The Good Little Devil and Other Tales

by Pierre Gripari

  “Beasts of the forest, come to me!”

  Instantly, all the beasts in the forest came to her:

  “Old lady at the end of the earth,” they chorused, “what do you want from us?”

  “Do you know the place called Nowhere-land?”

  “No, we don’t know it.”

  “All right. Off you go, then.”

  The beasts went back into the forest. Then the old lady raised her arms up and called as loudly as she could:

  “Birds in the sky, come to me!”

  Then the sky went black all over, and all the birds in the entire world came to perch around the witch:

  “Old lady at the end of the earth,” they chirped, “what do you want from us?”

  “Do you know the place called Nowhere-land?”

  “No, we don’t know it.”

  “Never mind. Goodbye, then, till next time!”

  And the birds all flew away. At the same time, the fool began to weep:

  “Nobody knows this place! I shall never see my country—or my wife—again!”

  “Now, now, you big baby, don’t cry!” said the old lady, kindly. “We still haven’t asked the fish.”

  She took him to the seashore. There she began to call:

  “Fish of the salt seas and fish of the fresh waters, come to me!”

  At once all the fish in the world were teeming in the sea at their feet. The old lady asked:

  “Do you know the place called Nowhere-land?”

  “Nope!” replied the fish.

  “Never mind. Goodbye!”

  The old witch brought the fool back home with her. This time, the fool was so miserable that he even forgot to cry. And the old lady also said nothing.

  When they were nearly there, they heard a peculiar voice croaking from behind them.

  “What, what, what?”

  They span around. It was a frog which was hopping after them.

  “What, what, what?”

  The old lady asked:

  “What do you want?”

  The frog replied:

  “Excuse me; I’m terribly late. I only just heard that you had called for all the beasts in the forest…”

  “And where were you when I called?” asked the old witch.

  “I,” the frog said, “I was in a place called Nowhere-land. Do you know it?”

  “Really? That’s lucky,” said the old lady. “Would you mind taking my son-in-law there with you?”

  “At your service! Have him climb on my back.”

  With these words, the frog began to swell and swell. Soon she had grown as big as a man. The fool sat on her as if she were a horse. He just had time to call to the old witch:

  “Thank you so much, little Mother!”

  And hop! The frog leapt over the river of fire. On the other side, she said to her rider:

  “Now you can get down. We have reached Nowhere-land. Don’t worry about your return journey: when you have found what you’re looking for, you won’t need me any longer.”

  And hop! She made a leap and disappeared.

  Now the fool was all by himself, in the midst of an empty, rocky land. He walked for a while, until he came across a big house. He went inside and looked all over it, poking his nose into every room, but… nobody was home! Just as he was about to leave, he heard the sound of steps in the entrance hall. Quickly, he hid inside a cupboard in the great hall, and peeked out through a gap in the door. The person who entered was a stately old man who sat down on a chair and called:

  “Nowhere-man!”

  A voice called back:

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “I am hungry. Set the table!”

  A table appeared, covered with good things to eat and drink. The old man ate and drank his fill, then he called again:

  “Nowhere-man!”

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “I have finished. Clear the table!”

  And just as quickly, the table disappeared. Now the stately old man stood up and left the room. As soon as he had gone, our fool stepped out of his hiding place, sat on a chair and, in his turn, called out:

  “Nowhere-man, are you there?”

  “Yes, I’m here.”

  “I am hungry. Set the table.”

  And the table returned, covered in good things. The fool was about to begin eating when he had another idea:

  “Nowhere-man, are you still there?”

  “Yes, I’m still here.”

  “Then come and sit down too, and dine with me.”

  “Thank you kindly,” said the voice, trembling. “I have served this old man for thousands of years but not once has he invited me to his table. You thought of it straight away. Well, in return, from now on I shall never leave your side!”

  At this, they both sat down to eat. While the fool ate, he saw food rise and vanish from the table, bottles that poured themselves and glasses that emptied themselves in mid-air. When he had eaten his fill, he asked:

  “Nowhere-man, are you still hungry?”

  “No, Master, I’ve had enough.”

  “Then clear the table!”

  The table disappeared.

  “Nowhere-man, are you still there?”

  “As I said, I shall never leave your side again!”

  “Do you think you could give me je-ne-sais-quoi?”

  “But of course, right away, sir. Here you are!”

  At that moment, something quite extraordinary happened. Nothing had changed and yet everything was different. The fool breathed more freely, his blood flowed more rapidly. He saw the world around him as if he had opened his eyes for the very first time. He found everything beautiful, everything fine; he understood everything, he loved everything. He felt strong, free, joyous and filled with crazy high spirits. Standing there by himself, he began to laugh:

  “But it’s true!” he exclaimed. “You have given me a little je-ne-sais-quoi…”

  “Would you like anything else?” asked the voice.

  “Yes, please,” said the fool. “Can you take me home?”

  “Right away. Don’t be afraid!”

  That very second, the fool found himself being lifted into the air and now he was flying, but so fast, so very fast, that he lost his cap!

  “Hey there, Nowhere-man, stop! I’ve lost my cap!”

  But the voice replied:

  “I’m sorry, Master, but your cap is now twenty thousand miles away! It is gone. There’s no point looking for it now!”

  A second later, the fool slowed to a halt in front of a craggy great mountain and then came down to land beside a large rock. He hardly had time to see where he was before the mountain turned back into his palace and the rock became his wife, once again. She ran to kiss him:

  “Did you find what you were looking for, my darling?”

  “Just a moment!” answered the fool.

  And he called:

  “Nowhere-man!”

  “Yes, Master!”

  “Can you give a little je-ne-sais-quoi to my wife, too?”

  “Right away, master! There you go, ma’am!”

  And instantly, his wife began to laugh:

  “So it’s true! You really have given me a little je-ne-sais-quoi… Now let’s go and see the King!”

  They took their coach and set out along the gold-paved avenue. On both sides the trees tinkled, the birds sang and the cats miaowed. They soon arrived at the royal palace and were shown into the throne room.

  “You again!” growled the King. “What are you doing here?”

  The fool replied:

  “I’ve been to Nowhere-land, where I found Nowhere-man, and he gave me some je-ne-sais-quoi. Wouldn’t you like some too?”

  “Well, I suppose I would,” said the King. “I’m curious to know…”

  But he abruptly broke off what he was saying—and then burst out laughing:

  “So it’s true after all! You really have given me a little je-ne-sais-quoi!”

  Then he called:

  “Mo
ther! Mother!”

  The old Queen Mother came in.

  “Listen mother: the fool has returned and he has given me some je-ne-sais-quoi. Would you like to try some too?”

  “Absolutely not!” said the Queen Mother. “What is this nonsense?”

  “Go on, Nowhere-man, give her some anyway!” the fool asked his servant.

  But the voice replied:

  “I can’t, I’m afraid: if she will not accept it, I cannot give it to her.”

  “Now, my dear fool,” said the King, “keep your wife and stay near me, from now on. As I have no children, you shall be King when I am gone.”

  So it came about that, to this day, everyone in the kingdom is happy. Everyone except for the Queen Mother, who is just as dismal, mean and sad as ever. But she consoles herself with the thought that she at least still has her wits about her, while the others are all mad, every single one of them.

  Afterword

  Children understand everything—as everybody knows. If I knew that children would be the only ones reading this book, I would not even think of writing an afterword. But, alas, I’m afraid that these tales will be read as much by grown-ups as by younger people. So I feel I should provide a few explanations.

  Rue Broca is not a street quite like any other street. If you look at a map of Paris, you will see—or think you see—that rue Pascal and rue Broca cross the boulevard de Port-Royal at right angles. If, confident in your map-reading, you were to take your car and drive down this boulevard, expecting then to turn into one or other of these two side streets, you might go back and forth a hundred times between the Observatory at one end of the boulevard and Gobelins station at the other, but you would not find either of those two streets.

  So, you will ask me: are rue Broca and rue Pascal made-up streets? Not at all! They do exist. And they do indeed run, in nearly straight lines, from boulevard Arago to rue Claude-Bernard. Therefore, they ought to cross the boulevard de Port-Royal.

  The explanation of this anomaly is not to be found on your map, for the map can only show two dimensions. As in Einstein’s world, at this spot, the surface of Paris curves and passes right over itself, so to speak. Forgive me for drawing on the jargon of science fiction, but really, there is no other way to say this: as with rue Pascal, rue Broca forms a dent, a hollow, a dive into three-dimensional sub-space.

  Now, leave your car in its garage and return to the boulevard de Port-Royal, but this time on foot. Set out from Gobelins station and forge ahead, along whichever pavement you prefer. At a certain point, you will see that the row of houses that lines the boulevard has a gap in it. Instead of marching along beside shops or the wall of an apartment building as usual, you are walking alongside a space, a space fenced off by a railing to stop you falling into it. On the same pavement, not much farther along, you’ll see the head of a staircase that appears to plunge deep into the entrails of the earth, like the steps that take you down to the Metro. Go down this staircase without fear. Once at the bottom, you are by no means underground; in fact, you will be in rue Pascal. Above your head, you’ll see something that looks like a bridge. This bridge is the boulevard de Port-Royal, which you have just left behind.

  A little farther along the boulevard, you will find another such staircase, like the first, but this one leading down to rue Broca.

  This is bizarre, but it is true.

  Now, let’s ignore rue Pascal—it is too straight, too wide, too short also to harbour any mystery—and look at rue Broca alone.

  This is a twisty street, narrow, crooked and sunken. By virtue of the spatial anomaly that I have described, although both its ends come out in Paris, the street itself is not quite part of Paris. No distance away, but on another plane, underground yet in the open air, this street by itself forms something like a small village. For the people who live there, this gives it a rather special feeling.

  First, everybody knows everybody, and each one of them knows more or less what the others do and what they’re busy with, which is exceptional in a city like Paris.

  And then, the majority of them come from all kinds of different places; very few are from Paris. In this street, I have met Berbers, Algerian French, Spaniards, Portuguese, Italians, a Pole, a Russian… even a few French people from other parts of France!

  Still, the people of rue Broca share at least one common pleasure: they love stories.

  I have had many misfortunes in my literary career, the majority of which I attribute to the fact that the French in general—and Parisians in particular—do not like stories. They demand the truth, or, failing that, plausibility, realism. While the only stories that really interest me are those about which I am certain, from the start, that they have never happened, will never happen and could never happen. I feel that, due to the basic fact that it makes no documentary or ideological claims to justify its existence, an impossible tale has every chance of containing a good deal more profound truth in it than any story that is merely plausible. Which perhaps makes me—I console myself—more of a realist in my own way than all those who claim to seek the truth, and who spend their lives stupidly ruled by insipid lies—lies that are indeed realistic purely by virtue of how insipid they are!

  And now—one occasion does not make a habit!—here is a true story:

  At number 69, rue Broca (I know, I know! I shall now be accused of God knows what dreadful innuendo. But what can I do? It was at number 69, not 67 or 71. For all you lovers of truth, this is one for you!). As I was saying, then: at number 69, rue Broca, there is a cafe-grocer’s, the owner of which, Papa Sayeed, is a Berber married to a Breton woman. At the time of my story, they had four children: three girls and one boy (they had a fifth child later). The eldest girl is called Nadia, the second Malika, the third Rashida, and the little boy, who at the time was the youngest child, is called Bashir. Next to the cafe, there is a mansion house. In this house, among other tenants, lives a certain Monsieur Riccardi, Italian as his name suggests, also the father of four children, of whom the eldest is called Nicolas and the youngest is called Tina. I am leaving out other names, because there’s no need for them and they would only be confusing.

  Nicolas Riccardi often played in the street with the Sayeed children, for his father was a regular customer at the shop. This had been going on for a while and nobody would have dreamt of writing any of it down in a book had a certain odd character not one day turned up in the area.

  This person was known as Monsieur Pierre. He was fairly tall, with chestnut hair that stuck up in spikes like a hedgehog, browny-green eyes and glasses. He always wore a two-day-old beard (people even wondered how he managed to keep his beard in what is usually a very temporary state, for a beard) and his clothes, such as they were, seemed always on the verge of falling apart. He was forty years old, a bachelor, and he lived up above on the boulevard de Port-Royal.

  He came to rue Broca only to frequent the cafe, but he was often there and at all hours of the day. Besides, his tastes were modest: he appeared to live mainly on biscuits and chocolate, also on fruit when there was any, and all washed down with a great number of milky coffees and mint teas.

  When he was asked what he did, he would reply that he was a writer. As his books were never seen anywhere, especially not in bookshops, this reply satisfied nobody, and for a long time the population of rue Broca wondered what he really did for a living.

  When I say the population, I mean the grown-ups. The children never wondered anything of the sort, for they had understood right away: Monsieur Pierre was keeping his cards close; he was not a man like other men, really he was an old witch!

  Sometimes, trying to unmask him, they would dance around him calling:

  “Witch, old witch with your coconuts!”

  Or again:

  “Witch, old witch with your rubber jewellery!”

  Instantly, Monsieur Pierre would throw off his disguise and become what he really was: he would wrap his old raincoat around his head, leaving only his face uncovered, let his
thick glasses slide down to the end of his crooked nose and scowl frightfully. Then he would pounce on the kids, with all his claws out, giving a high, shrill, nasal cackle, something like the bleat of an old nanny goat.

  The children would run away as if they were dreadfully afraid—but really they weren’t as frightened as all that, for when the witch got hold of any of them, they would wriggle around and beat her off with their fists; and they were quite right to do so, for that is how we should treat old witches. They are only dangerous when we are afraid of them. Unmasked and shown who’s in charge, they become rather good fun. At this stage, they can be tamed.

  So it was with Monsieur Pierre. Once the children had forced him to reveal his true identity, everyone (starting with Monsieur Pierre himself) was greatly relieved, and normal relations were soon established.

  One day when Monsieur Pierre was sitting at a table, enjoying one of his endless milky coffees, with the children clustered around, he began, of his own accord, to tell them a story. The next day, at their request, he told another one, and then on the days that followed, he told still more stories. The more he told, the more the children asked him to tell. Monsieur Pierre was obliged to start rereading all the collections of stories that he had ever read since his own childhood, simply in order to satisfy his audience. He told them stories from Charles Perrault, the tales of Hans Andersen and the Brothers Grimm, Russian stories, Greek, French and Arabic tales… and the children are still asking for them!

  After a year and a half, having no more stories left to tell, Monsieur Pierre made the children a proposal: they would all meet every Thursday afternoon and together they would make up brand-new stories. And if they could come up with enough stories, the stories could be put into a book.

  Which is what they did, and that is how this collection came about.

  The stories in the collection were, thus, not written by Monsieur Pierre alone.* They were improvised by him in collaboration with his listeners—and whoever has not worked in this way may struggle to imagine all that the children could contribute, from solid ideas to poetic discoveries and even dramatic situations, often surprisingly bold ones.