100 Days of Happiness by Fausto Brizzi Page A

that’s like a wagon without wheels . . . it won’t run.”
    Stromboli stood up and carefully began to gather his puppets.
    â€œPeople paid for their tickets again tonight and we can’t disappoint them . . . as long as we can put on a show, they won’t notice . . .”
    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.
    â€œI left you a plate of mutton in the other room . . . take as much as you want, I’ll just roast some more later . . . don’t wander away from the wagon . . . I’ll 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 you’re not made out of wood anymore, and you can catch your death.”
    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 didn’t know whether to eat a little mutton or go to sleep.
    It wasn’t a particularly difficult decision.
    He just wasn’t used to making decisions at all.
    Â * * * 
    â€œSignor Battistini?
    For a moment I’m afraid it’s Stromboli.
    â€œSignor Battistini? Wake up!”
    It’s not Stromboli. But she resembles him closely. It’s the talkative nurse who greeted me at the front entrance. She’s already slipped the needle out of my vein. I had a dream. A child’s dream.
    I haven’t had a childhood dream in years.
    â€œJust stay seated for a few minutes . . . ,” she tells me. “You might experience some dizziness.”
    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.
    I’ve always loved Collodi, the king of one-hit wonders, writers famous for just one book. Maybe they’ve 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?
Gulliver’s 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 . . .
    â€œA king!” my little readers will say at once.
    No, children, you’re wrong. Once upon a time there was a piece of wood.
    â€œMidway along the journey of our life” or “That branch of the Lake of Como, which turns toward the south”—these 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 don’t feel better, I don’t feel worse. I just wish I could wake up again and discover that this, too, is just a dream.

−89
    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 risotto’s cooking on the stove, the candles are all lit, but the expected guest never shows up; he