been on a long journey to find you, both of you, a very long journey . . .’
His diction is slow and
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