Pinocchio in Venice Part 5

"Your nose! nose! It seems to be -!" It seems to be -!"

"Ah, it's - it's a cold!" he mutters confusedly, his eyes watering. He turns his head away in embarra.s.sment, pulls his hands back, hides his nose in his sleeve. "I'm sorry! Nasty thing, don't want you to catch it!"

She seems to be giggling behind him, but he can't be certain, and he's too ashamed to look. He ducks his head. What was he thinking - exposing himself - in his condition - and if she saw the rest -! He is wheezing again, his chest racked anew by a fit of coughing. "You sure you don't want to come home with me?" she asks, rising from the pew, her jaws snapping at the gum once more. "I could put an extra blanket on -"

"No! A friend! I have to wait!" he gasps between the painful spasms, keeping his offending part tucked between his knees.

"Well, can't blame a girl for - fllupp! POP! fllupp! POP!- trying. It was terrif seeing you again, prof. You're really something else!" else!" And - "Peace!" - she is gone. And - "Peace!" - she is gone.

"Wait -!" he whispers and, twisting round, catches just a glimpse of her tightly denimed posteriors disappearing provocatively out the door. "B-Bluebell -? Miss -?!" Miss -?!" Too late. He has lost her, lost her forever! Of course, he cautions himself, turning back, shriveling once more into his terrible debilities, it's no catastrophe, insolent uncouth creature that she is, frivolous and disrespectful, no, good riddance, his final hours can be better spent without suffering yet another gum-popping American barbarian, her c.o.c.kiness exceeded only by her ignorance, though she is not completely stupid, it must be said, brash, garrulous, but also fresh and winsome in her boorish way, blasphemous to be sure, impudent, a shamelessly wanton creature no doubt, but warm-hearted (he knows, he has been there), generous, compa.s.sionate, and willing to learn, yes, he could teach her, he has already changed her life, has he not, she said so, the soil is prepared, as it were, it's never too late - and think of it! a hot bath! What does he want to do, go back to that stinking boat yard? He finds he has already staggered to his feet. In the painting behind the altar, if his beclouded eyes do not deceive him, the Virgin Mary has opened her bodice to give baby Jesus and all the cherubs and angels crowding round a suck and is peering down now past her hiked skirts at Saint Sebastian, struggling in agony against his bonds beneath her but his eyes to heaven. And then (is something dripping on his face -?! what is she Too late. He has lost her, lost her forever! Of course, he cautions himself, turning back, shriveling once more into his terrible debilities, it's no catastrophe, insolent uncouth creature that she is, frivolous and disrespectful, no, good riddance, his final hours can be better spent without suffering yet another gum-popping American barbarian, her c.o.c.kiness exceeded only by her ignorance, though she is not completely stupid, it must be said, brash, garrulous, but also fresh and winsome in her boorish way, blasphemous to be sure, impudent, a shamelessly wanton creature no doubt, but warm-hearted (he knows, he has been there), generous, compa.s.sionate, and willing to learn, yes, he could teach her, he has already changed her life, has he not, she said so, the soil is prepared, as it were, it's never too late - and think of it! a hot bath! What does he want to do, go back to that stinking boat yard? He finds he has already staggered to his feet. In the painting behind the altar, if his beclouded eyes do not deceive him, the Virgin Mary has opened her bodice to give baby Jesus and all the cherubs and angels crowding round a suck and is peering down now past her hiked skirts at Saint Sebastian, struggling in agony against his bonds beneath her but his eyes to heaven. And then (is something dripping on his face -?! what is she doing doing - -?!) the holy martyr's nose begins to grow! Straight up! Oh my G.o.d! Even before the arrow in the saint's groin starts to tw.a.n.g obscenely, the old professor is out of his pew and scrambling stiff-kneed up the aisle. the holy martyr's nose begins to grow! Straight up! Oh my G.o.d! Even before the arrow in the saint's groin starts to tw.a.n.g obscenely, the old professor is out of his pew and scrambling stiff-kneed up the aisle. "Miss -!" "Miss -!" he croaks. he croaks. "WAIT FOR ME -!" "WAIT FOR ME -!"

"What -?! Is the old sinner going to chase after that poor bambina, that little chick in the tow with milk at her mouth still?" comes an indignant voice, quavering eerily, from behind the organ. "Is he defiling my tomb and sanctuary with thoughts of pederasty? pederasty? Has the wretch no dignity? Has the wretch no dignity? Has he no shame?" Has he no shame?"

"Beware of men who make public profession of virtue but behave like perfect scoundrels!" scoundrels!" thunders a hollow voice above him on the left: the Bishop of Cyprus, he sees with horror, is sitting straight up, rigid and stony-eyed, blood dripping from the corners of his mouth as though he might have bit the host with his teeth. "It just goes to prove that a naughty person retains his evil character even if his outward appearance is altered!" And - thunders a hollow voice above him on the left: the Bishop of Cyprus, he sees with horror, is sitting straight up, rigid and stony-eyed, blood dripping from the corners of his mouth as though he might have bit the host with his teeth. "It just goes to prove that a naughty person retains his evil character even if his outward appearance is altered!" And - crash! crash! - he falls back onto his stone bier again. - he falls back onto his stone bier again.

"Let me give you some advice!" trumpets a voice from above, and others pick up the theme: "I want to give you some advice!" "Give you advice!" advice!" "Advice!" "Advice!" "Advice!" "Advice!" The entire church, as he struggles up the aisle (nothing's working right, it was his old babbo who taught him how to walk, he could use another lesson now), echoes and resounds with clamorous counsel: "Do not go for things bald-headed, woodenpate! Old codgers who, in an excess of pa.s.sion, rush into affairs without precaution, rush blindly into their own destruction!" "Regrets are useless, b.o.o.by, once the damage is done!" The entire church, as he struggles up the aisle (nothing's working right, it was his old babbo who taught him how to walk, he could use another lesson now), echoes and resounds with clamorous counsel: "Do not go for things bald-headed, woodenpate! Old codgers who, in an excess of pa.s.sion, rush into affairs without precaution, rush blindly into their own destruction!" "Regrets are useless, b.o.o.by, once the damage is done!"

"Stop it! Stop it!" Stop it!" he squawks, wheezing and snorting. He would clap his hands over his ears if he still had any ears and if he didn't need both hands for forward progress. The rose and white marble squares of the checkered floor seem to be on springs, rising and falling erratically, making him climb over some and out of others. Some drop away completely to reveal heaps of bones and moldering bishop's hats far below, forcing him to circle around, grasping pews and benches which are also on the move, sliding apart and then together again with great clashing noises like monstrous gates. "Woe to those blockheads whose minds are so beclouded by monkey business that they do not perceive the dangers that beset them!" cry the lugubrious voices, which seem to be coming from another world. Terrible odors, like hung game going off, rise up from the yawning chasms opening up in the floor. "Woe to those wicked ragam.u.f.fins who run away from their homeland! They will never do any good in this world!" "Woe to those who do not wait for their friends!" "They will repent bitterly!" "They will lose the bone of their neck!" he squawks, wheezing and snorting. He would clap his hands over his ears if he still had any ears and if he didn't need both hands for forward progress. The rose and white marble squares of the checkered floor seem to be on springs, rising and falling erratically, making him climb over some and out of others. Some drop away completely to reveal heaps of bones and moldering bishop's hats far below, forcing him to circle around, grasping pews and benches which are also on the move, sliding apart and then together again with great clashing noises like monstrous gates. "Woe to those blockheads whose minds are so beclouded by monkey business that they do not perceive the dangers that beset them!" cry the lugubrious voices, which seem to be coming from another world. Terrible odors, like hung game going off, rise up from the yawning chasms opening up in the floor. "Woe to those wicked ragam.u.f.fins who run away from their homeland! They will never do any good in this world!" "Woe to those who do not wait for their friends!" "They will repent bitterly!" "They will lose the bone of their neck!" "They will pay through the NOSE!" "They will pay through the NOSE!" From the ceiling above, where Esther and her uncle Mordecai are subverting the reign of Xerxes, forestalling one ma.s.sacre and launching another, come wild whinnies and a glittery blitz, as he fights his way over the undulating floor and through the crashing gates, of brightly gilded horse t.u.r.ds. From the ceiling above, where Esther and her uncle Mordecai are subverting the reign of Xerxes, forestalling one ma.s.sacre and launching another, come wild whinnies and a glittery blitz, as he fights his way over the undulating floor and through the crashing gates, of brightly gilded horse t.u.r.ds. Splat! SPLAT! Splat! SPLAT! they fall, bursting around him like thrown pies. "Eh, big shot! Pezzo grosso!" "Mister n.o.bel Laureate!" "Where do you think you are going?" Books are thrown at him from the Nuns' Choir, skulls rattle underfoot like bowling b.a.l.l.s, arrows fly, the hanging bra.s.s lamps swing, clinking and clanking like m.u.f.fled bells, the organ doors flap, the martyred saint screams in his reduplicated pain, masonry rains down, the whole church seems to be splitting and cracking and threatening him with destruction! "Eh, furfante! Vagabondo! Ragazzaccio!" Splut! Crash! they fall, bursting around him like thrown pies. "Eh, big shot! Pezzo grosso!" "Mister n.o.bel Laureate!" "Where do you think you are going?" Books are thrown at him from the Nuns' Choir, skulls rattle underfoot like bowling b.a.l.l.s, arrows fly, the hanging bra.s.s lamps swing, clinking and clanking like m.u.f.fled bells, the organ doors flap, the martyred saint screams in his reduplicated pain, masonry rains down, the whole church seems to be splitting and cracking and threatening him with destruction! "Eh, furfante! Vagabondo! Ragazzaccio!" Splut! Crash! Ka-pok! Ka-pok! "Come back! Come back, you little ninny!" "Come back! Come back, you little ninny!"

As he drags himself past the font of holy water near the door, the tumult now fading behind him, the carved Christ's halo falls off and, ringing like a coin, rolls around on the stone floor in front of him. "I say, pick that up for me, would you, Pinenut old man? That's a good chap! I can't seem to move my arms." As, still on his hands and knees, he s.n.a.t.c.hes at it, the hung Christ dips a bit lower and, chin at his navel, adds in a whisper: "You know, from one woodenhead to another, old boy, let me give you a little useful advice -"

"No!" he screams, staggering to his feet. he screams, staggering to his feet. "Why is everybody always trying to give me advice?!" "Why is everybody always trying to give me advice?!" And he flings the halo into the suddenly stilled and dusty church: it sails like a Frisbee straight to the front where, in the deep hush, it blasts away a jar of pink and yellow carnations, startling an old bespectacled nun dusting the altar. She squeaks like a mouse caught in a trap and drops her feather duster, crossing herself in terror. As he turns to flee, the talking Christ is counseling him to "calm down, let things take their own course, dear fellow, let the water run along its own slope, as we say," whereupon, as though cued, the font tips over, threatening to inundate the church - he splashes through the flood and out the door, a fresh chorus of "Let me give you some advice!" ringing in his aching head like canned laughter. And he flings the halo into the suddenly stilled and dusty church: it sails like a Frisbee straight to the front where, in the deep hush, it blasts away a jar of pink and yellow carnations, startling an old bespectacled nun dusting the altar. She squeaks like a mouse caught in a trap and drops her feather duster, crossing herself in terror. As he turns to flee, the talking Christ is counseling him to "calm down, let things take their own course, dear fellow, let the water run along its own slope, as we say," whereupon, as though cued, the font tips over, threatening to inundate the church - he splashes through the flood and out the door, a fresh chorus of "Let me give you some advice!" ringing in his aching head like canned laughter.

13. THE TALKING CRICKET.

He's caged. As he ought to be. As Jiminy once said: You b.u.t.tered your bread, now sleep in it. People pa.s.sing by glance at him, stuffed there, shivering and sniveling, in the metal rubbish basket, and cast upon him weary expressions of pity mixed with undisguised loathing and contempt. They dump garbage on him, hang lost mittens on his nose. No more than he deserves. No more! Rushing baldheaded into this bizarre adventure, blind to dangers, deaf to advice, he has, just as all those madhouse voices prophesied, lost his neck bone in this one and all else besides. A lifetime of virtue, of self-conquest and in-spite-of's, an heroic career of the most rigid discipline and soberest endeavor, with all its books, honors, degrees, and endowed chairs, is no protection against the wild whims of senect.i.tude, extremity's giddy last-minute bravado. Ah, Bluebell, Bluebell, you silly wise-cracking dumb-blonde murderess! he thinks, hruff hruffing and hawff hawffing and sucking up cold strangulated breaths that may well be his last. What have you done to me now? now?

All around him, even as his own devastated trash-bagged limbs petrify, he can hear through his wheezing a fluttering, pattering, pounding, and swishing, as the city, shaking itself, crawls out from under its strange white blanket to reinstate its restless habits of scurry and exchange. The storm is letting up. Shutters are grinding open. There are choruses of "Ciao!" "Ciao!" and bursts of laughter, the trampling of booted feet. Nearby, in the middle of this broad open campo, the wooden news kiosk has opened up, spreading its wings like a traveling puppet show, delivery boys are rolling heavy blue and green metal carts past the red benches, and the tarpaulins over the greengrocer stalls are being flung back, pitching clouds of snow into the glittery air. At the far end, a musical group of some sort seems to be setting up at the foot of a truncated bell tower with snow-frosted shrubs growing out the top, the only evidence remaining of whatever church once gave its name to this square. He hears the loose clang of cymbals being unpacked and a squeal like that of an overblown fife when a loudspeaker is plugged in. Crowds are gathering, mostly students with bookbags, housewives pushing strollers. The windows of cafes are steaming up, taunting him with the offer of hot coffee and grappa which he cannot, from his wire crib, alas, even though he has the cash for it, accept. As though to taunt him, on a door within reach of his failing sight, someone has spray-painted: "Only liberty is necessary; everything else is only important." Snow is being swept from shop entrances, sawdust spread. Not far away, as he knows, men in bright-colored slickers are sc.r.a.ping clean the bridges, shoveling the snow and ice into the ca.n.a.ls to be flushed to the sea. Earlier, two of them, laughing, lifted him over one of the bridges when he'd been brought to a standstill halfway up, his knees refusing to bend enough to get his toe up past the next step.

"Ha Ha! Che brutta figura! Poor little c.o.c.k's lost all his feathers!" exclaimed one.

"He's so light," laughed the other, "it's more like the feathers have lost their c.o.c.k!"

That was his last bridge. Before that, how many, he doesn't know. He was in a kind of delirium. Fever probably. What's left of his flesh must be literally burning itself away. It was cold when he staggered out of the bedlam of that august temple gone suddenly berserk, colder than he'd remembered, and snow was being whipped about still in the sharp wind, obscuring the high bridge in front of the church, only meters away, his first obstacle, but he was on fire with terror, desire, and the hot flush of his infirmity, and the bitterness of the weather seemed only to invigorate him. Up the bridge he went and down, escaping and pursuing at the same time, hobbling to be sure, cracking and splintering and creaking with the cold, hacking and snorting, half blind, but on the move, his withered limbs at times outflung, tossed convulsively awry, to the casual onlooker appearing no doubt a bit whimsical and unstrung, but still clattering resolutely on down the narrow calle on the other side, feeling indeed like something of an athlete, a centenarian version of that s.p.u.n.ky youngster who could leap ditches and hedgerows at a single bound, now with each lurching step making about as much progress laterally as forward perhaps, and having to improvise rather desperately at corners and bridges, but feeling that same exhilaration of the blood, that delicious conflict of pain and pleasure that characterizes a race well run, and keeping in mind all the while his n.o.ble goal - he will teach teach her! she will become his last great project! his pupil, his protege, perhaps even his secretary, biographer, curator, and literary executrix! - as well as the more compelling images of a hot bath, a warm bed, clean sheets, and a pillowy blue hollow wherein to tuck his frostbitten nose. her! she will become his last great project! his pupil, his protege, perhaps even his secretary, biographer, curator, and literary executrix! - as well as the more compelling images of a hot bath, a warm bed, clean sheets, and a pillowy blue hollow wherein to tuck his frostbitten nose.

Which was what, having no other guide, he had had to trust on that mad chase, following wherever it might lead, sniffing the crisp air for traces of her powdery warmth, her slept-in jeans, the tang of bubble gum and nail polish - and, at the crest of a short arching bridge, he was rewarded suddenly by a glimpse of azure blue, a distant flicker of startling color within the white blur, vanishing as quickly as seen, but which could only have been her sweater (had she taken off her windbreaker? was it a signal? a tease? was she walking backwards? he couldn't stop to think about this), and thereafter he seemed to see it more often, on a bridge, at the edge of a riva or the end of a little calle, fleeting and elusive as his famous last chapter, there and not there, yet drawing him on, though he couldn't be sure he saw it, saw anything anything for that matter, his vision, never the best, now hazed by icy tears and sweat and the crazy pounding of his heart in his temples and sinuses. So absorbed was he with the object of his pursuit that, as had often happened in the middle of books he was writing, he failed to notice the weariness, the physical and emotional exhaustion, that was rapidly overtaking him, overtaking him once and for all, his mind racing far ahead, abandoning his body, leaving it to drag along behind as best it could until it stopped. Which, inevitably, it did. Halfway up a bridge. He, who was very much afraid of the ridiculous, was then, with fearful ridicule, lifted laughingly to the other side. And stood for a time just where he was deposited, intent only on not adding to his indignity by falling over. It was not easy. Had anyone so much as sneezed nearby, it would have toppled him. And, straining thus to stay upright, he inadvertently pushed out a tiny gust of flatulence which escaped him like the shrill little peep of a wooden whistle. for that matter, his vision, never the best, now hazed by icy tears and sweat and the crazy pounding of his heart in his temples and sinuses. So absorbed was he with the object of his pursuit that, as had often happened in the middle of books he was writing, he failed to notice the weariness, the physical and emotional exhaustion, that was rapidly overtaking him, overtaking him once and for all, his mind racing far ahead, abandoning his body, leaving it to drag along behind as best it could until it stopped. Which, inevitably, it did. Halfway up a bridge. He, who was very much afraid of the ridiculous, was then, with fearful ridicule, lifted laughingly to the other side. And stood for a time just where he was deposited, intent only on not adding to his indignity by falling over. It was not easy. Had anyone so much as sneezed nearby, it would have toppled him. And, straining thus to stay upright, he inadvertently pushed out a tiny gust of flatulence which escaped him like the shrill little peep of a wooden whistle.

"Ho! Thou Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied forth!" declaimed a voice that seemed to come from the brick wall above him. wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied forth!" declaimed a voice that seemed to come from the brick wall above him.

"Who is it that speaks so eloquently?"

"Not who is it, but what? what? It looks like a holdover from the last plague!" It looks like a holdover from the last plague!"

"Or else something the boss might have had for lunch! Porca Madonna! If I had a stomach, I'd be throwing up!"

He was standing, he saw through his frozen tears, in front of a maskmaker's workshop, its entrance and windows lined with the painted faces of mythical creatures, wild animals, goblins and fairies, jesters, plague victims, suns and moons, bautas bautas and and moretas, moretas, death's heads, G.o.ddesses, chinless rustics, and bearded n.o.bles. "Whatever it is, it's got more holes in it than a piece of cheese!" declared one of them, the pale pink-cheeked sun perhaps, a somber white-bearded Bacchus replying majestically: "Maybe it's a flute." "You mean, dearie," cooed an angel with cherry-red lips, "you don't know whether you should eat it or blow it -?" The ancient scholar, feeling now the full weight of his folly, wished desperately to escape these j.a.pes, but could not, his father's infamous joke - "What brought you here, Geppetto my friend?" "My legs!" - no longer a joke. "If I had a body like that," scoffed a freckled face with a red hood and golden braids, "I'd sell it for a pegboard!" "If you had a body, cara mia," whispered a ghostly voice from behind an expressionless white mask with large hollow eyes, "you'd sell it for anything!" From behind the window, he could see, he was being watched by a glowering figure with a wild black beard like a scribble of India ink, making hasty sketches on a pad. "But what's that lump between his shoulders with the pump handle on it?" the empty snout of a camel posted in the doorway wanted to know, and: "Look from what pulpit comes the sermon!" jeered a grinning noseless skull. death's heads, G.o.ddesses, chinless rustics, and bearded n.o.bles. "Whatever it is, it's got more holes in it than a piece of cheese!" declared one of them, the pale pink-cheeked sun perhaps, a somber white-bearded Bacchus replying majestically: "Maybe it's a flute." "You mean, dearie," cooed an angel with cherry-red lips, "you don't know whether you should eat it or blow it -?" The ancient scholar, feeling now the full weight of his folly, wished desperately to escape these j.a.pes, but could not, his father's infamous joke - "What brought you here, Geppetto my friend?" "My legs!" - no longer a joke. "If I had a body like that," scoffed a freckled face with a red hood and golden braids, "I'd sell it for a pegboard!" "If you had a body, cara mia," whispered a ghostly voice from behind an expressionless white mask with large hollow eyes, "you'd sell it for anything!" From behind the window, he could see, he was being watched by a glowering figure with a wild black beard like a scribble of India ink, making hasty sketches on a pad. "But what's that lump between his shoulders with the pump handle on it?" the empty snout of a camel posted in the doorway wanted to know, and: "Look from what pulpit comes the sermon!" jeered a grinning noseless skull.

Then suddenly they all fell silent. Even the distant sc.r.a.ping of shovels stopped and the wind died down. Nothing could be heard but the water in the ca.n.a.ls, far away, timidly lapping wood and stone. "Who was it," "Who was it," thundered a deep ogrish voice from overhead, the very sound of which set the masks rattling on the wall with terror, thundered a deep ogrish voice from overhead, the very sound of which set the masks rattling on the wall with terror, "laid this t.u.r.d at my doorway?" "laid this t.u.r.d at my doorway?" It was the maskmaker with his ap.r.o.n of black beard, smeared with paint and plaster, his roaring mouth big enough to bake buns in, and eyes so reddened by grappa they seemed to be lit from behind by a fire deep in his skull. It was the maskmaker with his ap.r.o.n of black beard, smeared with paint and plaster, his roaring mouth big enough to bake buns in, and eyes so reddened by grappa they seemed to be lit from behind by a fire deep in his skull. "Who has made this inhuman mess?" "Who has made this inhuman mess?"

"It's - it's not my fault!" the old professor wheezed, indignant even in his indignity, bold even in his abject dismay.

"What? What -?! What -?! It It speaks?" speaks?" bellowed the black-bearded giant, leaning closer and baring his horrible smoke-stained teeth. "Talking t.u.r.ds have been bellowed the black-bearded giant, leaning closer and baring his horrible smoke-stained teeth. "Talking t.u.r.ds have been outlawed outlawed in Venice! Is this the work of a rival seeking to discredit me? Is this - what you say - in Venice! Is this the work of a rival seeking to discredit me? Is this - what you say - dirty tricks?" dirty tricks?"

"Believe me, my -"

"Enough! Basta cos!" roared the maskmaker, s.n.a.t.c.hing him up by the scruff. roared the maskmaker, s.n.a.t.c.hing him up by the scruff. "There's only one place for rubbish like you!" "There's only one place for rubbish like you!" And holding him aloft with one mighty fist, from which the unhappy pilgrim dangled limp as a skinned eel, the bearded giant strode into the nearby campo and, much to the amus.e.m.e.nt of the pa.s.sersby - "Ciao, Mangiano! What's this? One of your rejects?" "Madonna! What an obscenity!" - thrust him, up to his armpits, into this plastic-lined wastebin. And holding him aloft with one mighty fist, from which the unhappy pilgrim dangled limp as a skinned eel, the bearded giant strode into the nearby campo and, much to the amus.e.m.e.nt of the pa.s.sersby - "Ciao, Mangiano! What's this? One of your rejects?" "Madonna! What an obscenity!" - thrust him, up to his armpits, into this plastic-lined wastebin.

Where, with the filling up of the campo, he has become the popular target of insults and horseplay. Mothers show him off to bundled toddlers to make them laugh; little boys, when they're not chasing bedraggled and dying pigeons, pelt him with s...o...b..a.l.l.s; teenagers with ghetto blasters hugged to their ears flip their cigarette b.u.t.ts at him. He is crowned with fruit peels, pink sports pages, and rancid boxes from fast-food joints, christened with the dregs from supermarket wine cartons. "Pi in alto che se va," "Pi in alto che se va," the musicians are singing raucously and tunelessly at the other end of the square while testing out their equipment, the musicians are singing raucously and tunelessly at the other end of the square while testing out their equipment, "pi el culse mostra!" "pi el culse mostra!" The higher one climbs, the more he exposes his behind: a sentiment so apposite to the old emeritus professor's present humiliation, he might suspect them of malice had they not been entertaining the pa.s.sing crowds with all manner of rude scatological lyrics since they began setting up. To add mockery to the damage, pigeons use him as a perch and public restroom, which causes one of the musicians drifting by, a swarthy snubnosed character looking more like a thief than an entertainer, to remark loudly and histrionically that "Every beautiful rose -" he lingers over this image to draw the guffaws, his plastic features twisted into a set painful smile, his hands flowering about the old bes.p.a.ckled professor's head, "- eventually becomes an a.s.smop!" And the others in the campo gleefully pick up the refrain: The higher one climbs, the more he exposes his behind: a sentiment so apposite to the old emeritus professor's present humiliation, he might suspect them of malice had they not been entertaining the pa.s.sing crowds with all manner of rude scatological lyrics since they began setting up. To add mockery to the damage, pigeons use him as a perch and public restroom, which causes one of the musicians drifting by, a swarthy snubnosed character looking more like a thief than an entertainer, to remark loudly and histrionically that "Every beautiful rose -" he lingers over this image to draw the guffaws, his plastic features twisted into a set painful smile, his hands flowering about the old bes.p.a.ckled professor's head, "- eventually becomes an a.s.smop!" And the others in the campo gleefully pick up the refrain: "Un stra.s.sacul! Un stra.s.sacul!" "Un stra.s.sacul! Un stra.s.sacul!" The caged visitor, ever an emotional, even irascible defender of his own dignity when driven to it, would object, or would at least chase the pigeons off, but he is utterly and catastrophically undone, overcome by exhaustion and racked with pain and fever and a blinding cold in the head, suffering now, he knows, that final apathy of limb that marks, against his choosing, the end of the cold staggering race which he's, w.i.l.l.y-nilly, losing! or however that old doggerel goes! The caged visitor, ever an emotional, even irascible defender of his own dignity when driven to it, would object, or would at least chase the pigeons off, but he is utterly and catastrophically undone, overcome by exhaustion and racked with pain and fever and a blinding cold in the head, suffering now, he knows, that final apathy of limb that marks, against his choosing, the end of the cold staggering race which he's, w.i.l.l.y-nilly, losing! or however that old doggerel goes!

"It's the oldest truth under the sun: life is a race that can't be won!"

Something like that. And moreover, the abuse is warranted, is it not? - a fit judgment upon his perfidious heart, his capricious and ultimately fatal betrayal of Her and thence of himself, a betrayal that no doubt began back in America with his decision (if it was a decision -? it's all like a dream he can no longer recall) to return to this sinking Queen, this treacherous sea Cybele "as changeable as a nervous woman," this "most unreal of cities, half legend, half snare for strangers," this home of the counterfeit and the fickle heart, this infamous Acchiappacitrulli. The zany jester is mincing about, miming the crippled antics of an old fool, wheezing and snorting and tossing out his jibes on the comical debilities of the aged ("When one grows old," he croaks, wobbling about knock-kneed with his rear stuck out, his back bowed, and his toes turned in, "he loses his renown! His legs go flabby and his stockings fall down!"), his mocking parodies in the Venetian dialect about "this heartless city of nervous strangers and old queens" and "untimely fetal decisions" ("Ay, ay!" the fool cries with a quavering voice, pulling his shabby felt hat down over his ears, "I can't think, I've got this d.a.m.nable bone in my head!"), but he does not even approach the true depths of disgrace into which the old wayfarer knows he has fallen. Up at the foot of the cutoff bell tower, the other musicians, augmented now by electronic keyboard and guitar, harmonica, and a set of traps (over their heads, on the scaffolding of cloth and boards, there's a sign painted every color of the rainbow, but the colors run together and he can't read it - no doubt yet another obscenity), are singing, to the same tune as before, if such hoa.r.s.e shouting can be called a tune, can be called singing: "El tempo, el culo e i siori, / I fa quel che i vol lori!" "El tempo, el culo e i siori, / I fa quel che i vol lori!" - Time, one's a.r.s.e, and the moneyed few, / All do just what they want to do! - and they might as well be singing about - Time, one's a.r.s.e, and the moneyed few, / All do just what they want to do! - and they might as well be singing about "el tempo, el culo e i professori. "el tempo, el culo e i professori." When some within the jeering crowd pretend to come to his aid - "Now, now, remember that in this world, we must be kind to all such unfortunate creatures, that we ourselves may be treated kindly in our time of need - this poor old grillino, he really can't help it, you know!" - their patronizing remarks enrage him more than the abuse. No, no! he wants to tell them. I can can help it, you idiots! But I'm a villain to the core! Believe me! A brute! An a.s.s! help it, you idiots! But I'm a villain to the core! Believe me! A brute! An a.s.s!

"Ha ha! Che parlare da bestia! Give him a hand, everybody! In fact, give him two, he needs them!"

But it's true! It's true! A fraud! A turncoat without even a coat to turn! I'm a vile unprincipled scoundrel through and through!

"He may have a small mind, ladies and gentlemen, but he knows it from corner to corner!"

Yet how can it have happened? A century of prudence and sobriety and effortful mastery blown away in a day, less than a day, vanished into the flux as though it never existed, leaving him not only the ludicrous dupe of charlatans, robbed of his every possession, arrested and humiliated by the authorities, stripped of his clothing as of his pride, indeed of his very humanity, enfeebled with illness and deprived even of his ears and nipples - "Lai, lai, "Lai, lai," the grimacing clown is crooning sourly to the rhythm of a child's taunt, "co se xe veci se xe buzarai! Ay, ay! Hugger-mugger! To be old is to be b.u.g.g.e.red!" "co se xe veci se xe buzarai! Ay, ay! Hugger-mugger! To be old is to be b.u.g.g.e.red!" - but now, having abandoned his only true friend in the world in mad pursuit of a vaporous fantasy, a true - but now, having abandoned his only true friend in the world in mad pursuit of a vaporous fantasy, a true ignis fatuus, ignis fatuus, a most foolish fire, he is hopelessly paralyzed as well, frozen, lost, confused by fever and hunger, left to die in a trash bag, taunted by cretins and crushed by his own shame, and all because of a vulgar American coed with a soft blue sweater! a most foolish fire, he is hopelessly paralyzed as well, frozen, lost, confused by fever and hunger, left to die in a trash bag, taunted by cretins and crushed by his own shame, and all because of a vulgar American coed with a soft blue sweater!

"Oho!" cries the jester, leaping into the air and clicking his heels. "So that's that's the rock you've split your decrepit buns on, old man! Ha ha! Rispettabile pubblico! the rock you've split your decrepit buns on, old man! Ha ha! Rispettabile pubblico! Here Here is where the donkey has fallen!" is where the donkey has fallen!"

He seems, alas, to have been talking out loud again. He doesn't know for how long, but fears the worst. It's almost as though he's forgotten how not not to. Crowds of people, scarfed and booted, have gathered around, laughing and applauding and stamping their feet in the snow, whooping the prancing buffoon through his mocking routines - now, hobbling and cackling wildly, he is chasing all the young girls in the audience, making them squeal and clutch tight their coats and skirts. The venerable scholar has become, he sees through bitter tears, seeing little else, the very fool of fools. b.u.t.ts' b.u.t.t. But what, being four-fifths buried in refuse already and the rest soon to follow, does it matter? Oh, bambina mia, you little blue-jeaned and cowboy-booted barbarian, you tw.a.n.gy gum-popping red-white-and-blue siren! to. Crowds of people, scarfed and booted, have gathered around, laughing and applauding and stamping their feet in the snow, whooping the prancing buffoon through his mocking routines - now, hobbling and cackling wildly, he is chasing all the young girls in the audience, making them squeal and clutch tight their coats and skirts. The venerable scholar has become, he sees through bitter tears, seeing little else, the very fool of fools. b.u.t.ts' b.u.t.t. But what, being four-fifths buried in refuse already and the rest soon to follow, does it matter? Oh, bambina mia, you little blue-jeaned and cowboy-booted barbarian, you tw.a.n.gy gum-popping red-white-and-blue siren! You have been my death! You have been my death!

"Well, at least your life has not been in vain for nothing!" the comedian exclaims with insolent bravado, as though egged on by the raucous crowd. He seems brash as a child yet ancient at the same time, his features beardless yet furrowed with grimaces and depravity, marred by warts and pockmarks and an enflamed carbuncular growth on his forehead, and with two deep wrinkles standing arrogantly, harshly, almost savagely between his bushy brows, like something out of a repressed nightmare. "Hee ha! Isn't it wonderful!" he brays, launching a little bowlegged dance around the wastebin, the professor shrinking into his trash bag and solacing himself with the thought, which in his feverish misery he only half believes, that at least - surely - nothing worse can happen to him now. "Tutti quanti semo mati / Per quel buso che semo nati!'' "Tutti quanti semo mati / Per quel buso che semo nati!'' the clown warbles out in a squeaky falsetto, rolling his eyes roguishly as he hops about. the clown warbles out in a squeaky falsetto, rolling his eyes roguishly as he hops about. "It's crazy how we're all inflamed / By that little hole from which we came!" "It's crazy how we're all inflamed / By that little hole from which we came!"

But why is he surprised? For didn't the Blue-Haired Fairy warn him? "Puppets never grow up," she said, wagging her finger at him all those years ago. "They are born puppets, live puppets, die puppets!"

"Yes, well, dummy, that's show business! But do you mean to say -?!"

What a terrible oracle! He'd thought she was presenting him with an alternative, a moral choice; she'd merely been p.r.o.nouncing sentence upon him! she'd merely been p.r.o.nouncing sentence upon him!

"Hey now, here's a song and it isn't long: 'He who doesn't die in the cradle, / Will suffer for it sooner or later!' Hah! Who says there are no poets in Venice? Yes, at the end of the day, we're all just clay, give or take a sliver or two - we all bough down to the curse of events, you can't stave it off, speaking figuratively! So nothing to do, cavalieri e dame, but show a little s.p.u.n.k, as we say in the charade trade, brace up and stick it out as best you can, and let the chips fall where they may! But now tell me, old man," the entertainer murmurs, peering closer, the frown between his sunken eyes deepening, "what did you mean when you said - ye G.o.ds! Am I dreaming or!?" And - ka-POK! ka-POK! - he b.u.t.ts him suddenly in the head. - he b.u.t.ts him suddenly in the head.

O babbo mio! I am dying! There is loud laughter and shouting all around him, but the old traveler can hear it only intermittently through the reverberant clangor in his hammered head. What is this insane monster doing doing - -?! "Oh please!" he wheezes, but this time no one hears him. "Help -!" "Oh please!" he wheezes, but this time no one hears him. "Help -!"

"It might might be!," muses the clown, leaning back, and then - be!," muses the clown, leaning back, and then - WHAACK! WHAACK! - bangs heads again, hammering him brutally with the very k.n.o.b of his carbuncle. - bangs heads again, hammering him brutally with the very k.n.o.b of his carbuncle.

"Abi! o povero me!" yelps the professor, whimpering in the old style, his head reeling, his eyes losing their focus. yelps the professor, whimpering in the old style, his head reeling, his eyes losing their focus. "Ih!! ih!! ih!!" "Ih!! ih!! ih!!" And the jester cries: And the jester cries: "It COULD be!" "It COULD be!"

And then, even before the next blow comes, the distant memory returns and the old scholar recognizes his adversary - not an adversary at all of course but once his most beloved friend - a memory repressed to be sure, but not of a nightmare: rather of what was perhaps - before the glory of being human, that is, and all that shameful past was put behind him - the happiest night of his life! Pa-KLOCKK! Pa-KLOCKK!

"It IS! It IS! Pinocchio! It's PINOCCHIO!"

"Arlecchino!" he gasps, his eyes still spinning around in his ringing head. Did he used to do this he gasps, his eyes still spinning around in his ringing head. Did he used to do this for fun? for fun? "My-my "My-my friend! friend! Ow! Ow! Oh! Oh! It's It's you!" you!"

"Pulcinella! Pantalone!" Arlecchino shouts across the campo, leaping up and down like a mechanical frog. Arlecchino shouts across the campo, leaping up and down like a mechanical frog. "It's Pinocchio! Colombina! Our dear brother Pinocchio is here! Flaminia! Brigh.e.l.la! Capitano!" "It's Pinocchio! Colombina! Our dear brother Pinocchio is here! Flaminia! Brigh.e.l.la! Capitano!"

"What - -?!" cry the musicians of the rock band, dropping their instruments with an amplified clatter and bounding down off the stage. cry the musicians of the rock band, dropping their instruments with an amplified clatter and bounding down off the stage. "Pinocchio "Pinocchio - -?! Can it be - -?!"

And he is suddenly engulfed in a great commotion as they swoop down upon him, everyone kissing him and hugging him and giving him friendly head-b.u.t.ts and pinches and all talking at once - "It is! It is really he!" "It's our brother Pinocchio!" "Evviva Pinocchio!" "Lift him out of his hamper there!" "Who has done this to him?" "Oh dear Pinocchio! Come to the arms of your wooden brothers!" "Give us a kiss, love!" "Easy! The damp seems to have got to him!" "Why have you been tormenting him so, "It is! It is really he!" "It's our brother Pinocchio!" "Evviva Pinocchio!" "Lift him out of his hamper there!" "Who has done this to him?" "Oh dear Pinocchio! Come to the arms of your wooden brothers!" "Give us a kiss, love!" "Easy! The damp seems to have got to him!" "Why have you been tormenting him so, Arlecchino? Our own brother!" "He saved your life!" "I didn't recognize him, he's been smeared with all this funny makeup!" "That's human flesh, you imbecile!" "Pinocchio, how did it happen?" "Why did you leave us?" "It's been so long!" "Careful, Brigh.e.l.la, don't drop him!" Arlecchino? Our own brother!" "He saved your life!" "I didn't recognize him, he's been smeared with all this funny makeup!" "That's human flesh, you imbecile!" "Pinocchio, how did it happen?" "Why did you leave us?" "It's been so long!" "Careful, Brigh.e.l.la, don't drop him!" - and, trailing a litter of paper bags, old vaporetto tickets, and unspooled ca.s.sette tapes, he is lifted out of the trash basket, hoisted upon their shoulders, and paraded triumphantly around the campo, the puppets recovering their instruments and striking up a gay-spirited circus march quite unlike the pounding headachy noises they were making before. As they pa.s.s by the stage, the professor sees above it the psychedelically painted canvas he could not read before: GRAN TEATRO DEI BURATTINI. - and, trailing a litter of paper bags, old vaporetto tickets, and unspooled ca.s.sette tapes, he is lifted out of the trash basket, hoisted upon their shoulders, and paraded triumphantly around the campo, the puppets recovering their instruments and striking up a gay-spirited circus march quite unlike the pounding headachy noises they were making before. As they pa.s.s by the stage, the professor sees above it the psychedelically painted canvas he could not read before: GRAN TEATRO DEI BURATTINI. "That's us!" "That's us!" cries Pulcinella below his left b.u.t.tock. cries Pulcinella below his left b.u.t.tock. "Welcome, dear Pinocchio, to the Great Puppet Show Vegetal Punk Rock Band!" "Welcome, dear Pinocchio, to the Great Puppet Show Vegetal Punk Rock Band!"

14. GRAN TEATRO DEI BURATTINI.

"I want you stick to me, Pinocchio," Arlecchino rasps fiercely from beneath his stiff upper lip as he drags him off the back of the stage and down into the terrified crowds, Arlecchino rasps fiercely from beneath his stiff upper lip as he drags him off the back of the stage and down into the terrified crowds, "like s.h.i.t to a shovel!" "like s.h.i.t to a shovel!"

"But my knees! I can't even -!"

"Don't argue, friend! This is serious!" serious!"

Just like a puppet. Doesn't understand the limits and hazards of human flesh. Il Dottore, as his fellow musicians now call him, knows knows it's serious. He can smell the bonfires. He can hear the screams. He knows what happened to the last Dottore. He's frightened, too. But he still can't move. Shifting his body is like moving a refrigerator or a heavy log: he has to tip it from side to side, rock it forward all in one piece, every inch costs him almost unbearable pain and effort. And at the same time he's so frail, the tiniest jolt sends him spinning off in another direction, making him feel like one of those airy little b.a.l.l.s in a whirling lottery basket, a walking (speaking loosely) paradox. So, inevitably, they are separated, s.h.i.t and shovel. The metaphor was all too apt. s.h.i.t always gets left behind. He can hear Arlecchino shouting for him through the awesome pack-up, but the shouts grow more and more distant. He tries to shout back, but he keeps wheezing and coughing instead. The smoke is getting in his eyes and tearing at his throat, aggravating the itching there. He is being stepped on, elbowed, crushed between frantic bodies, kneed and pushed, they can't see him down here. He longs for the relative safety of the rubbish bin. Though those too, he can see, are being tipped over and flattened by the panicky mob. He strikes out for the awning of a greengrocer's stall, hoping for a refuge there, but it disappears before he can reach it. "Striking out" is perhaps not quite the expression: most of the time his feet are not even touching the ground. But he manages to stay afloat in the human flood, one of his more conventional talents, even if he remains somewhat below the surface. it's serious. He can smell the bonfires. He can hear the screams. He knows what happened to the last Dottore. He's frightened, too. But he still can't move. Shifting his body is like moving a refrigerator or a heavy log: he has to tip it from side to side, rock it forward all in one piece, every inch costs him almost unbearable pain and effort. And at the same time he's so frail, the tiniest jolt sends him spinning off in another direction, making him feel like one of those airy little b.a.l.l.s in a whirling lottery basket, a walking (speaking loosely) paradox. So, inevitably, they are separated, s.h.i.t and shovel. The metaphor was all too apt. s.h.i.t always gets left behind. He can hear Arlecchino shouting for him through the awesome pack-up, but the shouts grow more and more distant. He tries to shout back, but he keeps wheezing and coughing instead. The smoke is getting in his eyes and tearing at his throat, aggravating the itching there. He is being stepped on, elbowed, crushed between frantic bodies, kneed and pushed, they can't see him down here. He longs for the relative safety of the rubbish bin. Though those too, he can see, are being tipped over and flattened by the panicky mob. He strikes out for the awning of a greengrocer's stall, hoping for a refuge there, but it disappears before he can reach it. "Striking out" is perhaps not quite the expression: most of the time his feet are not even touching the ground. But he manages to stay afloat in the human flood, one of his more conventional talents, even if he remains somewhat below the surface.

The last Dottore, he's been told, was taken apart stick by stick. The band's been outlawed, its members condemned, they're on the run, and the Dottore, too fat to run, got caught. The carabinieri were trying to get him to talk which was of course like inviting the hare to run, as Pulcinella put it, only they could not understand his garbled Latin, whoever could, so finally they had to torture him to stop stop him talking. Even as he was edifying his captors with his celebrated him talking. Even as he was edifying his captors with his celebrated at iam gravi at iam gravi lecture about the wounded Queen and her raw sausages, they snapped the old philosophaster's limbs in two, split up the chunkier bits with hammer and chisel, then, with his own strings, tied all the pieces up in his big hat and shipped the lot off to Murano gla.s.sblowers for kindling. "But now you can be our new Dottore!" Flaminia exclaimed gleefully, meaning no irony at all, as they propped him up in front of the electronic keyboard, the newest member of the Gran Teatro dei Burattini Vegetal Punk Rock Band. "But I'm no musician!" he protested. "Neither are we!" they laughed. "Look! It's easy! Just hit this! Now this!" Arlecchino guided his hands and from the stiff poke of his fingers, frozen into gnarled little claws, vast sounds suddenly rocked the campo. "Now just keep repeating that!" The others picked up their instruments and gathered around him on the stage, improvising raucously upon his little phrase (which sounded suspiciously to him like "When You Wish Upon a Star"), electric guitars and theorbos, harmonicas, tambourines, flutes, lutes, and a set of amplified drums responding thunderingly to the touch of the virtuoso Burattini. lecture about the wounded Queen and her raw sausages, they snapped the old philosophaster's limbs in two, split up the chunkier bits with hammer and chisel, then, with his own strings, tied all the pieces up in his big hat and shipped the lot off to Murano gla.s.sblowers for kindling. "But now you can be our new Dottore!" Flaminia exclaimed gleefully, meaning no irony at all, as they propped him up in front of the electronic keyboard, the newest member of the Gran Teatro dei Burattini Vegetal Punk Rock Band. "But I'm no musician!" he protested. "Neither are we!" they laughed. "Look! It's easy! Just hit this! Now this!" Arlecchino guided his hands and from the stiff poke of his fingers, frozen into gnarled little claws, vast sounds suddenly rocked the campo. "Now just keep repeating that!" The others picked up their instruments and gathered around him on the stage, improvising raucously upon his little phrase (which sounded suspiciously to him like "When You Wish Upon a Star"), electric guitars and theorbos, harmonicas, tambourines, flutes, lutes, and a set of amplified drums responding thunderingly to the touch of the virtuoso Burattini. Pi-pi-pi! Pi-pi-pi! they went. they went. Zum-zum-zum! Zum-zum-zum! They made the whole square shake and tremble. It was fun, in a dizzying and anarchical sort of way, like the old days in Mangiafoco's mercurial puppet theater, and their friendship, however bruised he was by it, warmed his feeble heart. They made the whole square shake and tremble. It was fun, in a dizzying and anarchical sort of way, like the old days in Mangiafoco's mercurial puppet theater, and their friendship, however bruised he was by it, warmed his feeble heart.

The dizziness he suffered in their midst was not so much from the loud music or the smothering attention or even the fever which no doubt grips him still, but from all the head-b.u.t.ts he'd endured by which they'd first, ecstatically, recognized him. Indeed, down here in the desperate press and jostle of the fleeing mult.i.tudes, his head is still ringing from those blows, making it difficult for him to maintain any sense of direction, little good it would do him if he could. He sees the four public security police drag Corallina away, hears her screaming, but a moment later he cannot be sure whether she's in front of him or behind him. Arlecchino's fading shouts have seemed to spiral around him like a ball on a stretching string, almost as though the campo were expanding and he were being screwed deep into its tangled center. When Captain Spavento comes creeping by on all fours between the legs of the crowd, having just crept abjectly past in the opposite direction, the professor can no longer be sure, in his throbbing vertigo, that these are two separate events.

"Long live our brother Pinocchio!" they'd all cried on discovering him and the hugging and pinching and head-thumping had begun, everyone had a turn, he couldn't even speak it hurt so, he could only weep, and then they wept, too, but for joy, as they supposed he did, and kissed him some more and pinched him even harder as though to try to pluck him clean and banged heads again and crushed him with their wild loving hugs. And, in truth, for all the pain, he was was happy, delirious even, it was as if, as they transported him out of the trash bag and onto their shoulders and paraded him through the snowswept square and up to the makeshift bandstand, he'd been suddenly and miraculously rescued, not merely from a lonely ignominious death, but from a whole lifetime of misguided exile and isolation, it was as if happy, delirious even, it was as if, as they transported him out of the trash bag and onto their shoulders and paraded him through the snowswept square and up to the makeshift bandstand, he'd been suddenly and miraculously rescued, not merely from a lonely ignominious death, but from a whole lifetime of misguided exile and isolation, it was as if this this was what he had come back for, this place, these friends, it was as if, as if a hundred years had never happened!! was what he had come back for, this place, these friends, it was as if, as if a hundred years had never happened!!

"Remember the party that night? We danced till dawn!"

"Dancing wasn't the half of it! We all stripped and swapped parts and got our strings in a delicious tangle! Then Arlecchino stole Mangiafoco's swazzle and started playing it through his b.u.mhole!" b.u.mhole!"

"If it was was his b.u.mhole - might have been anybody's, things were pretty mixed his b.u.mhole - might have been anybody's, things were pretty mixed up up by then!" by then!"

"Listen, Pinocchio had just saved my can from the fire, the least I could do was sing sing through it!" through it!"

"As Arlecchino said at the time, he was thanking Pinocchio from the bottom of his heart and from the heart of his bottom!"

"I remember!"

"What a blast!"

"Then Rosaura challenged everybody to a pelvis-cracking contest with her polished cherry pudendum, and ended up splitting Colombina's mound and breaking Lelio's little thing off, not that he ever had any use for it!"

"She called it harda.s.s cunny-conkers!"

"It never healed, I've still got a crack there!"

"It was a crazy night!"

"I was so happy!!"

"That party is a legend now!"

"But when was it? I I don't remember it!" don't remember it!"

"You weren't there, there, Flaminia. Must have been a century ago, maybe two." Flaminia. Must have been a century ago, maybe two."

"You were still just a gleam in old Mangiafoco's chisel!"

"And Rosaura," he asked then, craning his head about above the sea of faces, "where is is Rosaura?" Rosaura?"

"Ah, poor Rosaura, bless her wormy little knothole, has gone the way of all wood, I'm afraid, all except for her hardwood hotbox which Pierotto here inherited for a head when his old one got damp rot and fell apart!"

"It's made him a bit strange, but he's got a new lazzo lazzo with a chamber pot and a monocle you wouldn't believe!" with a chamber pot and a monocle you wouldn't believe!"

"But there are plenty of others here, you old rogue! Here, meet Corallina and Lisetta and Diamantina!!" They lowered him into the arms of these gay soubrettes with their bright-colored skirts and ap.r.o.ns tucked into leather leggings, their purple and magenta butch cuts, and safety-pin earrings through their wooden ears. "Evviva Pinocchio!" "Evviva Pinocchio!" they laughed and they kissed him again and pinched and squeezed him and, just for fun, knocked heads some more. they laughed and they kissed him again and pinched and squeezed him and, just for fun, knocked heads some more.

"But why did you go away, Pinocchio? We were having so much fun! Why did you leave us when you said you loved us so?"

"Well, I - ow! ow! - my father -" - my father -"

"Loved us? Loved Loved us?" roared Capitano Spavento del Vall'Inferno, rearing up then in sudden choler, his plumes quivering and waxed moustaches bristling. "He loved us as the wolf loves the sheep! As the whip loves the donkey! As the woodman loves the tree! No, no, let us say bread to the bread and b.u.g.g.e.r-my-a.s.s to b.u.g.g.e.r-my-a.s.s! This abominable imitation of humanity, this vile hodgepodge, this double-dealing French-leave-taking skin artist us?" roared Capitano Spavento del Vall'Inferno, rearing up then in sudden choler, his plumes quivering and waxed moustaches bristling. "He loved us as the wolf loves the sheep! As the whip loves the donkey! As the woodman loves the tree! No, no, let us say bread to the bread and b.u.g.g.e.r-my-a.s.s to b.u.g.g.e.r-my-a.s.s! This abominable imitation of humanity, this vile hodgepodge, this double-dealing French-leave-taking skin artist deserted deserted us!" us!"

"Ahhh!" gasped the three servant girls in unison and, tossing him in the air, shrank away as though from a bad odor. He would have crashed disastrously to the stage floor had not Arlecchino and Colombina deftly caught him, Colombina whispering behind what had once been his ear: "Is it true you left us because of a woman, dear Pinocchio? A painted woman with a mysterious past!?" gasped the three servant girls in unison and, tossing him in the air, shrank away as though from a bad odor. He would have crashed disastrously to the stage floor had not Arlecchino and Colombina deftly caught him, Colombina whispering behind what had once been his ear: "Is it true you left us because of a woman, dear Pinocchio? A painted woman with a mysterious past!?"

"She wasn't exactly painted -!" he wheezed in dazed dismay.

"Ho ho! Beating about the bush, were you, you old gully-raker?" laughed Brigh.e.l.la, winking slyly. "Nothing like splitting whiskers for splitting friends!"

"It wasn't a woman, it was fame fame he was after," declared Pulcinella. "We weren't hot enough for the little s...o...b..at! He wanted to be the big pimple, not some second stringer out in the sticks! He wanted to be a he was after," declared Pulcinella. "We weren't hot enough for the little s...o...b..at! He wanted to be the big pimple, not some second stringer out in the sticks! He wanted to be a star!" star!"

"No, no: money! money! It was It was money money made the donkey trot, it made the donkey trot, it always always is!" argued Pantalone, thrusting his pointed beard in the air like an accusing finger. "There was the pa.s.sing of a purse, his palm was greased, I heard the insidious c.h.i.n.k of gold! Money taken, friends forsaken -!" is!" argued Pantalone, thrusting his pointed beard in the air like an accusing finger. "There was the pa.s.sing of a purse, his palm was greased, I heard the insidious c.h.i.n.k of gold! Money taken, friends forsaken -!"

"But - but it wasn't any any of that, I just didn't of that, I just didn't want want to be a -!" to be a -!"

"O blind counsels of the guilty! O vice, ever cowardly!" cried the Capitano, still in high dudgeon. "We took the little sapling in as our trusted friend and brother, but it was a viper we found at our bosoms, a copper-hearted two-timing turntail as treacherous as a deathwatch beetle!" He snapped his sword from its sheath and whirled it about menacingly, strutting up and down the cramped stage. "O evil, of evils most evil! There is no worse pestilence than a familiar foe! Such perfidy makes me snuff pepper, and when I'm aroused the seas duck under for cover, mountains shrink into the earth like iced ballocks, the sun is afraid to show its face, and even the mighty G.o.ds s.h.i.t themselves in terror, so look out below! Down with your breaches of faith! Out with your double-jointed hybrid treachery! Avast! Avaunt! Oyez! Attento! The greatest achievement of a general is to smite the foe and chop the wh.o.r.eson into little specks and slivers, so let me have at him! Don't hold me back! My heart detests him as the gates of h.e.l.l!"

As Captain Spavento del Vall'Inferno, still brandishing his sword, whirled around and charged in his direction, the professor turned anxiously to the others for help, but they all seemed to be applauding the spectacle, or else grabbing up their musical instruments as though to use them for weapons themselves. Their painted faces and hard wooden smiles alarmed him, and he felt a sudden intense nostalgia for his old library carrel back at the university. "Wait! You don't understand -!" he gasped, but no one was listening. Arlecchino's and Colombina's grips tightened like shackles.

"Hasten with the sword," brayed the Capitano, bearing down upon him in full regalia and waving the others to follow, brayed the Capitano, bearing down upon him in full regalia and waving the others to follow, "bring weapons, climb the walls; the enemy is at hand "bring weapons, climb the walls; the enemy is at hand - - IHAH!" IHAH!"

Even as the old scholar ducked, Arlecchino heaved him up as though to ward the blow off himself. The effect, however, was to make everyone fall back, even the startled Captain, who dropped his sword and nearly fell off the stage, scrambling to pick it up again. "Look at him!" "Look at him!" Arlecchino cried, holding him up by the scruff of his tattered coat and waggling him about. "Do you think he'd do this on Arlecchino cried, holding him up by the scruff of his tattered coat and waggling him about. "Do you think he'd do this on purpose?!" purpose?!"

There was laughter and some rude whistling and murmurs of "It's true! what a calamity!" and "Povera bestia!" and when the Captain, recovering somewhat, started huffing and puffing again about collapsing the Hemispheres, shattering the Poles, sending heads rolling around the world like billiard b.a.l.l.s, and, with his flaming sword inherited from Xerxes, Romulus, Caesar, and the Blind Doge, bringing on the final devastation, Lisetta took his sword away from him and swatted him on the behind with it until he cried. "Vergogna!" she scolded, as he crawled about on all fours, boohooing. "Keep your tongue, rotto in culo, and keep your friends, slander slanders itself! Chi p.i.s.sa contro vento p.i.s.ses on his own pants!"

"Remember that a wretched man, as a wise compatriot once said," continued Arlecchino solemnly, still dangling him on high like one of the cats of Venice, "is a holy thing, and vice versa, da cima a fondo, and to be without a friend is to be like a body without a soul, that is to say, a t.u.r.d without a fragrance - nor is friendship to be bought at a fair, at least not at an honest price, except sometimes in a raffle, and even then, as they say, old friends are still the best bargain if they are not so old they are dead and beginning to smell. Pesce, oglio, e amico vecchio, we would all be wise to remember that famous old Venetian recipe, the secret of which is fresh basil, sturgeon eggs, a forgiving palate, and funghi porcini, when in season, as friendship always is of course if you have the liver for it. Yes, compagni, old wood, as they used to say in the old days, days so old they were never new, except on the Feast Day of poor little Saint Agnes, whose martyred maidenhead, preserved in a silver noggin, once rivaled the eyeb.a.l.l.s of Santa Lucia as an object of veneration amongst our countrymen and made old days young again - old wood, they used to say, as I say now, burns brightest, old linens wash whitest, old friendships cling tightest, and old a.r.s.es spread widest, so watch where you sit for it is a difficult thing to replace true friends who have been inadvertently flattened, may they rest in peace, or in pieces, as the case may be."

With this sobering reminder of mortality, the entire company of the Great Puppet Show Punk Rock Band, weeping an