The Witch in the Broom Cupboard and Other Tales

by Pierre Gripari

  “Eepi eepeepi peepi reepeeteepi…”

  And on like that for another five minutes.

  *

  Once they too had listened in silence, the fish exchanged glances, consulted, whispered in each other’s ears, and then finally, the red fish rose to the surface of the water and opened his mouth several times, making a tiny, almost inaudible sound:

  “Po—po—po—po…”

  And so on, for nearly a minute.

  When that was done, the little mouse turned back to Bashir and began squeaking again:

  “Peepiri peepi reepipi.”

  I asked Bashir:

  “What is she saying?”

  He replied:

  “This evening, when you see the witch, ask her for jewels made of rubber that shine like real gemstones. She won’t be able to bring you any.”

  I thanked Bashir. Bashir dropped a few water-fleas into the bowl for the fish to eat and gave the mouse a round of salami, and I left the shop to go back home.

  The witch was waiting for me in the corridor:

  “So? What will you ask me for?”

  I replied, confidently:

  “I want you to give me jewels made of rubber that shine like real gemstones!”

  But the witch began to laugh:

  “Haha! You didn’t think up that one by yourself! But never mind, here they are.”

  She rummaged about inside her bodice and pulled out a fistful of jewellery: two bracelets, three rings and a necklace, all shining just like gold, glittering like diamonds, in all the colours of the rainbow—and soft as the rubber in your pencil case!”

  “See you tomorrow for your second request,” said the witch. “And this time, try to make it a little more challenging!”

  And—pouf! She disappeared.

  The following morning, I took the jewellery with me to a friend who is a chemist, and asked him:

  “Can you tell me what this substance is?”

  “Give me a minute,” he said.

  And he locked himself up in his lab. After an hour, he came back out, saying:

  “This is quite extraordinary! They’re made of rubber! I’ve never seen such a thing. May I keep them?”

  I left the jewellery with him and went back to see Bashir.

  “The jewellery was no good,” I told him. “The witch brought them to me straight away.”

  “In that case, we’ll have to try again,” said Bashir.

  He went back to get the fishbowl, set it on the counter and began to sing once more:

  Little mouse

  Little friend

  Will you come this way?

  Speak to my little fish

  And you shall have a tasty dish!

  The little mouse ran out, I told her what had happened, she translated, then listened to the reply from the fish and transmitted it to Bashir:

  “Peepi pirreepipi ippee ippee ip!”

  “What does she say?”

  And Bashir translated for me, again:

  “Ask the witch for a branch from the macaroni tree, and replant it in your garden to see if it will grow!”

  That very evening, I said to the witch:

  “Bring me a branch from the macaroni tree!”

  “Haha! That’s not your own idea either! But no matter: here you go.”

  And pouf! She pulled a magnificent branch of flowering macaroni out of her bodice, with twigs made of spaghetti, long noodle leaves and pasta-shell flowers. It even had little seeds shaped like alphabet pasta!

  I was quite amazed, but even so, I couldn’t let the witch off so easily:

  “That isn’t a branch from a real tree—it won’t grow!”

  “That’s what you think,” said the witch. “Just plant it out in your garden and you’ll see. Catch you tomorrow evening!”

  Without further ado, I went into the garden, dug a small hole in a flower bed, planted the macaroni branch in it, watered it and went to bed. The following morning, I went downstairs to look. The branch had grown huge: it was almost a whole new tree, with several fresh branches and twice as many flowers. I gripped it with both hands and tried to pull it up… but I couldn’t! I scratched at the ground around the trunk and I saw that it was being held tight to the ground by hundreds of its own tiny vermicelli roots…

  This time I was desperate. I didn’t even feel like going back to Bashir. I wandered around like a soul in pain, and I’m sure I saw people whispering when they saw me go by. I knew what they were saying, too!

  “That poor young man—just look at him! It’s his last day on this earth, you can see straight away. The witch will surely carry him away tonight!”

  On the stroke of midday, Bashir gave me a call:

  “So? Did it work?”

  “No, it didn’t. I am lost. The witch is going to carry me off tonight. Goodbye, Bashir!”

  “Not at all, nothing is lost. Why are you going on like this? Come round here right now and we’ll ask the little fish!”

  “What for? It’s no good.”

  “And what good is doing nothing? I’m telling you, come to my place right away! It’s shameful to give up like this!”

  “All right, if you wish, I’m coming…”

  And I went back to Bashir’s house. When I got there, everything was ready: Bashir, the bowl with the little fish and the little mouse sitting beside it.

  For the third time I told my story, the little mouse translated it, the fish discussed it at length, and this time it was the yellow fish that came to the surface to speak in a series of gulps:

  “Po—po—po—po—po—po—po…”

  He went on for nearly a quarter of an hour.

  Next the mouse turned back to us and made a whole speech, which took a good ten minutes.

  I asked Bashir:

  “What on earth can they be going on about, this time?”

  Bashir told me:

  “Listen, and do pay attention because this is not so simple. This evening, when you get back home, ask the witch to bring you the hairy frog. She will be very embarrassed, for the hairy frog is in fact the witch herself! The witch is no more, no less, than the hairy frog in human form. Now, one of two things should happen: either she won’t be able to bring you the hairy frog, in which case she will have to leave your house for ever—or she will decide to show you the frog anyway, and to do that, she will have to transform herself back into it. As soon as she has turned into the hairy frog, you must catch her and tie her up good and tight with thick string. Then she won’t be able to grow back into the witch again. After that, you must shave her hair off and then you’ll be left with a perfectly inoffensive, ordinary frog.”

  Now I began to feel hopeful again. I asked Bashir:

  “Could you sell me the string?”

  Bashir sold me a ball of tough string. I thanked him and went back home.

  Come evening, the witch was there, waiting for me:

  “So, my pretty, has the time come for me to spirit you away? What are you going to ask me for now?”

  I made sure that the string was nice and loose in my pocket, and then I replied:

  “Bring me the hairy frog!”

  Now the witch stopped laughing. She gave a shriek of rage:

  “What? What did you say? You didn’t think this one up by yourself either! Ask me for something else!”

  But I stood firm:

  “Why should I ask for something else? I don’t want anything else; I want the hairy frog!”

  “You have no right to ask me for that!”

  “Is it that you can’t bring me the hairy frog?”

  “Of course I can, but this isn’t fair!”

  “So you don’t want to bring it to me?”

  “No, I don’t want to!”

  “In that case, go back where you came from. This is my home!”

  At that, the witch began to screech:

  “Oh, it’s like that, is it? In that case, here you go, since this is what you want; you shall have your hairy frog!”


  And before my eyes she began to grow smaller, to dwindle, shrivel and shrink as if she were melting away, so much and so completely that within five minutes there before me was nothing but a fat, green frog with a thick crop of hair on her head, hopping around on the floor and croaking as if she had hiccups:

  “Ribbit, ribbit! Ribbit, ribbit!”

  I jumped on her right away and pinned her to the ground. Pulling the string from my pocket, I took her and trussed her up like a chunk of salami… She wriggled, almost strangling herself; she did her best to grow back into the witch… but the string was too tight! Her eyes bulged furiously at me, while she croaked desperately:

  “Ribbit, ribbit! Ribbit! Ribbit!”

  Without hesitating, I carried the frog into the bathroom, soaped her up and shaved her hair off, after which I untied her, ran a little water into the bath and left her to spend the night there.

  The next morning, I took her to Bashir in a small bowl with a tiny ladder inside it, so she could help forecast the weather for him (she would climb up the ladder if good weather was coming and sit at the bottom if the forecast was bad). Bashir thanked me and put the new bowl on a shelf, next to the one with the little fish.

  Since that day, the two fish and the frog have not stopped talking to each other. The frog says: “Ribbit, ribbit!” and the fish: “Po—po!” and they go on like that for days on end!

  One day I said to Bashir:

  “How about you call the mouse in, so we can find out what they’re saying to each other?”

  “Sure, if you like!” Bashir said.

  And once more, he sang:

  Little mouse

  Little friend

  Will you come this way…

  When the mouse came, Bashir asked her to listen and translate. But this time, the mouse refused point blank.

  “Why won’t she translate?” I asked.

  Bashir replied:

  “Because it’s nothing but swearing!”

  So now you know the story of the witch in the broom cupboard. And now, if you come and visit me in my little house, whether by day or by night, you can quite safely sing:

  Witchy witch, beware,

  Watch out for your derrière!

  I promise nothing will happen to you!

  The Love Story of a Potato

  There was once a potato—a common potato, such as we see every day—but this one was eaten up with ambition. Her lifelong dream was to become a French fry. And this is probably what would have happened to her, had the youngest boy in the house not stolen her from the kitchen.

  As soon as he had his booty safely in his bedroom, the little boy pulled a knife from his pocket and set about carving the potato. He began by giving her two eyes—and at once the potato could see. After which he gave her two ears—and the potato was able to hear. Finally, he gave her a mouth—and the potato was able to speak. Then the boy made her look at herself in a mirror, saying:

  “See how beautiful you are!”

  “How dreadful!” replied the potato. “I am not the least bit beautiful. I look like a boy! I was much happier before.”

  “Fine, okay then!” replied the little boy, annoyed. “If that’s how you see it…”

  And he threw the potato in the bin.

  Early the next morning, the bin was emptied and, later that day, the potato was dumped along with a great heap of other rubbish, in the middle of the countryside.

  “An attractive region,” she said, “and very popular at that! What a collection of fascinating people there are here… Now, who can that be, looking rather like a frying pan?”

  It was an old guitar, nearly split in half, with only two strings left intact.

  “Hello there, madame,” said the potato. “It seems to me, from your appearance, that you must be a very distinguished person, for you bear a marvellous resemblance to a frying pan!”

  “You are very kind,” said the guitar. “I do not know what a frying pan would be, but I thank you all the same. It’s true that I’m not just anybody. My name is Guitar. And yours?”

  “Well, my name is Maris Piper. But you can call me Potato for, from today, I shall count you an intimate friend. Because of my beauty, I was selected to become a French fry, and I should have become one had I not suffered the misfortune of being stolen from the kitchen by the youngest boy in the house. What is worse, having stolen me, the scoundrel completely disfigured me with these pairs of eyes and ears and this awful mouth…”

  And the potato began to cry.

  “Now, now, don’t cry,” said the guitar. “You are still very elegant. And besides, this means you can speak…”

  “That’s true,” agreed the potato. “It’s a great consolation. In the end—to finish my story—when I saw what that little monster had done to me, I was furious, and I wrenched the knife right out of his hands, cut off his nose and ran away.”

  “Well done, you!” the guitar responded.

  “Don’t you think?” said the potato. “But, what about you? How do you come to be here?”

  “Well,” replied the guitar, “for many years I was best friends with a handsome young boy, who loved me dearly. He used to bend over me, take me in his arms, caress me, strum me, pluck the strings on my belly while singing such delightful songs to me…”

  The guitar sighed, then her voice grew bitter and she went on:

  “One day he came back with a strange instrument. This one was also a guitar, but made of metal, and oh so heavy, vulgar and stupid! She took my friend from me, she bewitched him. I am sure he didn’t really love her. He never sang her any tender songs when he picked her up—not one! He used to pluck furiously at her strings and give savage howls and roll about on the ground with her—you would have thought they were fighting! Besides, he didn’t trust her! The plain proof is that he kept her tied up on a leash!”

  In fact, what had happened was that the handsome young man had bought an electric guitar, and what our guitar had taken for a leash was in fact the wire that connected the new guitar to the electricity.

  “Anyway, however it happened, she stole him from me. After only a few days he only had eyes for her, he no longer looked at me at all. And when I saw that, well, I preferred to leave him…”

  The guitar was lying. She had not left of her own accord; her master had thrown her out. But she would never have admitted that.

  In any case, the potato hadn’t understood a word.

  “What a beautiful story!” she said. “How moving! I’m quite beside myself. I knew we were made to understand each other. Besides, the more I look at you, the more I feel you look like a frying pan!”

  But while they were chatting like this, a tramp going by on the high road heard them, stopped and listened harder.

  “Now this is no ordinary how-d’ye-do,” he thought. “An old guitar telling her life story to an old potato, and the potato answering. If I can do this right, I’ll be a rich man!”

  He found a way into the wasteland, picked up the potato and put her in his pocket, then he grabbed the guitar and took the two friends with him to the next town.

  This town had a large central square, and in the square there was a circus. The tramp went and knocked on the circus ringmaster’s door.

  “Mista Ringmaster! Mista Ringmaster sir!”

  “Hmph? What? Come in! What do you want?”

  The tramp stepped into the caravan.

  “Mista Ringmaster, I have a talking guitar!”

  “Hmph? What? Talking guitar?”

  “Yes yes, Mista Ringmaster! And a potato that answers it back!”

  “Hmph? What? What is this story? Are you drunk, my friend?”

  “No, no, I’m not drunk. Please just listen!”

  The tramp put the guitar on the table, then took the potato from his pocket and put them next to each other.

  “Now, hop to it. Talk, you two!”

  Silence.

  “Talk, I tell you!”

  More silence. The Ringmaster’s face flushed an a
ngry red.

  “Tell me, my friend, did you come here purely to make a fool of me?”

  “Of course not, Mista Ringmaster! I’m telling you, they do talk, both of them, to each other. Just now, they’re being difficult so as to annoy me, but…”

  “Get out!”

  “But when they are alone…”

  “I said: get out!”

  “But Mista Ringmaster…”

  “Hm? What? You haven’t left yet? Very good, I shall throw you out myself!”

  The ringmaster caught the tramp by the seat of his pants and—therr-whumpp!—he tossed him out. But at that very moment, he heard a great burst of laughter behind him. Unable to hold her tongue any longer, the potato had just said to the guitar:

  “Hey, do you think we fooled him? He he he!”

  “And how! We fooled him good and proper!” the guitar was saying. “Ha ha ha!”

  The ringmaster whirled around:

  “Well I never, how about that! The old drunk was telling the truth. You can talk, both of you!”

  Silence.

  “Come on,” the ringmaster went on. “There’s no point keeping quiet now. You can’t fool me any longer: I heard you!”

  Silence.

  “That is a pity!” the ringmaster said then, with a cunning expression. “I had a rather exciting proposal for you. An artistic proposal!”

  “Artistic?” asked the guitar.

  “Shut up!” hissed the potato.

  “But I adore art!”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere!” said the ringmaster. “I can see that you’re a sensible pair. And indeed, you will have work, both of you—oh yes you will. You will become stars.”

  “I’d rather become a French fry,” objected the potato.

  “A French fry? You—with your talent? That would be a crime! Would you really prefer to be eaten than to be famous?”

  “What do you mean, ‘eaten’? Do people eat French fries?” asked the potato.

  “Do we eat French fries? Of course we eat them! Why do you think we’re always frying more?”

  “Really? I didn’t know!” said the potato. “Well, if that’s how things stand, then fine. I’d rather become a star.”