Pinocchio (2 page)

And besides, how else can we explain its universal appeal? In a 2008 Milan exhibition devoted to various editions of
Pinocchio
, I found 242 Italian editions (I don't know if that was all of them, but in any case it was fascinating to see how the story had inspired so many great illustrators). Even more interesting was the display of translations into other languages. I'd guess that before the emergence of international copyright conventions there must have been countless pirated versions that have fallen through the cracks, yet the Milan exhibit had 135 translations on display, representing not just the major European languages but also Korean, Swahili, Chinese, Indonesian, Japanese, Amharic, and Latin (yes:
Pinocolus
, rendered by mild-mannered ecclesiasts, to educate the young). There were sixty or so from English alone, demonstrating how this simplest of texts continually provides new challenges to translators and illustrators.

When a book creates a myth (though it must be admitted that Disney contributed to the myth's creation), that myth will inevitably be manifested in various naïve and degenerate devotional forms. The Milan exhibition contained countless versions of and variations on
Pinocchio
: comic books, 325 sequels in Italian alone (including
Son of Pinocchio
,
Pinocchio's Grandmother
,
Pinocchio Drives a Car
, and
Pinocchio the Diver
), four hundred postcards, ten board games, hundreds upon hundreds of figurines, fourteen calendars, ten musical compositions, forty posters, forty records, and several hundred miscellaneous objects (wooden toys, dolls, tins, glassware, celluloid rattles, little Pinocchios made of cloth or plastic or rubber or resin, jigsaw puzzles, ceramic figures, cutouts, decks of cards…). In the history of pop religions, I think only Mickey Mouse has surpassed this level of success.

But beyond the myth, there remains the book, with its delightful simplicity. I'm grateful to Geoffrey Brock for bringing it once more (upon a time) to our attention.

—U
MBERTO
E
CO

O
NCE UPON
a time there was …

“A king!” my little readers will say at once.

No, children, you're wrong. Once upon a time there was a piece of wood.

It wasn't a fancy piece of wood, just a regular woodpile log, the kind you might put in your stove or fireplace to stoke a fire and heat your room.

I don't know how it happened, but the fact is that one fine day this piece of wood turned up in the workshop of an old carpenter, Master Antonio by name, though everyone called him Master Cherry, on account of the tip of his nose, which was always shiny and purple, like a ripe cherry.

Master Cherry was delighted to see that piece of wood. He rubbed his hands together with satisfaction and mumbled in a soft voice, “This log has turned up at a good moment. I think I'll use it to make me a table leg.”

Wasting no time, he picked up his sharp hatchet to start removing the log's bark and trimming it down, but just as he was about to strike the first blow, his arm froze in midair, because he heard a little high-pitched voice pleading, “Don't hit me too hard!”

Just imagine dear old Master Cherry's reaction!

His bewildered eyes roamed the room to see where on earth that little voice had come from, but he didn't see anyone! He looked under his workbench—nobody there. He looked inside a cabinet he always kept shut—nobody there. He looked in his basket of wood shavings and sawdust—nobody there. He even opened his workshop door to take a look in the street—nobody there. So what was going on?

“I see,” he said then, laughing and scratching his wig. “Clearly I must have imagined that little voice myself. Now let's get back to work.”

And picking the hatchet back up, he dealt the piece of wood a heavy blow.

“Ouch! You hurt me!” cried the same little voice, bitterly.

This time Master Cherry was struck dumb: his eyes bugged out of his head in fright, his mouth gaped, his tongue dangled down to his chin, like those grotesque faces carved on fountains. When he regained the use of speech, he said, trembling and stammering with fear, “That little voice that said
ouch
, where could it have come from? Because there's not a living soul in this place. Could this piece of wood have somehow learned to cry and complain like a little boy? I can't believe that. Look at this log—it's a piece of firewood, like any other. If I threw it on the fire I could bring a pot of beans to a boil. So what's going on? Could someone be hidden inside it? If anyone's hiding in there, tough luck for him. I'll show him what's what!”

And as he spoke he grabbed that poor piece of wood with both hands and began whacking it mercilessly against the walls of the room.

Then he listened, to see if he could hear a little voice complaining. He waited two minutes, and no voice; five minutes, and no voice; ten minutes, and no voice!

“I see,” he said then, forcing a laugh and ruffling his wig. “Clearly I must have imagined it myself, that little voice that said
ouch
. Now let's get back to work.”

And because by this point he was really quite afraid, he began humming to himself to screw up his courage.

Meanwhile, leaving the hatchet aside, he picked up his plane, intending to scrape that piece of wood and make it smooth, but as he was planing back and forth, he heard the same little voice, which laughed and said, “Stop it! You're tickling my tummy!”

This time poor Master Cherry fell down as if struck by lightning. When he opened his eyes again, he found himself sitting on the floor.

His face seemed misshapen, and even the tip of his nose, which was nearly always purple, had turned bright blue with fright.

J
UST THEN
there was a knock on his door.

“Come on in,” said the carpenter, still too weak to stand.

In walked a spry old man. His name was Geppetto, but the neighborhood kids, when they wanted to make him boil with rage, called him by the nickname Corn Head, since his yellow wig looked like a mound of cornmeal mush.

Geppetto had a terrible temper. Heaven help whoever called him Corn Head! He turned instantly into a wild animal and there was no controlling him.

“Good day, Master Antonio,” Geppetto said. “What are you doing down there on the floor?”

“I'm teaching the ants to count.”

“Well, good for you!”

“What brings you to my shop, my dear Geppetto?”

“My legs. Actually, Master Antonio, I've come to ask a favor.”

“Here I am, at your service,” the carpenter replied, rising to his knees.

“This morning an idea popped into my head.”

“Let's hear it.”

“I thought I'd make myself a nice wooden puppet, I mean a really amazing one, one that can dance and fence, and do flips. Then I'd travel the world with it, earning my crust of bread and cup of wine as I went. What do you think?”

“Good idea, Corn Head!” shouted that same little voice, seemingly out of nowhere.

Hearing himself called Corn Head, dear Geppetto turned as red as a hot pepper, and approaching the carpenter he said furiously, “Why are you insulting me?”

“Who's insulting you?”

“You called me Corn Head!”

“It wasn't me.”

“Oh, I suppose you're saying it was
me
? I say it was you.”

“Was not.”

“Was too.”

“Was not!”

“Was too!”

As tempers flared, words gave way to deeds, and they scratched, bit, and battered each other as they fought.

When the fight was over, Master Antonio found Geppetto's yellow wig in his hands, and Geppetto realized that he had the carpenter's gray wig in his mouth.

“Give me back my wig!” shouted Master Antonio.

“And you give me mine back, and we'll make peace.”

Returning each other's wigs, the two old men shook hands and swore to remain good friends for the rest of their lives.

“So, dear Geppetto,” said the carpenter, as a peace offering, “what is that favor you wanted to ask?”

“I'd like a little wood to make my puppet with—will you give me some?”

Master Antonio, quite happily, went straight to his workbench to fetch the piece of wood that had given him such a fright. But just as he was about to give it to his friend, the piece of wood gave a violent jerk and, breaking free from his grasp, banged against the withered shins of poor Geppetto.

“Oh! So that's how you present your gifts, is it? You've nearly crippled me!”

“I swear it wasn't me!”

“Then I suppose it was me!”

“It was that piece of wood that hit you.”

“I know it was the wood, but you're the one who threw it at my legs!”

“I didn't throw it!”

“Liar!”

“Geppetto, don't insult me, or else I'll call you Corn Head!”

“Donkey!”

“Corn Head!”

“Jackass!”

“Corn Head!”

“Ugly ape!”

“Corn Head!”

On hearing himself called Corn Head for the third time, Geppetto flew into a blind rage and hurled himself upon the carpenter, and they went at each other tooth and nail.

When the battle had ended, Master Antonio had two more scratches on his nose, and Geppetto had two fewer buttons on his vest. Having thus evened the score, they shook hands and swore to remain good friends for the rest of their lives.

And so Geppetto took his nice piece of wood, thanked Master Antonio, and went hobbling home.

G
EPPETTO
lived in a small ground-floor room, lit by a single window. The furnishings could not have been plainer: an old chair, a ramshackle bed, and a table that was falling apart. On the rear wall you could see a fireplace with a glowing fire, but it was a painted fire, and above it was a painted pot, which boiled merrily and gave off steam that really looked like steam.

As soon as he got home, Geppetto gathered his tools and got ready to carve and construct his puppet.

“What name should I give him?” he said to himself. “I think I'll call him Pinocchio. That's a lucky name. I once knew an entire family by that name: the father was Pinocchio, the mother was Pinocchia, and the kids were all Pinocchio Juniors, and they got on just fine. The richest one was a beggar.”

Now that he had a name for his puppet, he set to work in earnest, carving the hair, then the forehead, then the eyes.

Imagine his surprise when, as soon as the eyes were finished, he saw that they could move and were staring straight at him.

Geppetto didn't like the way those eyes looked at him, and he said in an angry tone, “Wicked wooden eyes, why are you watching me?”

No answer.

Then after the eyes, he made the nose. But no sooner was the nose finished than it started to grow. And it grew and grew and grew, until in a few minutes it had become a huge, nearly endless nose.

Poor Geppetto kept struggling to trim it back down to size, but the more he trimmed it down, the longer that impertinent nose became.

After the nose, he made the mouth.

Before the mouth was even finished, it began to laugh and mock him.

“Stop laughing!” said Geppetto, annoyed. But it was like talking to a wall.

“I said stop laughing!” he yelled in a threatening tone.

The mouth stopped laughing but stuck its tongue all the way out.

Not wanting to damage his own handiwork, Geppetto pretended not to notice and kept on working.

After the mouth, he carved the chin, the neck, the shoulders, the torso, the arms, and the hands.

No sooner had he finished the hands than he felt his wig being snatched from his head. And what do you think he saw when he looked up? He saw his yellow wig in the puppet's hand.

“Pinocchio! Give me back my wig at once!”

But Pinocchio, instead of giving the wig back, set it on his own head. He was half swallowed beneath it.

This insolent, mocking behavior made Geppetto feel more miserable and wretched than he had ever felt in his life, and turning to Pinocchio he said, “What a scamp of a son! You're not even finished yet and already you're treating your father with disrespect. That's bad, my boy, bad!”

And he wiped a tear from his eye.

The legs and feet were still left.

When Geppetto finished making the feet, one of them kicked him in the nose.

“I deserve it!” he said to himself. “I should have known—now it's too late!”

Then he lifted the puppet from under the arms and set him down on the ground so as to make him walk.

Pinocchio's legs were stiff and he didn't know how to move them, so Geppetto led him by the hand, teaching him to put one foot in front of the other.

When his legs loosened up a bit, Pinocchio began to walk by himself and then to run around the room, until he slipped through the door, jumped into the street, and ran off.