The Good Little Devil and Other Tales

by Pierre Gripari

  “What about a quick hello to my new neighbours?”

  Okay, let’s get going! I went to knock on my neighbour’s door to the left.

  “Hello neighbour! I’m your new neighbour on the right. I’ve just bought the little house with a bedroom, kitchen, bathroom, living room, toilet and broom cupboard.”

  Hearing this, the good man turned as white as a sheet, before my eyes. He looked at me with a horrified expression, and bam! Without a word, he slammed the door in my face. I thought to myself, charitably:

  “Well! Quite an eccentric!”

  And I went to knock on the door of my right-hand neighbour:

  “Hello neighbour! I’m your new neighbour on the left. I’m the one who’s just bought the little house with a bedroom, kitchen, bathroom, living room, toilet and broom cupboard.”

  At which, there on the doorstep, the old lady clasped her hands, gazed at me with great compassion and began a long lament.

  “Alas, my poor m’sieur, yer quite through yer luck today! Oh, ’n it’s a pitiful thing to see, a kin’ young man like yerself! Well, Lord willin’ yer’ll come through it sum’ow… Long as yer’ve life, yer’ve ’ope, as they say, an’ long as yer ’ave yer ’ealf…”

  Hearing this, I began to grow nervous:

  “But really, my dear madame, can you at least tell me what’s wrong? Everyone I talk to about the house—”

  But the old lady interrupted me instantly:

  “I ’ope yer’ll excuse me, my dear m’sieur, but I’ve me roast in the oven… I must be off ’n see it don’t burn!”

  Bam! She too slammed the door in my face.

  This time, I was angry. I went back to the solicitor and said to him:

  “Now you’d better tell me what’s so amusing about my house, so I can join in the fun. And if you don’t wish to tell me, rest assured that I will split your head in two!”

  With these words, I raised his big glass ashtray, menacingly. This time the bloke stopped laughing:

  “Now, now, gently does it! Calm yourself, my dear monsieur! Please put that down and take a seat.”

  “First you can do some explaining!”

  “But of course, I’ll explain. After all, now you’ve signed the contract, I might as well tell you… the house is haunted!”

  “Haunted? Haunted by whom?”

  “By the witch in the broom cupboard!”

  “Couldn’t you have told me earlier?”

  “Not at all! If I’d told you, you wouldn’t have wanted to buy the house, and I wanted to sell it. He he he!”

  “Enough giggling, or I’ll crack your head open!”

  “All right, all right…”

  “But tell me, now I think about it: I looked into the broom cupboard, less than fifteen minutes ago… I didn’t see any witch in there.”

  “That’s because she’s not there in the daytime. She only comes out at night.”

  “And what does she do there, during the night?”

  “Oh, she keeps to herself, she doesn’t make any noise, she just stays there, quite well behaved, in her cupboard… only beware! If you should have the misfortune to sing:

  Witchy witch, beware,

  Watch out for your derrière!

  “Then she’ll come out… and it’ll be your turn to watch out!”

  Hearing this, I leapt to my feet, shouting:

  “You idiot! You’d no need to go singing that for me. It would never have crossed my mind to sing such tosh. Now, I’ll never be able to get it out of my head!”

  “That’s the idea! He he he!”

  And, just as I lunged for his neck, the solicitor escaped through a small door hidden behind him.

  What could I do? I went back home, thinking:

  “After all, I only have to be a little careful… Let’s try to forget that idiotic rhyme!”

  Easier said than done, for words like those are not easily forgotten. For the first few months, of course, I was on my guard. Then, after a year and a half, I was comfortable in the house, I had grown used to it, it was familiar… So I began to hum the tune during the day, when the witch wouldn’t be there… And then, outside, where I was in no danger… And then I started singing it at night, in the house—but not the whole rhyme! I only sang the beginning:

  Witchy witch, beware…

  And then I would stop. When I did that, I sometimes thought I saw the door to the broom cupboard begin to shake… But since I always stopped at that point, the witch couldn’t do a thing. Realizing this, I began to sing a little bit more each day: Watch out… then Watch out for… and then Watch out for your de… and even Watch out for your derri… I would stop just in time! There was no doubt about it, the cupboard door was shaking, rattling, on the verge of coming open… The witch must have been furious in there!

  This little game went on until last Christmas. That night, after having Christmas Eve supper with friends, I came home, a little tipsy, just as the clock was striking four in the morning, singing to myself all the way:

  Witchy witch, beware,

  Watch out for your derrière!

  Of course, I wasn’t running any real risk, for I was outside the house. I reached the high street: Witchy witch, beware… I stopped outside my front door: Watch out for your derrière!… I took the key from my pocket: Witchy witch, beware… I was still in no danger… I slid the key into the lock: Watch out for your derrière… I turned it, went in, took the key out again, closed the door behind me, went down the corridor, towards the stairs…

  Witchy witch, beware,

  Watch out for your derrière!

  Blast! I’d done it now! This time I’d sung the whole rhyme! And then I heard, very close by, a shrill, mean, nasty little voice:

  “Oh really! And why exactly should I be looking out for my derrière?”

  It was her. The broom-cupboard door was open and the witch was standing on the threshold, her right hand on her hip and one of my brooms held in her left. Naturally, I tried to explain:

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, madame! A moment of distraction… I forgot… I mean, I meant to say… I hummed it without thinking…”

  She chuckled softly:

  “Without thinking? Liar! For two years now, that song is all you’ve been thinking about. You made a fine fool of me, didn’t you, stopping every time just before the last word, the last syllable, even! But I said to myself: ‘Patience, my pretty! One day, he’ll spit it all out, his little sing-song, from start to finish, and when that day comes it will be my turn to have some fun…’ And here we are. The day has come!”

  I fell to my knees and began to plead:

  “Have pity, madame! Don’t hurt me! I didn’t mean to offend you: I actually really like witches. Some of my best friends are witches! My poor mother was a witch! If she weren’t dead, she could tell you herself… And besides, today is Christmas Day! Little Baby Jesus was born tonight. You can’t make me disappear today, of all days…”

  The witch replied:

  “Taratata! I won’t listen to a word! But since you’ve got such a ready tongue, I’m going to set you a challenge: you have three days in which to ask me for three things. Three impossible things! If I can give you all three of them, you’re mine. But if I am unable to give you any one of the three things, I shall disappear for ever and you’ll never see me again. So, I’m listening!”

  Playing for time, I replied:

  “Hm, I don’t know… I’ve no idea… I’ll have to think about this one… Can I have today to think about it?”

  “Fine,” said the witch. “I’m in no rush. See you in the evening!”

  And she disappeared.

  Sitting in thought for several hours, I cudgelled, wrestled with and generally racked my brains—when suddenly I remembered that my friend Bashir had two little fish in a bowl, and that he had said these two little fish were in fact magic fish. Without losing another second, I raced down rue Broca to go and ask Bashir:

  “Have you still got your two little fish?”
<
br />   “Yes. Why?”

  “Because there’s a witch in my house, a really old, wicked witch. I have to ask her for something impossible by tonight. If I don’t, she’ll spirit me away. Do you think your little fish might give me an idea?

  “Sure they will,” said Bashir. “I’ll go and get them.”

  He went into the back of his father’s shop and came back with a bowl full of water in which two little fish were swimming, one red and the other yellow with black spots. They really did look like magic fish.

  “Now, speak to them!”

  “I can’t!” Bashir replied. “I can’t talk to them; they don’t understand French. We need an interpreter! But don’t worry—we have one here.”

  And my friend Bashir began to sing:

  Little mouse

  Little friend

  Will you come this way?

  Speak to my little fish

  And you shall have a tasty dish!

  Hardly had he finished singing when an adorable little grey mouse came trotting out onto the counter, sat down on her little bottom beside the fishbowl and gave three tiny squeaks, like this:

  “Eep! Eep! Eep!”

  Bashir translated:

  “She says she’s ready. Tell her what happened to you.”

  I bent down and told the mouse everything: all about the solicitor, the house, the neighbours, the cupboard, the song, the witch and the challenge she had set me. After listening to me in silence, the mouse turned to the little fish and said to them in her language:

  “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 and long noodle leaves, 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 t
hick 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: