The Good Little Devil and Other Tales

by Pierre Gripari

  “But she’s not an object either… She speaks, she can sing…”

  “Very well, I’ll take her from you!”

  “But you’ve no right to do that!”

  “It’s my right to do anything I please, for I have oodles of money!”

  The ringmaster realized he should try to be a little cleverer.

  “You will cause me great sadness,” he said, sobbing. “I love that potato, I’ve grown attached to her…”

  “And how I sympathize!” said the Sultan, with just a hint of sarcasm. “In that case, I can offer you a caravan full of diamonds for her!”

  “Just the one caravan?” asked the ringmaster.

  “Two, if you prefer!”

  The ringmaster wiped away a tear, blew his nose loudly, then added in a wobbly voice:

  “I feel, if you were to go as far as three caravans…”

  “Done! Three it shall be, and let that be an end of it.”

  The next day, the Sultan flew back to his sultanate, taking the potato with him, and also the guitar, for the two old friends were determined to stay together. That week, a popular weekly magazine published a photograph of the brand-new couple with the following front-page headline:

  WE LOVE EACH OTHER

  In the weeks that followed, the same magazine published more photos, and the headlines changed accordingly. In order of appearance, they went like this:

  WILL THE GOVERNMENT DARE TO STOP THEM?

  WILL IT BREAK THE POTATO’S HEART?

  POTATO SAYS, WEEPING: THIS CAN’T GO ON!

  GUITAR SAYS: I’D RATHER GO!

  AND STILL THEY ARE IN LOVE!

  LOVE CONQUERS ALL

  And beneath that last headline followed more photographs—from the wedding of the Sultan and the potato. Only a week later, the newspapers were full of other news, and soon, everyone had forgotten all about the love story of the Sultan, the potato and the guitar.

  Uncle Pierre’s House

  In a village in France there lived two brothers, one who was rich while the other was poor. The rich brother was a bachelor; the poor one was married. The rich one had plenty of money and did not need to work, while the poor one was a farm worker. The poor one had no house of his own; instead he and his wife lived in the house of the farmer who employed him, while the rich brother had a big house, less than a mile from the village, after the graveyard.

  The poor brother was friendly with everyone, and only wanted to be helpful. Consequently, all the local people liked him, although they also looked down on him a little. The rich brother, however, was greedy, a mean and dour type, so that, while they respected him a lot, the people did not like him much.

  *

  One fine morning, the farmer who employed the poor brother said to him:

  “Look, autumn is almost over, the main tasks are done and I can’t afford to pay you to do nothing. Take your wife and be off with you.”

  What could he do? Where could he go? The poor man and his wife went to see his rich brother.

  “The farmer has sent us away,” he said, “and we haven’t even a place to live during the winter. Could you perhaps put us up? Only until the spring?”

  The rich man frowned. He enjoyed being alone and undisturbed in his big house. However, he could not leave his brother out in the cold. He replied:

  “Well, of course, come in and make yourselves at home. You can sleep in the upstairs bedroom and I’ll take the big room downstairs. But take note, it’s on one condition!”

  “What’s that?”

  “That you will never go out in the evening after dinner, and that you will be in bed by nine o’clock at the latest!”

  “Of course!” said the poor man.

  That day, he and his wife moved into the upstairs bedroom.

  For three months, that’s how they lived. The poor brother’s wife did the cooking and, during the day, the poor brother himself criss-crossed the village looking for odd jobs. Meanwhile, the rich brother did nothing; he was always deep in thought. They had their meals together and, after dinner, as soon as the table was cleared, the poor brother and his wife said goodnight to the rich brother and went up to bed. The rich man stayed up very late in the big room on the ground floor, where his oil lamp glimmered long into the night.

  “What can he be doing, up so late, all by himself?” wondered the poor man’s wife.

  And the poor man answered:

  “He can do whatever he likes; it is his house.”

  But his wife wanted to find out. One fine evening, on the stroke of eleven, she softly went back down the stairs, barefoot and in the pitch dark. The door to the downstairs room was ajar. Silently, she tiptoed towards it and peeked inside: there she saw her brother-in-law sitting at the great dining table, taking gold coins one by one out of a little iron box and stacking them in tall piles.

  She went back upstairs and said to her husband:

  “I know what your brother is doing.”

  “What is he doing?”

  “He’s counting gold.”

  “And why not? It’s his gold, after all.”

  December went by, and January too. One bright morning towards the middle of February, the poor man’s wife came downstairs to light the fire and make the coffee. The rich man was still asleep in bed. She went over to wake him and saw that he had died, and it must have been quite suddenly, during the night.

  Hearing this, the poor brother was genuinely upset. The two brothers had loved and respected each other, despite their different personalities.

  That morning, the couple went to see a lawyer. Since he had no children, all the rich man’s belongings would go to the poor man, who was, therefore, no longer poor.

  That same afternoon, the husband and wife looked through every room in the house very carefully. They found some money in cash and some more in bonds—enough to guarantee them a good living to the end of their days.

  But the wife was not satisfied:

  “There is gold hidden in this house,” she said. “I’m certain of it. I’ve seen it.”

  They rummaged through everything again, from the cellar to the attic, without finding either the gold or the little iron box.

  “Perhaps you dreamt it,” her husband suggested.

  “I’m quite sure I did not,” replied his wife. “I saw gold, real gold coins, in a little iron box, like a biscuit tin. But he’s hidden it well!”

  “Too bad, then,” said her husband. “Besides, we’ve no need of it now. We have quite enough money to live on.”

  The funeral was held the following morning and, that evening, for the first time, instead of going to bed, the husband and wife stayed up after dinner in the big room on the ground floor.

  When midnight struck, they were still there. Hardly had the twelve strokes rung out from the village church than they heard behind them a rough voice:

  “Well, well, what are you two doing here?”

  They span around: it was the rich brother, or rather his ghost, dressed just as he had been when alive.

  “Is that you, Pierre?” asked the poor brother.

  The ghost continued without answering him:

  “I thought I told you that you must be in bed every evening by nine o’clock…”

  “But now that you are dead…” protested the poor brother.

  “What are you saying?” thundered the ghost in a terrible voice.

  “I’m saying that you are dead!”

  “And what do you mean by that?”

  “We mean that you are dead!” said the wife, brusquely. “Now, don’t you remember? We only buried you this morning!”

  At this, the ghost got really angry:

  “What on earth is this nonsense? A fabrication, so as to steal what’s rightfully mine from under my nose, is that it? Is this the thanks I get for taking you into my home? And you expect me to believe this codswallop? Get off to bed with you, this minute!”

  Shamefaced, the couple went back up to their old bedroom. The husband got
undressed and into bed, then said to his wife:

  “What’s up? Aren’t you coming to bed?”

  His wife replied:

  “I still want to see what he’s up to.”

  “Don’t go,” said her husband. “It’s not wise.”

  The wife shrugged.

  “Why not? What do you think he’ll do to me?”

  Down she went, as she had the first time, barefoot and in the dark, and peering through the half-open door, just like the first time, she saw her brother-in-law sitting at the great table, counting out his gold coins. But this time the ghost guessed she was there. Hardly had she seen him when he turned towards the door and shouted:

  “Now what is it?”

  Terrified, the wife leapt back up the stairs, four at a time.

  “What is he doing?” asked her husband.

  “He is still counting his money,” she said.

  The next day, they went to the village priest, to ask him what all this could mean. The priest listened to their story most attentively, then said:

  “It is rare, but this does sometimes happen. A great passion, whether for good or for bad, can prevent a soul from being at peace. Your brother loved his gold too much. This is why his ghost returns, every night, to count it over and over…”

  “But he is dead!”

  “He is indeed dead, but he hasn’t accepted his death. He doesn’t want to admit it has happened. However hard you argue with him, he will refuse to see the truth. His greed is keeping him here on earth. It’s a great hardship; we should feel sorry for him!”

  “So there’s nothing to be done?”

  “There’s nothing to be done. This will go on until the day when he himself recognizes the absurdity of his behaviour. On that day, he will be free. But it might take centuries!”

  The couple did not ask again. In any case they couldn’t complain, for they had the dead man’s cash and his bonds. They bought a few meadows and a small house in town, where they set up home, and there they lived, wanting for nothing, the husband working the land and his wife looking after everything indoors.

  That spring, they had a little boy and, the following year, a little girl. The two children grew up and began to walk and talk. After five or six years they started attending school. Every Sunday afternoon, the two children would go for a walk together. Every time, their mother would warn them:

  “Do not stray anywhere near the graveyard, and above all never go into your Uncle Pierre’s house. He’ll be very angry.”

  She didn’t say any more, for she did not want to frighten them needlessly.

  However, one fine spring evening, the children were caught out in a thunderstorm just as they happened to be walking on the far side of the graveyard. It began to rain heavily, and soon very heavily, there were flashes of lightning and it didn’t look like stopping soon, for the light had turned a hazy grey and the sky was black all over.

  “Let’s take shelter in that house,” said the little girl.

  The little boy recognized Uncle Pierre’s house and he hesitated for a moment. Then he decided that the village was still a while away, that his little sister might be taken ill and that, however unwelcoming Uncle Pierre might be, he could not refuse them shelter.

  They stepped straight into the main room. There they found a bed that seemed not to have been made for years. They took off their wet clothes, hung them out on the backs of the chairs, then lay down nice and dry and went to sleep.

  Unawares, the children slept deeply for several hours, until they were awoken by a grumpy voice:

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Excuse us, monsieur,” said the little boy. “We were just looking for somewhere to shelter. We didn’t mean to stay. We fell asleep…”

  “So I see: you did indeed fall asleep. First, who are you? What are your names?”

  The little boy told him his name, his sister’s name and their surname. The ghost raised his eyebrows.

  “So that’s how it is: you are my niece and nephew?”

  “Yes, Uncle.”

  “Now I understand! My brother has sent you here—to spy on me. Perhaps to steal from me!”

  “You’re mistaken, Uncle, I assure you! On the contrary, our parents told us never to enter your house! It’s all my fault!”

  “Your parents told you, your parents told you… And why would they tell you such a thing, anyway? Am I some kind of ogre?”

  “Umm… so we wouldn’t disturb you, surely…”

  “Enough nonsense! I know why they told you to keep away—to make you afraid of me! There! They want people to think I’m dead, so they can get my gold… What gold, anyway! There’s no gold here. And what would I be doing with gold?

  “Anyway, I’m not dead! Not at all! As long as I’m here, they shan’t have a single gold sovereign of it! Besides, there’s no gold here. I haven’t any. There’s nothing here but these four walls, that’s all. You can tell your father that from me. Got it?”

  “Yes, Uncle…”

  “Right, then what are you waiting for? Get dressed and scarper, both of you!”

  The two children had not understood a word of this flood of speech, but they got dressed and were just leaving when the ghost stopped them:

  “Now where are you off to? You can see it’s still raining. Stay here! And take those clothes off—they’re still quite sodden. They’ll go about saying I’m heartless all over again! That’s right, hang them out by the fire.”

  “But there is no fire!” the little boy pointed out.

  “No fire? What’s that, then?”

  The ghost waved his hand and a roaring fire appeared in the fireplace.

  “Each of you take a blanket. Sit yourselves near and warm those feet. Now you have distracted me, I shan’t be able to work any more tonight. I will come and warm myself beside you. An evening wasted thanks to you!”

  “Forgive us, Uncle…”

  “Be quiet. Did I ask you anything? Oh, I know, I know: there are plenty besides the four of you who would like to know… But they won’t find out a thing! What did you think? That I would show you my little secrets? Your old uncle’s not quite the fool you take him for! And anyway, I have no secrets… There’s nothing here but these four walls, and that’s all. No more than that… No more…”

  All three were sitting around the fire, the two children wrapped in blankets and the old man muttering softly away, more for his own benefit than for theirs. In a few minutes, grown drowsy from the fire’s heat, lulled by Uncle Pierre’s gentle drone and helped along by the lateness of the hour, the little boy dropped off to sleep in his chair.

  A burst of laughter woke him up. His little sister was giggling helplessly. The little boy’s eyes flew open and he saw something incredible: Uncle Pierre had himself fallen asleep, and the little girl had tried to climb into his lap. She had got up, gone over to the armchair and, passing right through the ghost’s ethereal body, she had found herself sitting right inside Uncle Pierre’s tummy, which is what had made her giggle.

  Now the little boy was really afraid. Not at seeing that Uncle Pierre was not really all there—if that’s how things were, then that’s how things were, he felt—but he was afraid that their uncle might get angry, that he might find the little girl’s behaviour disrespectful.

  “Please forgive her,” he said, “she only wanted to play…”

  But Uncle Pierre was not listening. Having himself only just jolted awake, he too was staring down in shock at the little girl sitting inside his stomach, giggling away and rocking back and forth, wiggling her two little bare feet in the air.

  “So it was true,” he muttered, “so it was true after all…”

  Then his eye fell on the little boy and he asked gravely:

  “Do you also find this funny?”

  “No, Uncle.”

  “Does it frighten you, then?”

  “No, Uncle.”

  Uncle Pierre narrowed his lips, then he gave a mean smile and asked one more ques
tion:

  “Do you know what a ghost is?”

  “No, Uncle.”

  There was a silence. The little girl had stopped laughing; the ghost seemed to be thinking. Then he stood up and said:

  “Wait for me here, I’ll be back soon.”

  He went out. Just then, the little girl, who was still sitting there, found herself alone in the chair, took fright and began to cry. The boy took her to sit on his lap. Five minutes later, the ghost was back with a small iron box which he set down on the table.

  “Give this to your parents tomorrow morning. And now, go to bed. Goodbye.”

  The children went back to bed and were asleep as soon as their heads touched the pillows. When they awoke the next day, it was broad daylight and Uncle Pierre had vanished. Their clothes had dried out during the night so they put them back on and went home, carrying with them the little iron box full of gold coins.

  There are people in that part of the world who claim that the little box never existed and that the children had merely dreamt a wild dream that night. I have not been able to check whether the little box did exist. But one thing is for certain, that since that day Uncle Pierre’s ghost was never seen again in the old house, or anywhere else.

  Prince Blub and the Mermaid

  There was once an old king whose kingdom was an island, a magnificent island in the midst of the tropics, right in the middle of the ocean.

  This king had a young son whose name was Prince Henri Marie François Guy Pierre Antoine. A very long name for such a small prince! So long that, when he was little, every time someone asked him:

  “What is your name?”

  He generally replied:

  “Blub.”

  So everybody ended up calling him Prince Blub.

  They don’t have winter in the tropics. So, instead of washing in the bathroom every morning, which is dreadfully boring, Prince Blub would go and bathe in the sea. He had his own little beach among the rocks, all to himself, only five minutes from the palace. And every day he would meet a mermaid there and they would play together, as they had done ever since he was a baby.