100 Days of Happiness by Fausto Brizzi

that dangled, silent and motionless, from hooks along both walls.
    Stromboli strode forward, bumping against them as he went, knocking Harlequin against the wall. The big man planted himself arrogantly at the center of his puppet kingdom.
    â€œCome on, who was it?” he said, rolling his glinting fiery eyes around the wagon.
    Harlequin slowly swung to a halt and held his breath. All the other puppets exchanged quizzical glances, doing their best not to attract attention.
    Stromboli angrily waved one hand in the air, clutching an enormous leg of roast mutton.
    â€œWho took a bite of this? If the guilty party willingly confesses . . . I won’t do nothing to ’im . . .”
    â€œSure, sure . . . ,” Pulcinella thought silently, “as if we didn’t know you better than that . . .”
    â€œAin’t you figured out that your thoughts are my thoughts, after all I made you . . . you’re just sticks of wood fitted together . . . you ain’t got thoughts of your own . . . you get it, Pulcinella?”
    With those words he leaned down toward Harlequin’s face until his beard brushed it, while with his left hand he wiped away an oily, greasy stain from the corner of the painted mouth.
    â€œI hadn’t even tasted that leg of mutton yet!” he said, staring the puppet right in its brown painted eyes.
    â€œI was hungry . . . ,” murmured the brightly colored marionette, in a faint voice with a thick Venetian accent.
    The other puppets exchanged stares of astonishment: Harlequin was speaking!
    â€œI knew it . . . ,” said Stromboli, taking the marionette down and laying it on a steamer trunk. . . . “I knew it was you . . . what’d you think, that I didn’t notice that when I was out you liked to go for a stroll?”
    Harlequin hung motionless, folded up and tangled in his strings.
    â€œAnd now what are you doing? Cat got your tongue? My friends . . .maybe the time for puppets is over and just maybe . . . the time for puppeteers is over too. You, Harlequin, you’re just the first . . . I’ve already figured it out . . . one by one you’re all going to leave me . . .
ah-ah-chooo
 . . . damned cold . . . ever since I first sneezed with that Pinocchio I haven’t stopped sneezing . . . am I getting old? What do you think, oh Harlequin my friend?”
    Harlequin shook his head no.
    â€œWhen I saw that bite taken out of the leg of mutton I already understood it was all over . . . maybe I should put the blame on that Blue Fairy Pinocchio talked to me about . . . the fact remains that you’re all about to turn into little boys and girls . . . my beloved puppets. You’ve all been infected.”
    Pulcinella thought he’d glimpsed a tiny tear quivering on Stromboli’s cheek, but still mistrustful, decided he must have been mistaken.
    â€œYou’re right, too, Pulcinella . . . ,” the big man murmured as he ran his hand over his face, “you never thought you’d see me cry too . . . but I’m not doing it on purpose . . . they just pour out on their own . . .
atchoo . . .”
    Harlequin handed him a piece of colorful cloth to dry his tears. Stromboli took it, and as he did, he brushed the puppet’s hand: it was warm.
    He raised his eyes and saw before him, amidst the strings and fabrics, a handsome young boy with a mischievous face.
    â€œI knew it . . . ,” he said, wiping away the tears, “there’s been a sort of epidemic of humanity . . . another few days of this and my Grand Puppet Theater will no longer exist . . . and I’ll be gone with it . . . no one has ever seen a puppeteer without puppets . . .