Chapter 2
2
PINOCCHIO
TEN YEARS AND NINE MONTHS LATER
I shake hands with the customer and give a friendly smile. “ Grazie mille , Signora Ricci. I know your grandson will enjoy.”
“And thank you, Mr. Carlo,” she replies with a grin. She holds up the tiny wooden marionette, smiling in satisfaction. Mrs. Ricci has always been a kind neighbor, and it makes me proud to know she’s now a happy customer of ours.
“Please, you’ve known me since I was little. It’s Pinocchio.” I chuckle and gently lead her out the door.
“ Si , but you’re a big strong businessman now. Just like your papa.” She beams as she walks out the door. I lean on the doorframe, always glad to chat with my fellow townsfolk.
“I take after him,” I point out.
“But unlike him, you have those precious brown curls.” She points to the mop of hair on my head and I chuckle.
“Well, he carved me that way,” I say with a laugh. While my dark hair was shorter as a puppet and kid, I grew it out after puberty. I quite like the way it flops over my forehead.
“You’ll make any girl a lucky bride one day, Pinocchio Carlo.”
“I don’t know,” I say noncommittally. A flame of embarrassment brushes across my cheeks, knowing I truly am not interested in a future bride.
“Finding someone to build a home with is the ultimate goal, wouldn’t you say?” Mrs. Ricci taps me on the shoulder and nods. “You have a goodnight, Pinocchio.” New toy in hand, she saunters down the cobblestone street.
“ Ciao ,” I say quietly. Her words make my smile fall; I had not once thought about girls while I was in school. I’ve been way too busy these past four years running the shop. Would it be nice to find someone who fits in my life to assist us? Of course. I had hoped Lampwick would grow to be a permanent part of our lives, but he left years ago to take odd jobs across Italy.
I can barely keep a friend; I’m in no shape to be anyone’s husband. Maybe when I’m twenty-two.
I look up to notice the lone streetlamp light up. It shines through the now-darkening sky. Summer is well underway, but I quite enjoy the lamp. Our little town of Collodi has that new technology that lights without a flame —an electric generator, I heard it’s called? It has something to do with that giant wheel in a nearby creek. In any case, I appreciate this new electricity invention. I hope to one day have devices of my own, instead of lighting candles every evening.
I wipe my hands on my carpenter’s apron then walk back inside. I flip the sign on the glass to read “ Chiuso ” and lock up. With no customers around, I can finally finish stringing up my last marionette. The life of a carpenter is one of no rest, but the more I do, the less Papa has to.
I complete the task and then place the small toy on our puppet rack. This one is of a prince in a black leotard with slicked back hair. The boy marionettes don’t sell as well, but why should the ballerina girls be the only ones represented? The tiny toy makes me sigh wistfully. The red hair and freckles I painted on weren’t supposed to be based on anyone in particular, but perhaps my subconscious is telling a different tale. It isn’t too often I think of my childhood best friend, the boy who left all those years ago. When I’m reminded of him, I recall how hard it is for me to make friends, and that loneliness gnaws at my chest.
I can still hear his child-voice telling me, “You’re a talking puppet! That’s pretty amazing!”
I told him my name, but he instantly shook his head. “That doesn’t suit you. I think I’ll call you…Sticks! Yeah. ‘Sticks’ is a name that ought to stick! Haha!” He laughed, and I couldn’t help but giggle with him. I learned early on that nicknames were a form of friendly affection. He was the first person to ever call himself my friend, and a seed of fondness planted itself in my wooden heart.
I shake my head of memories. Moving to the register, I begin to count our earnings of the day. Work, growing as a carpenter and a businessman, and supporting Papa are the things I need to focus on.
“Papa! Hello?” I walk into our tiny two-bedroom cottage, perplexed as to why the candles aren’t lit. Our old house is now the storefront of “Geppetto and Son”, with our current home right next door, making my commute a literal step away. Still, I make sure Papa spends more time at home resting instead of exhausting himself at work — he’s in his seventies, after all. He insists on carving still, but I run the shop into the evenings.
But now where is he? “Hello?” I feel something rub up on my ankles and snicker.
I bend over and pick up the black kitten. “Where is Papa, Arpeggio? Hm?” I ask, as if our pet will answer me. I put her on my shoulder, and she meows in response.
Grabbing a match from the front desk —I can find my way around my home in the dark —I quickly light a nearby candle. Our living quarters are merely a small entranceway, kitchen, and two small bedrooms, with a separate bathing room in the backyard. It’s not much, but it’s a home for Papa and me. Most importantly, I’m glad to not sleep in a giant desk drawer anymore.
The kitchen ought to be lit, since Papa surely should be eating supper now. But it’s dark everywhere, so I check his room. I gaze around with the light, but I see no one. His tiny bed is made, and I frown in confusion.
When I walk out, I notice a new light on in the kitchen. “Papa?” I ask in the dark.
Turning the corner, I see my father standing with a smile on his face. “Surprise!” He’s holding a tiny cake with a candle on it.
“What?” I ask, as Arpeggio leaps off me onto the ground.
“ Buon compleanno !” Papa places the cake down on our tiny circular table. Our kitchen is modest, with only three chairs, but we don’t need much.
“Wait, what?” I ask, as Papa ushers me into a seat.
“You didn’t think I’d forget the day I fashioned you out of wood, did you?” He sits down and beams at me. He’s balding, with a thick mustache, and his hair is just as gray as it’s been the past ten years. He has a few more wrinkles than when I was a puppet, but he’s the jovial person who brought me to life. He’s my old man, and I have nothing but love for him.
“No, I didn’t.” I chuckle and pick up Arpeggio. I put her on my lap, and she gazes at the two candles on the table, mine and the one in Papa’s cake. “Honestly, I forgot.”
“Well, I couldn’t!” Papa smiles. “You’re my boy. I can’t believe you’re already twenty-one!”
“Papa, you’ve only had me for like, eleven years.”
“But remember, I fashioned you out of wood, and —”
“And you wished a ten-year-old boy could be your son,” I say, finishing his often-repeated sentence. “And the Turquoise Fairy made it true.”
“And here we are! Several years later! Still a family.” He beams and puts his hand on mine on the table. “I can’t believe I’m the dad of a twenty-one-year-old man. I’m so ancient.”
I snort. “You’re not ancient, Papa.” I put my hand over his.
“I am, but hey! That’s not a bad thing. Being old just means I’ve been healthy enough to make it in the world this whole time!”
“And you always will be,” I retort. We share a laugh, and I go back to petting Arpeggio. She meows along with us, like she knows what we’re saying. She’s no Cricket —no constant spouting of advice —but with her sassy attitude, she perfectly rounds out our family of three.
“Now blow out your candle and make a wish.” Papa smiles, the firelight shining in his glasses.
I nod and stare pensively at the flame. I recall Mrs. Ricci’s words. Then I remember how happy I was as a puppet kid. No one made me laugh as much as one boy…
I clear my throat and desire blooms in my chest. I wish I could find someone who completes me, someone whom I can grow old with by my side.
I nod and take a deep breath through my nose. When I blow out the candle, Papa laughs and claps his hands. “ Splendido ! Now let’s enjoy this tiny cake.”
I snicker. “Okay. I’ll get some milk instead for this one.” I hold up Arpeggio, who meows in disagreement.
That evening, after I take out the trash, I gaze up at the night sky. The constellations glow like diamonds in a vast, tranquil ocean. I recall Papa saying he wished on all the stars for me to become real. I’m no na?ve child, so I didn’t think the Turquoise Fairy would make an appearance on my birthday. She already did so much for me as a kid. Just because you wish for something doesn’t always mean it will come true.
After bathing, I stroll to my room, say a little prayer, then fall asleep in my sheets. I have my papa’s health and a thriving carpentry business. And I have Arpeggio too, snoring in the living room. A former puppet like me doesn’t need much more, and that’s okay. Perhaps I don’t need to grow old with a wife, or anyone. Or maybe my perfect match hasn’t shown up yet.
The next morning, I walk into the shop via the back entrance. Papa manages the morning shift, with very few patrons, so I hear him out and about. I get to work sanding a small crate, a recent commission from one of the local farmers. Papa finds this work boring, but clocks and puppets don’t sell nearly as frequently as market supplies. A surprising number of wheelbarrows break in our tiny town in Tuscany.
After a few minutes, I begin to string up another marionette when I hear my father’s voice call to me in the front. “Piccolo, can you come here please?”
“What is it, Papa?” I stare carefully at the strings and walk through the doorway. “I’m busy with —ah!”
I yelp and drop the toy in shock. The young man standing next to Papa renders me speechless. I’m slammed back into a memory when I was a tiny puppet boy going to school for the first time. Then I recall another memory of him saying goodbye, leaving to work across Italy.
But now he’s here! Lampwick’s taller now, with a defined jawline. His hair is darker, not as orangey as before, and he’s just as trim as when we were kids. His green eyes bore into mine, and when he grins that toothy smile, he’s unmistakable. It’s him.
My voice is gone, I’m so taken aback by his presence. He clutches a small brown tweed hat, matching his dark vest over a white shirt, coupled with evergreen trousers. He gives me a slight wave, and I simply blink at him.
“Hi, Sticks. Good to see ya.” Hearing a grown Lampwick say that special nickname lights my soul on fire. His voice is deeper, but it’s undoubtedly him. My former best friend is here . Taking in his eyes, his massive manly body, and his familiar smile has my heart beating rapidly.
“L…L-Lampwick,” I stutter. I’m out of breath, like we’re two boys again, running after each other, without a care in the world.