The return of the Little Prince

By José Cavalieri

“The Little Prince” has certainly left a strong mark in those who have read it. It has been an illuminating motivation for the imagination and sensitivity of whole generations.
The author of ‘The Return of the Little Prince’ says:  “… what I felt then, was the end of that sentiment of solitude and diversity. Somewhere there was someone else who, like me, had the need to look at sunsets, something which he could not renounce to …”.
This is the story of a very strange clochard which was written in 2020 by one of the characters in the short story who, towards the end of the Twentieth Century was a witness to the passing days of an old hobo who lived right under the window of his flat in Paris. In these pages you will find out why the writer tells this story only twenty years after it happened and also why this old clochard is called the ‘Little Prince’.

• Language: English
• Publisher: José Cavalieri
• Release date: Jun 21, 2021
• ISBN: 9791220815932

Book preview

Introduction by the author

To one of my dear friends, an actor and director who has always shown a sincere appreciation for my writing and with whom I have very often worked in theatrical performances. He had always asked me to write something for him.

‘Gino’ is one of those friends with whom one can joke very easily but he also gets you emotionally involved. I often found spontaneous

occasions of creative joy with him.

As a stimulus from his request I started writing a theatrical text which only on second thoughts I transformed into the story that you are about to read.

I was almost nine when The Little Prince first fell into my hands and I remember very well the effect that reading it had on me.

For me, large cities were very distant universes which I supported with a great anguish every time that, visiting my relatives, I was obliged to leave the dimension of my village. I lived in a region with a lot of greenery every kind of tree, dirt roads, very few cars and carts pulled by horses that grazed near the houses.

To travel to a place in ‘Gran Buenos Aires’, was for me an undesired trip through grey buildings with an arid scenery invaded by too many tarred roads.

Living a life in the dimension of countryside, my habits and games originated with the harmony and direct relationship with nature.

Many years later, I realised that at that time everything was imbued with a very strong romantic and emotive component.

Among the very few games that I enjoyed in solitude, there was the

habit of climbing right up to the top of a tree and to remain there until sunset to watch, in silence, the orange sphere disappearing slowly on the horizon. My soul travelled far away and the spectacle made me so emotionally involved that a few tears ran down my cheek.

That moment of solitude sometimes showed itself as a necessity which I could not do without and this fact made me feel different from the others.

It is for this reason that I remember very well the first time I read ‘The Little Prince’ because what I felt then was the end of the sentiment of solitude and diversity. Somewhere here, there was somebody else that just like me needed to participate in the incredible view of sunsets. He could do this continuously (lucky him) just moving a few steps away and this was made easy by the small proportions of the planet where he lived.

I am not a writer. I earned my living as a carpenter. Now I spend my time in the countryside working in my vegetable garden, in the vineyard and in all the other activities to do with these. Since my childhood I have always been interested in the written word or better writing which has always been part of me. This is what I feel when words and phrases knock on my door as I am only a go-between, a means, a bridge which puts into communication an energy which already exists somewhere in this dimension in which we live.

I am like a postman who shoves the letters under the doors so that they are opened and read by the correct addressee.

So, as you have my book in your hands, I hope you will feel the emotion which I felt as it was ‘being written’ by me and while the fantastic character, who is the narrator of this story, guided me as well, in the adventures wrapped up in the following pages.

I hope you will discover the magic of making a new and personal rewriting based on your sensitivity, on your imagination and with the intimate ties which will materialize, when through ‘your bridge’ the two different shores of the same magnificent river of life will magically meet.

Enjoy your reading.

April 2020 The author

I

What I am going to tell you about, happened more than twenty years ago but only now I feel the need to tell you about it. This is perhaps because only now I have understood certain things. Do you know that? Each one of us has their own time to understand. I, from this point of view, am not quick at understanding.

Surely my approach to life, at the time in which the facts evolved, was not in harmony with the protagonist of this story and

perhaps, just for this reason, I hope you will appreciate my effort

today to translate into words the things of which I have been a witness to.

Yes, exactly, witness because in fact, all that I have to tell you (the most significant moments of course) took place just down here under my eyes, just below my window.

You must know that I live in a flat on the first floor and from here I can see and hear everything that happens on the pavement below, exactly where the facts took place.

All I can tell you is that I live in Paris … but I can’t tell you anything more. If I told you anything else or gave you any other small clue, you would immediately find my flat. Those of you who know the city would immediately understand where I live …. because right from the story itself there are some descriptive elements to which I can’t renounce and which represent information which is already very important. Therefore no name of the street, no information which is indispensable for the story itself. My privacy and tranquility would be at risk.

Therefore, the events which I have observed and which I am going to tell you about developed in a lapse of time of a little over one year, therefore during no more than thirteen or fourteen months and, as I told you, they took place here just under my window … Not really quite underneath, let’s say towards the right in an area where I have a privileged point of view from where I can observe and hear, without being seen and even without leaning out of the window.

Beyond the years that separate us from the events ( what I have already explained to you) in the story, you will also probably find it strange that I can refer to facts that occurred in such unusual moments, for example, before dawn. I will immediately explain that if during the first time (that is during the observation of what gave origin to this story) my involvement was just by chance, this first event stimulated my attention in such a way that my excitement and my indignation became paramount.

The following months I dedicated myself to keeping under observation that exact spot on the pavement, right here, under my window on the first floor.

It was a weekday and I remember the time very well because the sounds under here suddenly woke me up. The first thing I did was to look at the screen of my mobile phone, one of the first Nokia with the luminous display.

It was 4.35 in the morning when I looked out of the window and saw that hobo who was just finishing to build his hut.

Four wooden planks placed crosswise, some bits of plastic, other bits of cardboard all held together scrupulously with scotch tape. Here, that ‘incredible’ construction was ready, half way between a hut and a kennel, where the hobo had placed himself at the end of the pavement, right next to the fence that limits …

I can’t tell you where otherwise …

I can only tell you that our district, this road and the pavement,