thatâs like a wagon without wheels . . . it wonât run.â
Stromboli stood up and carefully began to gather his puppets.
âPeople paid for their tickets again tonight and we canât disappoint them . . . as long as we can put on a show, they wonât notice . . .â
Stromboli, holding all his puppets in his arms, headed toward the door. He was about to walk down the steps of the wagon when he turned back around and looked at Harlequin, who was sitting on the trunk.
âI left you a plate of mutton in the other room . . . take as much as you want, Iâll just roast some more later . . . donât wander away from the wagon . . . Iâll be back in an hour or so . . . if you get sleepy you can lie down over there . . . but remember to cover up with a blanket, because youâre not made out of wood anymore, and you can catch your death.â
With these words, and without waiting for an answer, the big man stepped out of the wagon, making the steps creak, and vanished into the fog that shrouded the hovels all around.
Harlequin sat there a little longer.
He didnât know whether to eat a little mutton or go to sleep.
It wasnât a particularly difficult decision.
He just wasnât used to making decisions at all.
 * * *Â
âSignor Battistini?
For a moment Iâm afraid itâs Stromboli.
âSignor Battistini? Wake up!â
Itâs not Stromboli. But she resembles him closely. Itâs the talkative nurse who greeted me at the front entrance. Sheâs already slipped the needle out of my vein. I had a dream. A childâs dream.
I havenât had a childhood dream in years.
âJust stay seated for a few minutes . . . ,â she tells me. âYou might experience some dizziness.â
I nod my head and obey.
I go on fantasizing with my eyes wide open.
Pinocchio
is my favorite story. It might have been the first book I ever read, outranked in my heart only by
Treasure Island
with itspirates. Who can say why it would come into my mind now, of all times. And who knows if Collodi would approve my dream sequel to his story.
Iâve always loved Collodi, the king of one-hit wonders, writers famous for just one book. Maybe theyâve written dozens, but one is so much more famous and successful than the others that it wipes out the rest of his production.
Dante?
The Divine Comedy
.
Swift?
Gulliverâs Travels
.
Defoe?
Robinson Crusoe
.
Manzoni?
I promessi sposi
.
Antoine de Saint-Exupéry?
The Little Prince
.
Collodi? Obviously
Pinocchio
.
The last in the list has the most memorable beginning of any book ever written. A masterpiece of synthesis, fun, and metaliterature.
Once upon a time there was . . .
âA king!â my little readers will say at once.
No, children, youâre wrong. Once upon a time there was a piece of wood.
âMidway along the journey of our lifeâ or âThat branch of the Lake of Como, which turns toward the southââthese are amateurish first sentences in comparison, the work of Sunday poets.
Collodi beats Dante and Manzoni one-nothing. Move the pen to the center of the field.
 * * *Â
An unexpected consequence of chemo: my mind tends to channel surf.
I think about useless nonsense, I dream up lost chapters of
Pinocchio,
I team up great geniuses of literature as if they were formations in fantasy soccer. Not bad, for the first day of treatment.
I leave the clinic and start walking. I donât feel better, I donât feel worse. I just wish I could wake up again and discover that this, too, is just a dream.
â89
I wait for the side effects from the chemotherapy to show up like a guest late for dinner. A relatively unwelcome guest. The dinner table is set, the risottoâs cooking on the stove, the candles are all lit, but the expected guest never shows up; he
Julia Gregson
Brad Clark
Kathleen O'Reilly
Dahlia Rose
Jen Naumann
Sherman Alexie
John Zakour
Marie Ferrarella
CS Patra
Raine Miller