CONTENTS

1) The Non- Camillo Books (Introduction)

2) Early Family Stories

3) Later Family Stories
- Introduction
.
- "The Pullover"
- "Passionaria..."
- "...All Began"
- "...Blackface"
- "Suspense"
- "Vacation..."
- "Ladies..."
- "Jo's Nose"

4) Drawing Room Farces

5) Notes from Prison Camp

November. Afternoon. It's raining. It's raining after a long dry spell and the farmer isn't worried any more about his wheat; now that there's water, the seed will germinate. But the farmer still isn't happy because he's plagued by a nagging thought: it's raining, but not just on his wheatfields. It's raining on other farmers' wheatfields too.

Men are making trips to the moon (that's to tell you how the world has changed) but the farmer always stays the same. He's rugged, all right, and can put up with any kind of hardship. What he can't take, though, is good things that happen to other people.

So, it's raining. A huge log is roaring in the fireplace. Stretched out comfortably in my plushy rocking chair, I'm enjoying the fire and keeping an eye on my chestnuts as they slowly roast in a little pan with holes in the bottom.

After a while I'll take the chestnuts out of the fire and wrap them up in a damp cloth to make them softer.

Eleven sparkling eyes attentively follow the chestnut operation. (Now you're asking, How come eleven eyes, when here are only two children in the room and each of them has perfectly normal set of two eyes? Well, I don't know. There are certain sensations that you can't explain. If the number bothers you, raise the number to twelve--no less than three pairs per head, because here we're not talking about ordinary children but of the Phenomenon and Michelone, grandchildren by profession.)

Anyhow, this is what we have: a rainy November afternoon, a nice crackling fire, some chestnuts, a grandfather with his grandchildren. I take a lightning step fifty years backward in time and find myself the protagonist of a picture out of my third-grade reader, My House, My Country. (Imagine what any child of today would say about that title!)

Like a fool, I described the picture in my third-grade reader to my audience.

"Oh, what a romantic picture!" Margherita said, while Jo collapsed with laughter. "However, to be perfect, the little grandfather should be wearing quilted slippers, a skull-cap on his bald head, and telling fairy tales to his dear little grandchildren."

"Well, I'm not a 'little grandfather,'" I said resentfully. "Furthermore, I'm not bald and I don't know how to tell fairy tales to dear little grandchildren!"

"That's not true!" said Michelone's wicked mother, who was drifting around the room. "You told us some wonderful stories and I've never forgotten them."

I remembered them vividly too and in a thunderous voice I cried, "No! We're not going through that again!"

~~~~~

The stuff of twenty years ago; I was still living in Milan and Italy had begun its struggle to be reborn, which consisted of rebuilding destroyed houses and tearing down whatever was left of our spiritual heritage.

Then Michelone's mother was a tiny infant and I called Passionaria, appropriately, considering her character. And Albertino, the Phenomenon's father, was a quiet, reserved little boy who looked like something out of a boy's magazine.

It's a well-known fact that it's much easier to write a 600-page novel than a 6-page story. And very often, you could derive a 600-page novel out of a 6-page story, but you'd never be able to get 6 decent pages worth of story out of a 600-page novel.

One night the two children refused to go to sleep, so being an ignoramus, I said: "Once upon a time, there was a little boy named Kakokino..."

It was a stupid name, but it made an impression. I was twenty years younger and scrounged a living writing novels and short stories. It wasn't difficult to dredge up Kakokino and launch his first romantic adventure.

I didn't finish the story of Kakokino the first night. I dropped him in a tight spot and left the ending for the next installment.

A few days later, naturally, they demanded that I continue the story of Kakokino. Thus it was that I found myself inextricably entangled in a vicious plot to destroy my peace of mind. Every two or three evenings I had to put Kakokino to work. And it wasn't easy, because inevitably I ended every installment with Kakokino in a worse bind than the one before.

Finally, in desperation, I abandoned Kakokino in the middle of a storm at sea, clinging for dear life to a raft that was about to founder and sink.

It was an ugly situation, particularly because in my stories I stringently refused to allow any external interventions, dei ex machina, Fate with her Magic wand, and other such rubbish.

Then as now, given my working system (which consists of a total lack of system), I slept in a tiny room attached to my study. Around midnight, Passionaria showed up. She woke me and demanded to know how Kakokino was going to save himself. She said just thinking about the poor wretch kept her from sleeping.

"Day after tomorrow you'll know," I answered.

It wasn't easy to get Kakokino out of his jams and I had to play for time. But she swore to me to keep it to herself, and so to get rid of her I said, "All I can tell you is that he will save himself and will become the chief of a tribe of savages."

That sent her on her way. An hour later, Margherita shook my shoulder and when my eyes were open said, "Giovanni, tell me how that fool Kakokino is going to get out of the storm you've left him in."

"I already told your daughter."

"That's why I'm asking you. Her brother is dying to know too and she's managed to put the squeeze on him for all his crayons, three coloring books, and the electric train. She says she won't tell until he gives her his entire collection of marbles. They've been fighting for an hour and I can't sleep."

"Margherita," I said, "I told the girl any old thing to get her out of my hair. The truth is, I really don't know how I'm going to get Kakokino out of this jam."

"You vile reprobate!" she howled. "You put a poor little boy in dire tribulation and you don't know how you're going to get him out of it!"

"Oh yes I do!" I said, losing my temper. "This time I'm going to drown the little monster and, God willing, that will be the end of this nonsense!"

"Would you have the courage to do something that evil? Characters in stories are like children: once you bring them into the world, you've got to take care of them. Now that the children like Kakokino so much, how can you think of killing him, you murderer?"

"Margherita, I've already made up forty installments and I refuse to go on wracking my brains for that imbecile. I'll kill him!"

"Ahah, so you're going to be just like those ancient storytellers who let the children get eaten up by ogres or stick them in witches' brew to boil. You're going to be one of those monsters who solves everything by murdering. Well, just remember that stories aren't meant to terrorize children."

"Okay," I said. "I won't kill him. But this time he's going to break at least a leg, an arm, and six ribs."

Kakokino saved himself from the storm at sea, but in the following adventure he fell from a balcony and had to be taken to the hospital and treated for multiple fractures.

"Now we're going to let him rest," I told them. "Then, when he gets well, we'll put him to work again."

Thus I freed myself from Kakokino, because certain things happened and certain changes took place that made them forget about Kakokino.

"The story!" the Phenomenon hissed.

"The story!" Michelone hissed.

"What story?" I growled bad-humoredly.

"The one about Kakokino," Michelone explained. "Mamma said Kakokino was in hospital, but he's all better now."

I whirled around to face Michelone's wicked mother. "Kakokino!" I roared. "How did they find out about that monster!"

"I told them. I described him and they liked him very much. I explained that he was in the hospital. But now that twenty years have gone by, I'm sure he's well again. Apart from the fact that I'd like to know how the story ends myself."

Twenty years later: Kakokino comes out of the hospital, younger and more foolish than before, and takes up his former adventuresome life. I'm twenty years older and as if that weren't enough, Michelone and the Phenomenon belong to the new generation, that of ceaseless demand.

Kakokino, who twenty years ago worked alone, now works with a gang. The Phenomenon has demanded that a cat, a little sparrow, a dog, and a lamb join forces with him. Meanwhile Michelone demands that a horse be taken along too. I wonder if anybody knows how difficult it is to work a horse into a story. But Michelone wants it that way. He got excited about a picture that appeared in some magazine of the epic charge of the Cossacks against the Bolsheviks' murderous machine guns.

I told Michelone the horses won, but of course it's not true.