Robert Coover - Pinocchio in Venice

With this sobering reminder of mortality, the entire company of the Great Puppet Show Punk Rock Band, weeping and laughing all at the same time, crowded around him once more, kissing him and smacking heads and embracing him in their crunching hugs, even Captain Spavento, who swore eternal fealty to his brother Pinocchio, adding that if eternity were not enough, he would personally take Time by the throat and squeeze a whole new set of tenses out of the cowardly stronzo. They pressed him, peeking in his pants, for tales of his travels and transformations, and told him of their own troubles, the banning of the band by the Little Man gang, now running the city and cynically calling themselves "socialists," and the terrible persecution of their brothers and sisters that has followed. The Dottore, he learned, was not the only victim: the lovers Ortensia, Florindo, Lindoro, and Lavinia had been dismembered by the authorities and used for the making of grocers' crates, clothespins, and bird cages, though their heads were rumored to have been stolen by the mask-maker Mangiafoco, bastard descendant of the old fire-eating puppet master. The troupe's instruments had been smashed, their spare parts, props, and costumes confiscated. And poor Frittellino had been burned at the stake, the stake being his own master Tartaglia, or what was left of him: a few bent sticks, blue-rimmed spectacles, and a fading stutter. But Pulcinella did some backflips and headstands to show he was as spry as ever, Corallina tossed her skirts up to display her freshly varnished walnut behind, and Brighella reminded them all that "Hey, Father Goldoni was made to eat shit in this town, why should we expect truffles?"

By now, a fair-sized crowd had gathered at this end of the snowy campo, drawn by the novelty of vegepunk rock, university students mostly by the look of them (he gazed out as upon a lecture hall, suffering a momentary twinge of longing and bittersweet regret, or maybe it was only a heart attack, who knew what he'd lose next, but if she was out there, he couldn't see her), dressed in blue jeans and thick sweaters, heavy boots and seamen's caps, and growing impatient in the biting cold. "We want the music! We want the music!" they chanted, stamping their feet, and the puppets, conscious as always about how they were "coming down the strings," as they liked to put it, snatched up their instruments and began improvising an original number with the old professor himself, in his new role as deputy Dottore, at the keyboard. Though he seemed to recognize the melody he was pounding out, the words, barked in the Venetian dialect, were new to him, something about the world being half for sale, half to be pawned, and all to be laughed at, maybe they were making it up as they went along. The crowd seemed to love it, hooting and whistling and singing along: "Lčzi, scrivi e tiente a mente, chi no sgrifa no ga gnente!" they whooped, jumping up and down. "Read, write, and never doubt it: If you don't steal it, you'll do without it!" It was fun in a hypnotic and irresponsible sort of way, it was like drunkenness, like jumping, over and over, through a ring at the circus, and the old traveler, in spite of himself (for it was also somehow frightening, even his unwonted delight frightened him), found himself, eagerly, without thinking, wishing it could just go on like this: "Now that we're all together, let's stay together!" he cried, meaning it with all his heart, though they probably couldn't hear him, they were making a terrible racket — or, rather, somebody was: the Burattini, he saw now, had dropped their instruments and were staring grimly out upon the campo, he was hammering away all by himself, his hollow unaccompanied notes resoundingly challenged now by what seemed to be a great confluence of marching brass bands, arriving simultaneously from all directions like prancing caravans, beating out tattoos and blowing clamorous fanfares, joining in, as he mistakenly thought at the moment, in the fun.

"Vaffan — ?!"

"Ahi! la pula!"

"The questurini!"

"It's a bust!"

"La madama!"

"And they've brought in the civil guards!"

"Those fist-fuckers!"

"And not only — !"

"Look over there!"

"The public security police! The carabinieri!"

"The highway cops!"

"And who's that greasy little dog's cock under the toyshop awning, the one with the whipsaw directing everything — ?"

"L'Omino!"

"We're fucked — !"

"I hear motor boats!"

"The maritime patrol!"

"Look! Even the sanitation cops! The border guards!"

"Lido always gives us a warning! Where is he today?"

"The ecclesiastical police!"

"The vaporetto inspectors!"

"They've pulled out every prick in the province!"

"And they're all armed!"

In they paraded, hundreds and hundreds of them, long winding ribbons of vivid color, banded and braided, caped and cockaded, some in lance caps, others in shakos, tricornes, berets and busbies, their weapons gleaming, their shiny boots — notched, bossed, spurred, tufted, waxed, or gaitered — cracking snappily like ricocheting gunshots against the paving stones of the narrow passageways leading into the crowded campo. The Dottore-designate was still thumping away dutifully at the keyboard, grinning out half blindly on this resplendent spectacle, when Arlecchino grabbed his wrist.

"The show's over, my friend! We're hitting the road!"

"What — ?! But I — !"

"It's too late!" Pantalone cried. "They've encircled the campo!"

"They've blocked all the exits!"

"What'll we do — ?!"

"The pompieri! They're building fires!"

"Listen! Helicopters!"

"Tear gas!"

"Come on!" Arlecchino rasped, and suddenly, like the metaphorical shoveled shit, he was out of his seat and flying into the turbulent crowds.

"Help!!"

"Run!"

"ASSASSINI!"

And now he has lost Arlecchino, he's alone in a mad crush of terrorized rock fans and puppets, trampling each other in their desperate search for an exit, it's worse than registration day back at the university. Helpless and confused and crippled with illness, the old professor is getting dragged along by the throngs, swept back and forth in waves as they flee from one police charge or another. There are bludgeonings, screams, the grind of buzz saws, howled insults, the exploding of tear gas canisters. Fires have been built, manned by the fire brigade, and, horribly, in one of them, he sees the pretty face of Flaminia melting. One moment he is jammed up against a flaking wall by a teeming mass, the next he finds himself sprawling, alone, as though he were suddenly the center from which all have fled, by the battered marble base of an ancient wellhead. Towering above him are two tall carabinieri, thin as nails, with cocked hats, drawn rifles, and flowing black capes, lined with blood red velvet.

"Is this one?"

"Hard to tell. Old bum, looks like."

"Let's throw him on, see if he burns."

"Oh, please!" he blubbers with what life he has left. "I'm not one of them! Can't you see? Sob! It's all a terrible mistake! I don't even know how to play a piano!"

"A likely story."

"A bad tool in any case. I say, throw him on the fire."

"No! Please! Have mercy on an old man!" he bawls as they reach down for him. "I'm afraid of fire — !"

"Si, signori Cavalieri! Have pity!" someone cries nearby.

"Cavalieri — ?! There are no cavalieri here, fool!"

"Signori Commendatori, then!" Through his tears the professor can see that it is Pulcinella in his loose white shift and sugarloaf hat. He seems to have popped out from under the iron lid of the well. "Have mercy on the old gentleman, Commendatori!"