Alas (there I go again, I know) it was not to be.
But Disney, Disney who now owns Pixar, Star Wars, and Marvel, not to mention their own properties based on those happy-go-lucky fairy stories of a bygone era . . . not quite.
It’s no secret that the sources of those old Disney animated classics were not so squeaky clean. They were adapted that way later on but, if you need a lesson, check this out:
Sleeping Beauty as originally published was about a married king. The good king was married and one day he found a sleeping girl. He couldn’t wake her, so he raped her.
The Ara Effect.
Disney.
The Red Dragon Effect.
Writing on the cave walls. The survivors became known as Red Coats due to their work being only visible in the caves by fire or sun. They would create fabric in the color of red, initially (incorrectly) believing it to be a camouflage against dragonflame when traveling en masse out of the caves, and they ultimately morphed into Mirkwood’s first military. Their formidability did not extend to escape. They were defeated in their first battle and disappeared. They were never heard from again, until the time of James Monroe, and then Ara inspired Thomas McFee to write his book, a cult was to have been created, and the Red Coats were to have been reborn.
Thomas, a mortal, cannot complete the book on time. Ara’s plot was too close.
As was mine.
SEARLE ARTIST'S ACADEMY,
SOHO ARTS DISTRICT, NEW YORK CITY, FALL 2008
Professor Searle’s office.
“Anything else I should know?” Searle asks, as Esme Chaconte approaches the chair, pristine file folder in hand.
“Well . . .” she sits and rifles through the file. The name Sidra Ghioto has been sloppily written in marker on the front of the folder. “She’s diagnosed bipolar, if that’s important to you.”
“Trouble. Next?” He’s not entirely serious, but he tries.
Esme plays along. She knows him too well. “You haven’t dealt with worse? You don’t even know her.”
“The moods of some of the others aren’t enough for you?” Searle asks.
“Are you looking to build a business, or—”
“Or.”
“Okay,” Esme says, dropping the file to the floor. “Why are you doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“This,” she responds. “This is exactly the type of student that needs us. Needs you. Why are you being such a little shit?” Searle smiles. She does as well. “Said respectfully, of course.”
“Of course.” He pauses, and submits. “May I see the file?” Esme sweeps the folder from the floor and hands it to him. As he reads, or pretends to, she allows him his moment. “You’ve been withholding from me, I see.”
“Constantly,” she responds.
As he peruses—“You didn't tell me this was a Levin recommend—”
“You never gave me the chance,” Esme says. “Besides, I already approved her. You’ve approved all of Levin’s recommends, so why would this one be any different? Mother’s trying to sell her on it now.”
He has his reasons, but discontinues the exchange. “Who’s next?” he asks.
THE HEIGHTS COFFEEHOUSE, BROOKLYN HEIGHTS,
WINTER 2014
I tried, thinks Denise, over her second chai tea latte with soy milk. I did what I could . . . I really did. She would walk the Brooklyn Bridge today, her daughter’s typical route whenever she had too much on her mind. Moving on.
Like mother, like daughter.
Denise thinks of the early days, when behind the scenes of her business, and secret to even Thomas McFee, she worked with the state to adopt a foster child. Sidra.
The troubled girl with the birth name of Sidra Bethany Ghioto is ten when she comes home with her new mom, and is manipulative from the start.
Like mother, like daughter.
She has not developed any affection toward Denise. She has acted her way out of the system to have a fair shot at three squares a day and a warm bed. An opportunity; that is all.
Sidra is a user. Once in her new home, it’s business as usual.
Like mother, like daughter.
But when Sidra steals her new mom’s cell phone, and Denise later notices the images taken on its camera, she is stunned by their composition. Simple shots—a rainbow, a museum, an old couple on a bench—have been framed as if by a professional.
Denise purchases a camera for her daughter. “A gift to you with no strings attached,” she says, which is a lie. She wants the relationship to work, she truly does.
But nothing will change, really.
However, Sidra takes the occasional opportunity to show Denise her new images. She’s a sneak, but it’s her way of attaining validation.
~~~
2008.
Sidra is fifteen years old when her adoptive mother brings up the subject of Professor Searle for the first time.
“It’s called an Artist’s Academy,” Denise says.
“What the hell does that mean? What does any of this have to do with me?” Sidra asks.
“Your photos . . . you’re an artist.”
“You’re sending me back to foster—”
“Hardly. I think it’s time for you to explore your potential. That’s all.”
Moments of anxious air, and Sidra asks, “What do you know about him?”
Denise is relieved that an argument does not appear to be forthcoming. “Not much,” she answers. She notices Sidra’s dubious look. “Okay, I lied. I’m vaguely acquainted with a Professor Peter Levin. Long story. He recommended Searle, says he recently started this alternative school that will save the lives of a lot of troubled but talented kids.”
“So . . . you told him about me? This Levin? You got into a conversa-tion about me being a problem to you, and . . .”
“Exactly. Yes.”
“At least you’re honest. What else?”
“He’s said to work with prodigies.”
“You know I hate that word.”
“You know I’ve told you more than once there’s more to you than your emotions. Your photos are . . . supernatural, as far as I’m concerned. Your ability to capture the historic in the ordinary is no normal skill.”
“I’m not normal, now?”
“You know you’re not normal. I do love you, though.”
“And what else?” Sidra interrupts, not allowing Denise the satisfaction.
“Anyway, I checked him out, best I could.”
“Private investigator?”
“Exactly.”
“No surprise there.”
“He’s clean. The school is new, less than ten other students. It’s not cheap, but let’s give it a try.”
“A dorm?”
“If you want. Unless you think staying here is healthier .”
“A dorm is fine.”
“Okay, then?” Sidra stares at Denise, her eyes then waver and return. “What do you say?”
“Nothing to lose, I guess?”
“Is that a question?”
Sidra again looks straight at Denise; this time, her vulnerability is not disguised. “I guess,” she answers.
~~~
One week later.
As Sidra packs a single suitcase, Denise drops a manila envelope on the bed in front of her, the name Sidra Ghioto inked sloppily on its front.
“What’s this?” Sidra asks.
“A dossier.”
“Oh, get over it. You’re not James Bond. Everything is a dossier to you.”
Denise ignores her, turns, and walks to the door. “Read it first, and I’ll drive you,” Denise says. “There’ll be a quiz in the car.”
She closes the door. Sidra, exasperated, sits on the bed and turns the envelope to its back. She smirks when she reads:
When you return in two years, it says, I hope these words prove resonant. Pinocchio cannot be the liar for as long as the creator is in control. Everyone else is wrong. YOU are the creator, Sidra. You can never be the
victim. Please read.
Sidra opens the envelope. Words about Pinocchio and its author, Carlo Lorenzini, aka Carlo Collodi, are inside.
She reads the contents and knows right away she will indeed not forget the words, which will inform her life and career from here forward.
You really did do me a favor this time, she thinks. Thank you . . . Mom.
Being the first and the last time she will ever consider that word in any sort of positive context. That’s the intention, anyway.
She shakes off the thought, but reads once more, just in case.
~~~
Sidra chuckles as she begins again. There is something about Pinocchio she has long considered something more than charming.
Ten pages are in the dossier, which in reality is no dossier at all. More like a stab at motherly advice, Sidra thinks.
The first two pages are excerpts from Chapter One and Chapter Two of Pinocchio. A sticky note from Denise introduces these pages. It reads:
From the version of Pinocchio you know and love, which is actually a revision of the originally intended story.
CHAPTER 1
How it happened that Mastro Cherry, carpenter, found a piece of wood that wept and laughed like a child.
Centuries ago there lived—
“A king!” my little readers will say immediately.
No, children, you are mistaken. Once upon a time there was a piece of wood. It was not an expensive piece of wood. Far from it. Just a common block of firewood, one of those thick, solid logs that are put on the fire in winter to make cold rooms cozy and warm.
I do not know how this really happened, yet the fact remains that one fine day this piece of wood found itself in the shop of an old carpenter.
His real name was Mastro Antonio, but everyone called him Mastro Cherry, for the tip of his nose was so round and red and shiny that it looked like a ripe cherry . . .
CHAPTER 2
Mastro Cherry gives the piece of wood to his friend Geppetto, who takes it to make himself a Marionette that will dance, fence, and turn somersaults . . .
Ever-adventurous, my Pinocchio should be a king. Royalty? He will be carved a crown—one for every day of the week—so none will ever be lost . . .
~~~
Another sticky note introduces the next five pages. This sticky note reads: And then, excerpts from the version as originally written by the creator, Carlo Collodi, in a magazine called Il Giornale per i Bambini in 1881, before the revisions.
“Careful, ugly Cricket! If you make me angry, you’ll be sorry!”
“Poor Pinocchio, I am sorry for you.”
“Why?”
“Because you are a Marionette and, what is much worse, you have a wooden head.”
At these last words, Pinocchio jumped up in a fury, took a hammer from the bench, and threw it with all his strength at the Talking Cricket.
Perhaps he did not think he would strike it. But, sad to relate, my dear children, he did hit the Cricket, straight on its head.
With a last weak “cri-cri-cri” the poor Cricket fell from the wall, dead!
As he no longer had any strength left with which to stand, he sat down on a little stool and put his two feet on the stove to dry them. There he fell asleep, and while he slept, his wooden feet began to burn. Slowly, very slowly, they blackened and turned to ashes.
The Assassins chase Pinocchio, catch him, and hang him to the branch of a giant oak tree.
As he ran, the Marionette felt more and more certain that he would have to give himself up into the hands of his pursuers. Suddenly he saw a little cottage gleaming white as the snow among the trees of the forest.
“If I have enough breath left with which to reach that little house, I may be saved,” he said to himself.
Not waiting another moment, he darted swiftly through the woods, the Assassins still after him.
After a hard race of almost an hour, tired and out of breath, Pinocchio finally reached the door of the cottage and knocked. No one answered.
He knocked again, harder than before, for behind him he heard the steps and the labored breathing of his persecutors. The same silence followed.
As knocking was of no use, Pinocchio, in despair, began to kick and bang against the door, as if he wanted to break it. At the noise, a window opened and a lovely maiden looked out. She had azure hair and a face white as wax. Her eyes were closed and her hands crossed on her breast. With a voice so weak that it hardly could be heard, she whispered:
“No one lives in this house. Everyone is dead.”
“Won’t you, at least, open the door for me?” cried Pinocchio in a beseeching voice.
“I also am dead.”
“Dead? What are you doing at the window, then?”
“I am waiting for the coffin to take me away.”
After these words, the little girl disappeared and the window closed without a sound.
“Oh, Lovely Maiden with Azure Hair,” cried Pinocchio, “open, I beg of you. Take pity on a poor boy who is being chased by two Assass—”
He did not finish, for two powerful hands grasped him by the neck and the same two horrible voices growled threateningly: “Now we have you!”
The Marionette, seeing death dancing before him, trembled so hard that the joints of his legs rattled and the coins tinkled under his tongue.
“Well,” the Assassins asked, “will you open your mouth now or not? Ah! You do not answer? Very well, this time you shall open it.”
Taking out two long, sharp knives, they struck two heavy blows on the Marionette’s back.
Happily for him, Pinocchio was made of very hard wood and the knives broke into a thousand pieces. The Assassins looked at each other in dismay, holding the handles of the knives in their hands.
“I understand,” said one of them to the other, “there is nothing left to do now but to hang him.”
“To hang him,” repeated the other.
They tied Pinocchio’s hands behind his shoulders and slipped the noose around his neck. Throwing the rope over the high limb of a giant oak tree, they pulled till the poor Marionette hung far up in space.
Satisfied with their work, they sat on the grass waiting for Pinocchio to give his last gasp. But after three hours the Marionette’s eyes were still open, his mouth still shut and his legs kicked harder than ever.
Tired of waiting, the Assassins called to him mockingly: “Good-by till tomorrow. When we return in the morning, we hope you’ll be polite enough to let us find you dead and gone and with your mouth wide open.” With these words they went.
A few minutes went by and then a wild wind started to blow. As it shrieked and moaned, the poor little sufferer was blown to and fro like the hammer of a bell. The rocking made him seasick and the noose, becoming tighter and tighter, choked him. Little by little a film covered his eyes.
Death was creeping nearer and nearer, and the Marionette still hoped for some good soul to come to his rescue, but no one appeared. As he was about to die, he thought of his poor old father, and hardly conscious of what he was saying, murmured to himself:
“Oh, Father, dear Father! If you were only here!”
These were his last words. He closed his eyes, opened his mouth, stretched out his legs, and hung there, as if he were dead.
The next sticky note reads: And back to the revision . . .
Father and son looked up to the ceiling, and there on a beam sat the Talking Cricket.
“Oh, my dear Cricket,” said Pinocchio, bowing politely.
“Oh, now you call me your dear Cricket, but do you remember when you threw your hammer at me to kill me?”
“You are right, dear Cricket. Throw a hammer at me now. I deserve it! But spare my poor old father.”
“I am going to spare both the father and the son. I have only wanted to remind you of the trick you long ago played upon me, to teach you that in this world of ours we must be kind and courteous to others, if we want to find kindness and courtesy in our own days of trouble.�
��
“You are right, little Cricket, you are more than right, and I shall remember the lesson you have taught me . . .”
Finally, the last of the notes: I took a stab at writing myself once. Carlo in truth hated children. He had none of his own and this was very much by choice.
“Hint much?” Sidra says to herself.
I took a stab at writing a fiction once, using the author Carlo Collodi as my base, a children’s writer who hated children. I tried to convince myself of that once, just in case. Sidra ignores the not-so-subtle message there. Anyway, this was my effort, using people I know to—let’s just say lighten the mood.
FLORENCE, ITALY, 1876
Young author Carlo Collodi wanders the cobblestone streets of Florence, Italy, catching sight of a robbery in progress. Vendors run after him; the boy tilts apple carts and craft displays in his wake. Collodi watches with fascination. Why he cannot take his eyes off the action is something he cannot figure.
Nor does he have any desire to try. This is the only excitement he’s felt for . . . well, for as long as he could recall.
Carlo looks to the skies. A good sun, he thinks.
The street urchin cannot be any older than fourteen. He wears a raggedy cap and coat, and laughs as he continues to steal fruit and other goods in plain sight of the vendors. When caught, he overturns the stand, and escapes with the food in hand. He laughs more as he runs, tripping innocent bystanders, flipping wooden inventory wagons.
It’s a chase, to be sure. Carlo, though, doesn’t run. He follows.
Carlo tracks the urchin for as long as he can. He is fascinated and hopeful, as if he may well have been presented with the answer to his deepest prayers. Surely, he has no parents to speak of, he considers. He glimpses the boy heading into the Uffizi, camouflaging himself against a tour group. Carlo notices others trying to find the urchin; he decoys them, then follows the offender inside.
Why? he ponders. Why does this mean so much to me? He recalls Michelangelo, and the veritable nightmares that “sublime artist” went through when sculpting David. The answer to my desires. Finally I find myself in the right place at the right time.
Chronicles of Ara: Perdition Page 30
