Robert Coover - Pinocchio in Venice

Ah! The thought alarms him, waking him from the stupor into which, like this lagoon city, he had been irretrievably sinking. Is it possible? "My friends!" he croaks weakly. "Come back!"

But Lelio has already reached for a fat cluster of coins. There is a blinding flash as the unfortunate puppet goes up in flames, the tree disappears, and in its place, aglow in the pale blue light, stands a small tombstone with an inscription carved on it. Even before poor Lelio's ashes have settled, the puppets are back in the bobbing gondolas and grabbing madly at their oars, having lost half their plunder in the frantic reboarding.

"Wait!" whispers the former scholar, unable, even in such extremity, to break old habits. "Brighella — ?"

"No way, old friend! Did you see that?! We have to get our lumbar regions out of here!"

"Please…" If there is something to be read, he cannot but, fearful of missing a message, the message, read it. "That may be for me…"

Violent arguments break out among the frightened puppets and there is talk of abandoning him there with Lelio's ashes, but finally, Captain Spavento threatening to slice up anyone who disagrees into cheeseboards and drink coasters, his oldest friends prevail and he gets his way: they use his gondola chair as a makeshift portantina and, slapping sullenly back up the half-submerged watersteps, carry him in it to the center of the small campo. Afraid to stay alone back in the gondolas, the entire company joins them there, gathering in a tight little cluster behind him, staying close to the church as though for protection, muttering about the need to keep moving before the madama catches up with them and complaining about the sudden deadly chill in the air.

He leans forward and squints his eyes, but either the light is too dim or else too radiant. He can see the letters but he cannot make them out. "Come on, come on, old vice! Get on with it!" complains Diamantina, glancing apprehensively over her shoulder, then, with a demonstratively impatient grunt, she stoops down and, peering close, reads it out for him: " 'I shall forgive you this once more,' it says, 'but woe betide you if ever again you are… you are…' There's moss or dirt or some kind of shit growing there, I can't read it. It looks like 'nauseous,' 'if ever again you are nauseous,' but…" She reaches forward to rub away the dirt.

"No!" he squawks. "It says 'naughty!' Don't touch it — !"

Too late. There is another flash as Diamantina flares up and, along with the tombstone, vanishes, leaving only a sooty smudge on the cracked flagstone. At the same moment, the church doors behind them open slowly as though by themselves and a thick creamy light, faintly rose-hued, flows out into the campo, accompanied by a strange ethereal music which might be harp music played on an organ, or else organ music played on a flute and theorbo. Or more likely none of these things, instrumentation having nothing to do with it. He sits alone in the light and music, of course; the puppets are all back in the gondolas once more, frantically preparing to push off from the steps and head with all haste for the high seas. "Stop! We forgot old Pinocchio!"

"We can't stop, Colombina! The curtain is down on this horror show!"

"But — !"

"Leave him! Think of him like a dropped cue! A line that got stepped on! Tough, but that's showbiz!"

"It was his fault anyway! Come on! Let's blow this mud-hole!" The beautiful inlaid marble walls now glow like alabaster lit from within and, above him, colored lights flicker and dance teasingly from window to window. The center of the lustrous façade is creased at the navel by a dark shadowy cross, and he sees now that the dazzling entranceway below it is bearded in a spiky blue moss, the Virgin's glistening white head peeking out overhead as though to inquire who might have put their foot in the door. He knows where he is. He has been here before. It is the little white house. The same one he saw between the Fairy's legs all those years ago.

"But we can't just leave him there, not Pinocchio," he hears Colombina protesting, and, in spite of a lot of short-tempered growling, there eventually seems to be general agreement about that, though less a consensus about who would go pick him up and bring him back. Finally, by offering up her share of the booty, she is able to persuade five others to come with her, the six of them creeping up on tiptoes, doubled over like chicken thieves, peeping up uneasily from under their lowered hat brims at the transformed church.

"These fucking miracle marts give me the creeps!"

"Eat me, drink me — they're like a fast food chain for vampires and cannibals!"

"Last time I played one of these houses, they called me Perverse Doctrine. Must've been centuries ago. Worst beating I ever got!"

"You'll get worse if you don't move your stumps! Grab the old board up and let's go!"

"No, no! Not that way!" he begs as they pull on his chair. "I want to go in there! I must go in there!"

"Now, now, dear Pinocchio," counsels Colombina, leaning close to his earhole, then speaking as to a deaf person, "as your best friend, let me give you some advice. It is very late, the night is dark, and we're up to our mildewed bungholes in death and danger as it is! We've already lost poor Lelio and Diamantina tonight. And the law's right behind us! Things are bad enough, as the saying goes, so don't blow on the fire!"

"Yes, you are my best friend, Colombina," he replies with his dry cracked voice. "I have almost no one left but you. If you don't help me, I–I don't know what I'll do!"

"But, Pinocchio, my love, this is crazy! Do you remember what our dear late lamented Arlecchino used to say? 'What do you gain by hanging yourself?' he used to say. 'Does that put any flesh on your bones? It does not, it makes you thinner!' Now, for goodness' sake, or at least for your own, and for mine, too, if you love me, be sensible! Come with us while there is still time!"

"Please! Just take me inside. I can't get there by myself. Then you can go."

"Go? But aren't you coming with us?"

"I–I don't know."

"Ahi, my dear Pinocchio, you are impossible!" she cries.

"Perhaps we could just toss the old cazzo inside on the count of three and make a run for it — ?" Pierotto suggests.

"Or maybe we could nail a couple of those fancy crosses we stole to what's left of his knees and he could toddle on in on his own," says another.

"Bad luck," mutters Brighella. "We've your nut for a hammer, but we're fresh out of nails."

"No, if we're going to do it, let's at least show some style, let's go clean — like they say in the trade: if you slip in the shit, make a dance out of it!" Colombina insists, and, with an exasperated sigh, the six of them lift his gondola chair in unison like grim-faced pallbearers, sharing out not the weight, little of that that there is, but the dread. The other Burattini, being old troupers after all and superstitious about splitting up an act, reluctantly pile out of the gondolas yet again and join them, huddling closely, for their collective entrance.

"Mamma mia! Is this dumb, or what?"

"We must all be out of our waterlogged gourds!"

"Look at those crazy lights playing around up there! It's like some kind of Grand Opening!"

"Yeah, well, just so what gets opened isn't me!"

"This church, is it… is it used for last rites?" he asks faintly.

"No, never. Lust rites, more like. It's a wedding chapel."

"The brides are off-loaded from those steps out there."

"The only things that get buried here, old chum, are little birds in ripe figs."

"Ah…"

"But never so deep they can't be made to rise and sing again."

"And again."

"This is the only shaman shed in town where the Second Coming is not sufficient cause for celebration."