The Untold Story of Geppetto and Pinocchio

My experience with Geppetto began upon moving into the house beside his. My family decided to travel to this quaint little town, and outside the window of my room was the home of a woodworker next door.

He seemed like a very ordinary old man. He awoke during the day, carved his wood, made his furniture, and went to bed. But every now and then, during the night, I would hear the subtle sound of crying coming from the old, near-dilapidated house. My parents were weary of him. They said he always seemed nervous. One time I was walking out of the house on my way to school, and he looked at me with eyes that were taken aback -- awestruck, but in a very frightening way.

One night, I saw in the window several legs dangling throughout his room. He was apparently busy making puppets. I thought nothing of it, but the noises persisted—he didn’t seem to sleep. What was once subtle weeping turned into laughing, and then laughing turned into crying again, all wrapped in a presence of muffled words.

Suddenly, on another night, the noises stopped. I saw nothing in the window as he had shut the blinds. I felt confused. I wanted to know what he was up to. I needed to find an excuse to look inside, so I decided to walk to his door and ask if he had any bread to spare. I stood in front of that old cracked and worn out door and knocked three times. I heard nothing. I knocked again, this time harder. Slow, heavy footsteps approached, and the door swung open.

“Hello” he said cautiously. “What can I do for you?”

“My parents sent me here to ask if you can spare any bread for the night,” said I. “They have not gotten their money yet from their work and we were hoping you could lend a hungry family some food?”

“I am a poor man,” he replied. “I cannot afford to give what little bread I have to strangers.” I looked inside often as I could while he talked, but all I could see was some stairs and a dirty kitchen.

“Yes sir, thank you anyway,” I said, and turned back.

That night I heard his voice again; it was happy, euphoric even. It was as though he was playing with someone. But how could this be? I asked my mother the next morning if she knew anything about him.

“Oh, him? I heard he once was a sailor, but then got into some bad…things… I heard from the neighbors around town that he lived a very sinful life for a long time, and that he had been locked up, then had a nervous breakdown or something. I guess that’s when he moved into the house. Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “He’s just a very mysterious character.” I heard it again that night. It was again as if someone was in the room, but his was the only voice. I needed to know.

I snuck out of my window, and went around the back of his house, where there was a crack in the wall allowing for clear site. He was pacing the room, encircling this large wooden puppet he kept calling Pinocchio.

“You don’t know what I’ve been through, Pinocchio!” he yelled. “Oh, the guilt! Oh, the people I have hurt! Oh, the things I have done! That is why you must do better. You must stop going out so late at night and messing around with that crowd! Oh, there is so much more to life than simple pleasures Pinocchio, there is so much more.” I was speechless. The old man talked to that puppet clear into morning. I was by then convinced that such a puppet must be listening. I was convinced this puppet was alive!

After a while, Geppetto went to bed in another room. I climbed in through the window to get a better look at this puppet. I looked deep into its eyes, cold and wooden—lifeless. But I wanted them to be alive, so I kept on looking. “Come on…” I whispered. I picked it up to get it into a different light. I tried shaking it, turning it upside down, but nothing was working. Suddenly I heard footsteps in the hallway. I jumped out the window, puppet in hand—just realizing this fact as it was too late. I expected to hear yelling, a tantrum of some sort, or rage. But I heard, instead, the sound of a hammer and nails. I peeked over the window sill, and saw Geppetto nailing together several pieces of wood in the shape of a raft. He then put it in a wagon, and walked out the door. I couldn’t help but follow him now.

He was heading in the direction of the pier a few miles away. He passed a police officer, confused but indifferent to the rolling wagon. He got to the end of the pier, and emptied the raft in the water. And as I stood there, with worried eyes wide open, he jumped off that pier, onto the rafted, and slowly paddled out into the cold ocean. There was no one around, and I knew that if I were to jump in I would certainly freeze. With overwhelming guilt, and all sense of rationality crumbling as Geppetto drifted out to see, I put the puppet in the water, and pushed it after him. Then I walked home.

I did not sleep. I did not tell the police. I did not think about anything but the image of that man drifting out to sea. The thoughts raged into the morning, when I went out the door to go to school. I then heard sopping wet footsteps following behind me. Turning around, it was Geppetto, with wide eyes, and a love in them that frightened me. “Geppetto…” I could not say anything more. I thought he was dead, yet here he was.

“Pinocchio!” He yelled.

“What? I am not…” I saw the puppet hanging in his left hand, as it then dropped to the ground. “I am not, I am not that doll, Geppetto.”

“Sure you are!” He said.

From somewhere strange within me, tears came one by one. He kept insisting that I was his beloved Pinocchio. Finally, to keep from weeping before the poor old man, I shouted, “No Geppetto, I am a real boy!” I expected shock, or sadness. But instead he smiled a wise, accepting smile.

“Indeed, you are.” He turned and walked back to his house. At the door, he turned to me once more in solace, saying, “thank you, Pinocchio.”