A Little Girl in the middle of nowhere lost
Her Happy Thought
by
Federico Parra
Drawings
Anastasia S. Parra
A Little Girl in the middle of nowhere lost
Her Happy Thought
by
Federico Parra
Drawings
Anastasia S. Parra
Translated by: Eva Melisa Mastroianni
Publisher: Tektime
Preface
This is a story
of courage and changing.
A fairy tale, a great adventure, a growth.
A nemesis, a social and personal revolution.
Passing through the features of the high-sounding French names,
you will enter in Alices Wonderland through its ventricles and narrow streets.
You will meet the Aristocats and then you will go back
to the 101 Dalmatians in a dreamy Paris.
You will encounter distant memories of characters
known only in childrens imagination, and
you will meet other real
but carelessly and unfortunately unknown characters!
In this story, you will cross a good part
of the vast and colorful world of fairy tales.
You will travel with few bags to fill
at every single stop.
Through a small arc of white roses, you will enter
the garden of a faraway fairyland.
You will enter a world that, in some way,
it belongs to us and leads us to the true reality
of our childhood...
When animals and plants were able to speak.
When a small stone could be magical.
And when every happy thought
could also come true tomorrow!
J. D. Goodman
To Joel Buton
When he was still a child.
When you could already see a little glint
If attentively looking into his eyes.
A glint slowly lighting in the darkness.
And from that fragile glint, guessing in him, little child,
the birth of his great dream.
1
This story begins in Paris.
One night, years ago, a few days before Christmas, while softly snowing and the first lights of the street lamps being powered off by a long candle-snuffer.
- Crazy things! There's people doing
odd jobs for living!
Madame Tussauds thought to herself.
Outside its snowing big twitchy flakes,
dancing in the wind and
in the glow of the lights,
before settling on the roofs and
the streets of Paris.
- How cold it is! What a rough night out!
Mary Jane thought, leaning on the fogged glass window overlooking the courtyard.
Facing Ladurée House, the residence of one of the richest families in the city.
And lastly, the street lamps on the luxurious entrance of the villa are powered off, as if even the light felt a certain subjection to the richness.
Coincidentally, the useless person doing an odd job is the one to ensure that eventually, the street lights on the road beneath that window are turned off. Where far away, he - maybe hes the only one - can see the shape and face
of the beautiful and sad Mary Jane.
So, the last light in Paris remains lit on the landing full of snow
beyond Ladurées backyard...
Then there is only night and few stars in the sky.
You can make out a stealthy shadow, fast in the little and only light on. Maybe a thief beyond the gate? ... After an imperceptible second, the shadow vanishes into thin air, and
in the dark of the deep night.
To Mary Janes misted eyes it seemed to have bent like a caress or a kiss; she was still motionless in her strong melancholy, watching the snow falling.
Then there was only night and few fragile stars in the sky.
So, the last light in Paris remained lit on the landing full of snow, in
Ladurées backyard. Where now there was a cradle at the large gate, lightly resting on the soft
blanket of snow.
Inside the cradle, under a big blanket of heavy wool,
there is a child who screams, cries and
despairs; on the edge of the cradle theres a name,
written with the painters bloody red:
Jane Baptiste.
The sharp crying of the newborn is like a magic flute, like an ultrasonic fluctuating and invisible call.
Lights up and awakens the other houses in the neighborhood.
Its creating a small gathering of useless and curious people who want to know.
Even Mary Jane comes down and the guy comes up; he who switches off the street lamps with its long iron
now abandoned on the ground.
Oh God! How little is he!
Mary Jane shouted astonished, bringing her little hands on her cheeks.
Surely he was abandoned; let's get him out of the cold into the house!
Mary Janes stepmother falsely
ordered the housekeeper.
While she invited the priest to enter the house, looking at him with watchful and vile eyes.
Leaving out the rest of nosy neighbors.
The snow kept falling in large flakes.
Now, in the enlightened hall of the villa there were three people plus the priest and the little cradle.
They were all standing still, waiting for someone to start speaking, a task that was quickly acquitted by Madam Tussauds, resourceful and dictator, but also very scenic and theatrical.
- Insolent peasants! They creep even into
our homes to bring the evil fruit
of their sins! Its incredible!
Isnt it, Reverend? They have fun and then
they wash their hands!
Good lord! ... Peasants and poor people are convinced that your money can free them from their mortal sin!
Rev. Dumas said with his hands clasped in a vain prayer.
Mary Jane became all red with anger.
Dont you think that poor people, the peasants
are just hungry? And they hope that here we could nourish and grow their son?
And who knows why and how much pain they had on abandoning him!
Mary Jane blurted out, nearly in tears,
imploring her stepmother with shining eyes,
who, however, was absorbed by a silent whisper with the priest and had not seen
nor heard the words of her stupid and hated niece, now her
little desired adoptive daughter.
In the meantime, outside it was getting snowed
stronger and the snow was coming down like a white blanket around the chatter of the curious...
It was coming down on the heads and hats of people asking information to the coachmen of the parked cab,
in that rough night out, near Ladurée House.
In the meantime in the glittering salon,
Madame Tussauds and Rev. Dumas
had already decided on where and how
little Jean Baptiste
would spend his first Christmas.
- The orphanage?! ... Oh my God, Madame! ... And you, Mr. Reverend! ... Christ! ... That's a terrible place!