The Good Little Devil and Other Tales by Pierre Gripari

Author:Pierre Gripari [Pierre Gripari]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9781782690382
Publisher: Pushkin Press
Published: 2013-09-19T04:00:00+00:00

The Love Story of a Potato

There was once a potato—a common potato, such as we see every day—but this one was eaten up with ambition. Her lifelong dream was to become a French fry. And this is probably what would have happened to her, had the youngest boy in the house not stolen her from the kitchen.

As soon as he had his booty safely in his bedroom, the little boy pulled a knife from his pocket and set about carving the potato. He began by giving her two eyes—and at once the potato could see. After which he gave her two ears—and the potato was able to hear. Finally, he gave her a mouth—and the potato was able to speak. Then the boy made her look at herself in a mirror, saying:

“See how beautiful you are!”

“How dreadful!” replied the potato. “I am not the least bit beautiful. I look like a boy! I was much happier before.”

“Fine, okay then!” replied the little boy, annoyed. “If that’s how you see it…”

And he threw the potato in the bin.

Early the next morning, the bin was emptied and, later that day, the potato was dumped along with a great heap of other rubbish, in the middle of the countryside.

“An attractive region,” she said, “and very popular at that! What a collection of fascinating people there are here… Now, who can that be, looking rather like a frying pan?”

It was an old guitar, nearly split in half, with only two strings left intact.

“Hello there, madame,” said the potato. “It seems to me, from your appearance, that you must be a very distinguished person, for you bear a marvellous resemblance to a frying pan!”

“You are very kind,” said the guitar. “I do not know what a frying pan would be, but I thank you all the same. It’s true that I’m not just anybody. My name is Guitar. And yours?”

“Well, my name is Maris Piper. But you can call me Potato for, from today, I shall count you an intimate friend. Because of my beauty, I was selected to become a French fry, and I should have become one had I not suffered the misfortune of being stolen from the kitchen by the youngest boy in the house. What is worse, having stolen me, the scoundrel completely disfigured me with these pairs of eyes and ears and this awful mouth…”

And the potato began to cry.

“Now, now, don’t cry,” said the guitar. “You are still very elegant. And besides, this means you can speak…”

“That’s true,” agreed the potato. “It’s a great consolation. In the end—to finish my story—when I saw what that little monster had done to me, I was furious, and I wrenched the knife right out of his hands, cut off his nose and ran away.”

“Well done, you!” the guitar responded.

“Don’t you think?” said the potato. “But, what about you? How do you come to be here?”

“Well,” replied the guitar, “for many years I was best friends with a handsome young boy, who loved me dearly.

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