Mashed Potatoes

Once upon a time there lived a king named Waterford the Fourth. His subjects, however, called him the Four-millionth because he was so greedy. He wouldn’t even put on his crown for fear of tarnishing it. Waterford ruled over the kingdom of Murlandia and was fifty-nine years old—that’s one less than sixty.

Illustration by Chiara Rapaccini from the 2003 edition of Venti storie più una, Editori Riuniti.

“Your Majesty, what about that glorious crown of gold we gave you last year?!”

“It was painted gold, but inside it was made of iron—I spotted it right away.”

“And those magnificent white horses two years ago?”

“Those were two donkeys with their ears clipped that you had done up to look like horses.”

“And the silver carriage from three years back? That was real silver.”

“Yes, but it was as tiny as a baby’s carriage. I could never find a way to crawl inside. Forget about all that now. Tell me what you were thinking of getting me this time.”

“But Your Majesty: if I tell you, you’ll know, and if you know, that will spoil the surprise, and even your cake will taste rotten.”

“Then tell me without telling me! Just give me a little hint and not one word more. Figure out a way.”

Count Astute, who already had a plan in mind, thought it best to look like he was mulling things over.

“Well, out with it!” erupted the king, who quickly lost all patience.

“Here’s the thing, Your Majesty. Your loyal subjects had planned, if it would please His Majesty, to present you with a statue.”

“Not bad, not bad. A bronze one?”

“Er, no, you know, I really can’t say. I was to give you a hint and not one word more.”

“Is it marble?”

“You’re cold, very cold.”

“It’s not cement, is it? I don’t want one made of cement because then people would call me blockhead.”

“Don’t worry about a thing, Your Majesty. You’ll have the most superb statue that you’ve ever seen.”

“Will it look like me?”

“Like looking into a mirror.”

“Fine, then. Make it happen, and if the statue truly pleases me I will reward you with…”

“Yes, Your Majesty?”

“I’ll reward you with…”

“What exactly, Your Majesty?”

“I’ll reward you with a golden ring.”

“Oh, thank you, Your Majesty!”

“Hold on, hold on, let me finish: I’ll give you what’s inside the ring; that is, the hole. The ring I’ll keep for myself because it was a gift from my grandfather.”

“In any case, very generous, Your Lordship.”

Count Astute bowed down very low and retreated from the throne one foot behind the other while King Waterford rubbed his hands in delight.

You should know that, just a few days prior, Count Astute, out on one of his hunting trips, had stopped off for a snack at the Perched Blackbird Inn, which was just at the edge of the woods. Walking through the door he went completely pale. It seemed that he had come across a certain individual… a very strange individual… with the face of…

“Who are you?”

“I’m the new proprietor of the Perched Blackbird Inn, your Lordship.”

“And the one from before?”

“That was my brother, and he has left me the inn.”

“I get it, very good, you’re the owner. But did you know that you’re the spitting image of His Royal Highness, Waterford the Fourth?”

“Me?! For goodness’ sake! I look like my poor father who was only a kangaroo catcher in Alaska.”

“But in Alaska there aren’t any kangaroos to catch.”

“Exactly. My father didn’t like to work much. That’s why he chose a place without kangaroos, so that he could lay on his back from morning ‘til night.”

“And he had your face?”

“Everyone that met him says so. I don’t know. I’ve never seen my father.”

“And has the king seen you?”

“Never.”

“You look like you could be his twin. Trust me, I know, I’m his first minister.”

“Thank you, your Excellency. Would you care for something to eat?”

Count Astute gobbled his meal, glancing from time to time at the proprietor, whose name he learned was Angelo, and whose nickname was Mashed Potatoes.

“Angelo, listen here,” he said at last.

“What is it, your Excellency?”

“How much do you earn here at the inn.”

“Let me do the math: six times eight, forty-eight… subtract the nine… Three pieces of gold a week—if it doesn’t rain.”

“How come?”

“Because if it rains very few hunters pass by: the others are home in bed with the flu.”

“If you do what I ask you, you’ll earn twenty pieces of gold a week.”

“Twenty?”

“Most assuredly: nineteen plus one. What do you say?”

“Let me do the math: six times eight, forty-eight… subtract the nine… Agreed.”

“Wonderful. Now you’ll have to do this, that and the other thing…”

Count Astute explained to Angelo all that he must do, and Angelo took down every word in his little notebook. He said, “I’ll learn everything by heart so as to be sure not to make a mistake.”

“Bravo,” said Count Astute. “And to help you remember, here’s ten pieces of gold.”

“Thank you ten times, your Excellency.”

At last came the day of His Royal Highness King Waterford the Fourth’s birthday.

It was a big day. The kingdom awoke to the sound of bells ringing and thundering canons that were fired in honor of the sovereign and his sixty years. They blasted sixty times, and the people counted, sighing:

“One shot, one piece of gold… two shots, two pieces of gold… forty shots, forty pieces of gold… sixty shots, sixty pieces of gold.” This was what they had to pay in taxes.

King Waterford awoke to a court full of ministers, dignitaries, administrators, and schoolchildren that waved little flags and sang:

Happy birthday to the king,

Happy birthday to the king

“Enough. That’s enough,” shouted King Waterford, who couldn’t stand that ridiculous little song. “I’m awake already. Where is my present?”

“In front of the palace, Your Majesty,” replied Count Astute.

The king ran to the window. In front of his palace he saw the statue draped in a golden sheet.

“Is it there underneath?”

“Underneath, sir.”

“Is it nice?”

“No: it’s magnificent.”

“Hurry, get me my shoes, my trousers, my robe—I want to go see it.”

“Might I suggest that today you also wear your crown, Your Highness?”

“But it will get worn out! And if it rains, it will get soaked.”

“The sun is shining brightly today.”

“Then it will burn, smolder, melt.”

“The crown, Your Majesty. On the day of your birth it is AB-SO-LUTE-LY necessary.”

“Relax,” sighed King Waterford, “get me my crown, too.”

In front of the palace, meanwhile, all the people of Murlandia had gathered, waiting to see the statue that was to be given, at their expense, to the king.

“Let’s hope it’s made of wood,” said one Murlandianian to his neighbor, “so that it doesn’t cost too much.”

“If not wood, then stone.”

“If not stone, then cement.”

“If not cement, then iron.”

“Let’s just hope that it’s at least not made of gold!” sighed an old man.

“Let’s hope!” echoed everyone in Murlandia.

It was now the king’s turn to pull the rope releasing the drape that covered the statue. The curtain had hardly reached the ground when an “oooooohhh!” of wonder escaped their mouths like pigeons in flight.

An “ooooooh!” could be heard, and then again: “ooooooh!”

“Stop copying me,” yelled the king. “I said ‘oooh!’ first. The statue is magnificent. It’s more beautiful than I had imagined it. Stu, you’ve done great.”

The statue was marvelous in fact. It rendered the king standing, gripping his scepter with the right hand and pointing up to the heavens with his left, as if to say “I am as beautiful as the sun!”

One by one the king noticed his old clothes. “That was my robe from last year, those are my pants for when I go horseback riding, that is a perfect copy of my crown!”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” smiled Count Astute, bowing deeply.

“It has exactly my face: my nose, my eyes, my mustache, my skin tone.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” said the count.

“Hey! But how did you color it? It must be made of wax!”

“No, Your Majesty!”

“It’s bronze then!”

“Better, better…”

“It’s silver!”

“Even better!”

“It’s… it’s… gold!”

“Even better than that, Your Majesty: it is a living statue!”

“Living? What do you mean?”

“Look carefully, Your Majesty, it is a statue that breathes.”

“Yes, yes, it’s true: I see it breathing.”

“It is a statue that moves.”

Upon hearing those words, the statue lifted a hand and beckoned hello.

“It is a statue that speaks.”

The statue, awaiting just this signal, opened his mouth and said: “One hundred more birthdays to you, King Waterford the Fourth!”

And once again, from all around were heard ooohs! and ahhhs! of absolute amazement.

The statue, of course, was none other than Angelo, the proprietor of the Perched Blackbird, who was also sometimes called Mashed Potatoes. He had agreed to do this work for the love of little gold pieces, but he realized now that, besides the money, he also earned many, many applause, and he was therefore very satisfied with himself.

It was in this way that King Waterford the Fourth got his living statue. And he had gotten it while still alive, while his father had only gotten a statue (not living) only after he died. For this reason Waterford persuaded himself that he was a great king and returned to his palace to devour his birthday cake, happier than he had ever been.

His loyal subjects also returned home to eat cake. Angelo, on the other hand, remained on his pedestal to be the statue. The rules were clear: he was to remain on the pedestal from sunrise until sunset without even a snack; at night, however, he could easily slip away safely because, in this faraway kingdom, everyone slept, even the night watchmen.

At first, things ran smoothly. The king passed by each morning to have a look at his statue, he heard it say: “Good morning, your Majesty!” and he returned to his palace to study his tax collections.

One day, however, things changed. That is, they went very, very wrong. It happened like this. A hunter, who had been away from the city for several weeks, happened upon the statue. He gazed at it very, very carefully, and he recognized him.

“Angelo! Is that you, Angelo? What are you doing up there?”

“Quiet, for goodness’ sake!”

“Why should I be quiet? You look like you’ve gone completely mad. What’s gotten into your head?”

“The crown.”

“Oh, yes, I see the crown. But I don’t understand what on earth you’re doing up there with a crown on your head.”

“For crying out loud, quiet! Scram!”

A villager passed by. “What is it? What’s going on?”

“I’ll tell you what’s going on,” said the hunter, “Angelo is up there acting crazy.”

“Who’s Angelo?”

“Don’t you know Angelo? There’s only one Angelo, and his nickname is Mashed Potatoes.”

“Mashed Potatoes?!? Why is he mashed?”

“Because he only likes his potatoes mashed with lots of gravy on top.”

In short, one villager became two, three, five, fifty. They inquired, they heard the news, they giggled, and they began to holler: “Mashed Potatoes, Mashed Potatoes!”

For awhile Angelo remained calm, patient as a saint. But when the plaza became chock-full of people snickering and laughing at him, he lost his cool: he simply could no longer stand hearing a bunch of riffraff calling him “Mashed Potatoes.” This being the case, he hopped down from his pedestal and began jabbing right and left with his scepter, which was made of lead.

“This is for mashed potatoes, and this is for potato salad.” And he whacked and walloped away.

But the people continued laughing and shouting even more than before: “Mashed Potatoes! Mashed Potatoes!”

When he grew tired of striking blows, Angelo prepared to climb back up his pedestal, but now thought twice. “From here on in,” he said to himself, “it won’t be worth it anymore. I don’t want to stand here forever being made fun of by all the little hooligans in this city.”

In a word, he threw down the scepter, the robe, and the crown, and returned back to the Perched Blackbird to be its humble proprietor.

The king was told that his statue had disappeared under the enchantment of a powerful wizard in the service of some envious enemy king. But no one told him the whole and true story. And it was from that day that his loyal subjects no longer called him Waterford the Four-millionth. He was given a new nickname that the history books have carried down until today, thanks to the indiscretion of Count Astute. From that day forward, the people of Murlandia called their king “Mashed Potatoes.” King Waterford never knew. He died, convinced that the history books would call him “Waterford the Magnificent,” or even “Waterford the Great.”