Pinocchio

  “Lies, my boy, are immediately recognizable, for there are two kinds: lies that have short legs and lies that have long noses. Yours happen to be the long-nosed variety.”

  Pinocchio, wanting to hide his face in shame, tried to run from the room—but he couldn’t. His nose was so long that it wouldn’t fit through the doorway.

  18

  AS YOU might imagine, the Fairy let the puppet weep and wail for a good half hour about that nose of his that could no longer fit through the doorway. She did it to teach him a hard lesson, so that he might break the ugly habit of telling lies, which is the worst vice a child can have. But seeing him so transfigured, his eyes bulging out of their sockets in true despair, she was soon moved to pity, and then she clapped her hands together. At that signal a thousand woodpeckers flew through the window into the room. Every one of them perched on Pinocchio’s nose, and they began pecking at it so vigorously that in a few minutes that enormous, whopping nose was restored to its natural size.

  “You’re such a nice Fairy,” said the puppet, drying his eyes, “and I love you so much!”

  “I love you, too,” replied the Fairy, “and if you wish to stay with me, you can be my little brother and I your good little sister.”

  “I’d love to stay—but what about my poor daddy?”

  “I’ve thought of everything. Your daddy has already been notified, and he’ll be here before dark.”

  “Really?” shouted Pinocchio, jumping for joy. “In that case, Fairy, if it’s okay with you, I’d like to go meet him! I can’t wait to give that poor old man a kiss—he’s suffered so much on my account!”

  “Go ahead, but be careful not to get lost. Stay on the forest path and I’m sure you’ll meet him.”

  Pinocchio left, and as soon as he entered the forest he started running like a deer. But at a certain point, very near the Big Oak, he stopped when he thought he heard something in the bushes. Can you guess who he saw step out onto the road? The Fox and the Cat—the two traveling companions with whom he had dined at the Red Crayfish Inn.

  “Here is our dear Pinocchio!” shouted the Fox, hugging and kissing him. “What are you doing here?”

  “It’s a long story,” replied the puppet, “and I’ll tell you the whole thing when I have time. But you should know that the other night, when you left me alone at the inn, I ran into some murderers on the road.”

  “Murderers! Oh, my poor friend! And what did they want?”

  “They wanted to steal my gold coins.”

  “Those villains!” said the Fox.

  “Those wicked villains!” repeated the Cat.

  “But I started running,” continued the puppet, “and they were right behind me, until they caught me and hung me from a branch of that oak.”

  And Pinocchio pointed to the Big Oak, a few steps away.

  “Can you imagine anything worse?” said the Fox. “What a world we’re condemned to live in! Where will gentlemen such as ourselves find refuge?”

  As they were talking, Pinocchio noticed that the Cat’s front right leg was injured—in fact, the whole paw was missing, claws and all. So he asked, “What have you done with your paw?”

  The Cat tried to say something but became confused. The Fox quickly said, “My friend is too modest, that’s why he’s not answering. I’ll answer for him. You should know that an hour ago, on this path, we encountered an old wolf who was nearly fainting with hunger—he asked us for a handout. We didn’t have so much as a fishbone to give him, but what did my kindhearted friend do? He bit off one of his front paws and tossed it to the poor beast, so he would have something to eat.”

  As he said this, the Fox dabbed at a tear.

  Pinocchio, moved too, approached the Cat and whispered in his ear, “If all cats were like you, how lucky mice would be!”

  “And so, what are you doing in these parts?” the Fox asked the puppet.

  “I’m waiting for my daddy, who should be coming by any minute.”

  “And your gold coins?”

  “They’re still in my pocket, except the one I spent at the Red Crayfish Inn.”

  “Just think, instead of four gold pieces, you could have a thousand or two thousand by tomorrow! Why don’t you take my advice? Why don’t you go plant them in the Field of Miracles?”

  “I can’t today—I’ll go some other day.”

  “Some other day will be too late!” said the Fox.

  “Why?”

  “Because a rich man bought that field, and starting tomorrow no one will be allowed to plant money there.”

  “How far is the Field of Miracles from here?”

  “Just two kilometers. Will you come with us? You could be there in half an hour, plant your four coins right away, collect two thousand after a few minutes, and be home by evening with your pockets stuffed. Will you come with us?”

  Pinocchio hesitated a little before answering, as he thought of the good Fairy, of old Geppetto, and of the Talking Cricket’s warnings. But in the end he did what all children with thick skulls and hard hearts do: in the end, that is, with a little shake of his head, he said to the Fox and the Cat, “Let’s go then—I’m coming with you.”

  And so they went.

  After walking half the day, they came to a city called Chumptrap. Entering the city, Pinocchio saw that the streets were full of mangy dogs yawning from hunger, fleeced sheep shivering from cold, hens with no combs or wattles begging for kernels of corn, large butterflies who could no longer fly because they had sold their beautiful wings, tailless peacocks who were ashamed to be seen, and pheasants who toddled quietly about, mourning their glittering gold-and-silver feathers, now lost forever.

  From time to time there passed, through that throng of beggars and shamefaced poor, opulent carriages containing Foxes, or thieving Magpies, or nasty Birds of Prey.

  “So this Field of Miracles—where is it?” Pinocchio asked.

  “It’s just ahead.”

  Before too long, having traversed the city and passed beyond its walls, they stopped at a lonely field, one that looked more or less like every other field.

  “Here we are,” said the Fox to the puppet. “Now bend down to the ground, dig a little hole in the field with your hands, and put your gold coins in it.”

  Pinocchio obeyed. He dug the hole, he put his four remaining gold coins inside, and he covered the hole back up with dirt.

  “Now then,” said the Fox, “go over there to that canal, get a bucketful of water, and pour it on the spot where you’ve planted the coins.”

  Pinocchio went to the canal, and since he didn’t have a bucket he took off one of his old shoes, filled it with water, and poured it on the dirt that covered the coins. Then he asked, “Anything else to do?”

  “Nothing else,” replied the Fox. “Now we can go. Come back in about twenty minutes and you’ll find a sapling already pushing through the ground, its branches all loaded with coins.”

  The poor puppet, overwhelmed with happiness, thanked the Fox and the Cat a thousand times and promised them a magnificent gift.

  “We want no gifts,” replied those two ne’er-do-wells. “For us, it’s enough that we’ve taught you how to get rich without having to work hard: that makes us happy as clams.”

  With those words they waved goodbye to Pinocchio, wished him a good harvest, and went off to attend to their affairs.

  19

  BACK IN Chumptrap, the puppet counted the minutes one by one, and when he thought it must be time, he headed down the road that led to the Field of Miracles.

  His steps were quick and his heart was pounding—tick, tock, tick, tock—like a grandfather clock that’s running too fast. And as he walked he was thinking to himself, “What if, instead of a thousand coins on the branches, I found two thousand? And what if, instead of two thousand, I found five thousand? Or instead of five thousand—a hundred thousand? Oh, what a fine gentlemen I’d be then! I’d like a big palace, a thousand wooden ponies in a thousand stalls to play with, a cellar
of liqueurs and cordials, and shelves full of candied fruit, cakes, dessert breads, almond cookies, and wafers topped with whipped cream.”

  As he approached the field, full of such fancies, he paused to see if by chance he could make out any trees with coins on their branches. He couldn’t see any yet. He walked another hundred steps—still nothing. He entered the field, and he went right up to the little hole where he had buried his gold pieces: nothing. He began to worry, and forgetting the rules of etiquette he pulled his hand from his pocket and gave his head a good long scratch.

  Just then a burst of laughter shrilled in his ears, and he turned to see a large parrot sitting in a tree and grooming his few remaining feathers with his beak.

  “Why are you laughing?” asked Pinocchio in a fit of temper.

  “I’m laughing because I tickled myself under my wings as I was grooming my feathers.”

  The puppet said nothing. He went to the canal, filled his old shoe with water again, and proceeded to pour it over the dirt where he had buried his gold coins.

  Just then another burst of laughter, even more obnoxious than the first, disturbed the quiet solitude of that field.

  “For crying out loud,” shouted Pinocchio angrily, “what are you laughing at now, rude Parrot?”

  “I’m laughing at dodos who believe every silly little thing and let themselves be tricked by those who are cleverer than they are.”

  “Are you by any chance talking about me?”

  “Yes, I’m talking about you, poor Pinocchio—you who are so green as to believe money can be planted and harvested in fields, like beans or pumpkins. I too believed it once, and I’m still paying the price. I’ve come to realize (but too late!) that the only honest way to make a little money is by working with your own hands or thinking with your own head.”

  “I don’t understand,” said the puppet, already beginning to tremble with fear.

  “Fine! I’ll spell it out,” continued the Parrot. “You see, while you were in the city, the Fox and the Cat came back to this field. They took the buried gold coins and then ran like the wind. They’ll be hard to catch now!”

  Pinocchio’s jaw dropped. Not wanting to believe the Parrot’s words, he started clawing at the dirt he had just watered. He dug and he dug and he dug, making a hole so deep you could have stood a haystack in it—but the coins were no longer there.

  In desperation, he raced back to the city and made a beeline for the courthouse, to denounce to the judge those two ne’er-do-wells who had robbed him.

  The judge was an ape of the Gorilla persuasion, a great big old ape, distinguished by his advanced age, by his white beard, and especially by his gold spectacles, which had no lenses, and which he had to wear at all times on account of his runny eyes, which had troubled him for years.

  Pinocchio, in the judge’s presence, described down to the smallest detail the wicked fraud of which he had been the victim, giving the first and last names and a description of the ne’er-do-wells, and ending by demanding justice.

  The judge listened to him with great compassion, thoroughly engaged by his story. He was touched; he was moved. And when the puppet had nothing left to say, the judge reached for his bell and began waving it vigorously.

  As it rang, two mastiff dogs rushed in, dressed as gendarmes.

  Pointing to Pinocchio, the judge said to them, “That poor devil has been robbed of four gold coins—therefore seize him, and put him in jail at once.”

  The puppet, hearing this punishment befall him out of the blue, was flabbergasted and tried to protest. But the gendarmes, to avoid any pointless delays, stopped his mouth and led him off to the clink.

  And there he remained for four months: four long, long months. And he would have remained there even longer were it not for a very fortunate turn of events. You see, the young emperor who ruled the city of Chumptrap, having won a great victory over his enemies, ordered lavish public celebrations, with lights and fireworks, horse races and bicycle races—and as a sign of his great joy he even decided that the prison doors should be thrown open and all the ne’er-do-wells set free.

  “If the others are getting out of prison, I want out, too,” Pinocchio said to the jailer.

  “Not you,” said the jailer, “because you’re not a ne’er-do-well.”

  “I beg your pardon,” replied Pinocchio, “but I am so!”

  “In that case, you’re absolutely right,” said the jailer. And doffing his cap respectfully and saying goodbye, he unlocked the door and allowed Pinocchio to go free.

  20

  IMAGINE Pinocchio’s happiness when he found himself free. Without a second thought, he quickly left the city and went back down the road that led to the Fairy’s little house.

  On account of the drizzly weather, the whole road had turned into a bog, and with every step Pinocchio sank down to his knees. But he didn’t give up. Desperately wishing to see his daddy and his Little Sister with Sky-Blue Hair, he ran in leaps and bounds like a greyhound, and as he ran the mud spattered him up to his cap. All the while he was saying to himself, “So many bad things have happened to me—and I deserved them! Because I’m a stubborn, obstinate puppet, and I always do as I please, paying no attention to those who love me, whose judgment is a thousand times better than mine! But from now on, I resolve to change my life and to become a well-behaved, obedient boy—because by now I’ve seen firsthand that children, if they’re disobedient, always lose out and never do anything right. I wonder if my daddy has waited for me? Will I find him at the Fairy’s house? Poor man, it’s been so long since I’ve seen him, I’m dying to shower him with hugs and kisses! And will the Fairy forgive my bad behavior? And to think she had treated me so kindly and so lovingly—and to think that it’s thanks to her I’m still alive! Has there ever been a boy as ungrateful and as heartless as I am?”

  He was still talking to himself like that when he suddenly came to a stop, frightened, and took four steps backward.

  What do you think he saw?

  He saw, stretched across the road, a large Serpent: its skin was green, its eyes were fire, and its pointy tail was smoking like a chimney.

  You can’t imagine the puppet’s fear. He ran more than half a kilometer away before sitting down on a little pile of stones, to wait for the Serpent to go on its merry way and leave the road clear.

  He waited an hour, two hours, three hours: but the Serpent was still there, and even from a distance he could see the flame in its eyes and the column of smoke rising from the tip of its tail.

  Finally Pinocchio, screwing up his courage, approached to within a few steps of the Serpent, and in a sweet, wheedling voice said, “Excuse me, Mr. Serpent, could you do me the favor of moving a little to one side, so that I might pass?”

  He might as well have spoken to a wall. The Serpent didn’t budge.

  Pinocchio tried again, in the same voice: “You see, Mr. Serpent, I’m going home, where my daddy is waiting for me, and it’s been so long since I’ve seen him! Might you allow me, then, to continue on my way?”

  He waited for some sign of a response to his question, but no response came. Indeed the Serpent, who up to that point had seemed full of vim and vigor, became motionless and almost rigid. His eyes closed and his tail stopped smoking.

  “Could it really be dead?” said Pinocchio, rubbing his hands with glee. Without wasting a moment, he started to step across the Serpent to the far side of the road. But he had barely lifted his leg when the Serpent popped up like a spring, and the puppet, shrinking back in fear, stumbled and fell to the ground.

  And he happened to fall so awkwardly that he wound up with his head stuck in the mud and his legs sticking up in the air.

  At the sight of that puppet, with his head planted and his legs thrashing with incredible speed, the Serpent was overcome by a fit of laughter—he laughed and he laughed and he laughed, until the strain of laughing too hard caused a vein to burst in his chest. And then he really was dead.

  So Pinocchio started ru
nning again, hoping to reach the Fairy’s house before dark. But along the way, no longer able to bear the terrible pangs of hunger, he jumped into a field with the intention of picking a few bunches of muscadine grapes. If only he had never done that!

  No sooner had he reached the vines when—crack: his legs were suddenly clamped between two very sharp pieces of metal, which made him see stars.

  The poor puppet had been caught in a trap some farmers had laid for the big weasels that plagued every henhouse in the area.

  21

  PINOCCHIO, as you can imagine, began to weep and wail and plead. But all his cries were for naught, as there were no houses in sight and not a living soul on the road.

  Night fell.

  Partly because of the agony of the trap that was cutting into his shins, and partly because of his fear at finding himself alone in the dark in the middle of those fields, the puppet was on the verge of fainting. Just then he saw a firefly flit over his head, so he called to her and said, “Oh, little Firefly, would you be so kind as to save me from this torture?”

  “Poor child!” replied the Firefly, pausing, moved to pity by the sight of him. “How on earth did your legs end up in that sharp trap?”

  “I came into the field to pick two bunches of these muscadine grapes, and—”

  “But were the grapes yours?”

  “No.”

  “Well, who taught you to take other people’s belongings?”

  “I was hungry.”

  “Hunger, my boy, is not a good reason for taking things that don’t belong to us.”

  “It’s true, it’s true,” shouted Pinocchio, crying, “and I’ll never do it again.”

  At this point the conversation was interrupted by the faint noise of footsteps approaching. It was the owner of the field, coming on tiptoe to see if any of those weasels who had been eating his chickens at night had been caught in his trap.

  Great was his astonishment when, pulling a lantern out from beneath his overcoat, he saw that instead of a weasel, he had caught a boy.