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. He used to bend over me, take me in his arms, caress me, strum me, pluck the strings on my belly while singing such delightful songs to me…”

The guitar sighed, then her voice grew bitter and she went on:

“One day he came back with a strange instrument. This one was also a guitar, but made of metal, and oh so heavy, vulgar and stupid! She took my friend from me, she bewitched him. I am sure he didn’t really love her. He never sang her any tender songs when he picked her up—not one! He used to pluck furiously at her strings and give savage howls and roll about on the ground with her—you would have thought they were fighting! Besides, he didn’t trust her! The plain proof is that he kept her tied up on a leash!”

In fact, what had happened was that the handsome young man had bought an electric guitar, and what our guitar had taken for a leash was in fact the wire that connected the new guitar to the electricity.

“Anyway, however it happened, she stole him from me. After only a few days he only had eyes for her, he no longer looked at me at all. And when I saw that, well, I preferred to leave him…”

The guitar was lying. She had not left of her own accord; her master had thrown her out. But she would never have admitted that.

In any case, the potato hadn’t understood a word.

“What a beautiful story!” she said. “How moving! I’m quite beside myself. I knew we were made to understand each other. Besides, the more I look at you, the more I feel you look like a frying pan!”

But while they were chatting like this, a tramp going by on the high road heard them, stopped and listened harder.

“Now this is no ordinary how-d’ye-do,” he thought. “An old guitar telling her life story to an old potato, and the potato answering. If I can do this right, I’ll be a rich man!”

He found a way into the wasteland, picked up the potato and put her in his pocket, then he grabbed the guitar and took the two friends with him to the next town.

This town had a large central square, and in the square there was a circus. The tramp went and knocked on the circus ringmaster’s door.

“Mista Ringmaster! Mista Ringmaster sir!”

“Hmph? What? Come in! What do you want?”

The tramp stepped into the caravan.

“Mista Ringmaster, I have a talking guitar!”

“Hmph? What? Talking guitar?”

“Yes yes, Mista Ringmaster! And a potato that answers it back!”

“Hmph? What? What is this story? Are you drunk, my friend?”

“No, no, I’m not drunk. Please just listen!”

The tramp put the guitar on the table, then took the potato from his pocket and put them next to each other.

“Now, hop to it. Talk, you two!”

Silence.

“Talk, I tell you!”

More silence. The Ringmaster’s face flushed an angry red.

“Tell me, my friend, did you come here purely to make a fool of me?”

“Of course not, Mista Ringmaster! I’m telling you, they do talk, both of them, to each other. Just now, they’re being difficult so as to annoy me, but…”

“Get out!”

“But when they are alone…”

“I said: get out!”

“But Mista Ringmaster…”

“Hm? What? You haven’t left yet? Very good, I shall throw you out myself!”

The ringmaster caught the tramp by the seat of his pants and—therr-whumpp!—he tossed him out. But at that very moment, he heard a great burst of laughter behind him. Unable to hold her tongue any longer, the potato had just said to the guitar:

“Hey, do you think we fooled him? He he he!”

“And how! We fooled him good and proper!” the guitar was saying. “Ha ha ha!”

The ringmaster whirled around:

“Well I never, how about that! The old drunk was telling the truth. You can talk, both of you!”

Silence.

“Come on,” the ringmaster went on. “There’s no point keeping quiet now. You can’t fool me any longer: I heard you!”

Silence.

“That is a pity!” the ringmaster said then, with a cunning expression. “I had a rather exciting proposal for you. An artistic proposal!”

“Artistic?” asked the guitar.

“Shut up!” hissed the potato.

“But I adore art!”

“Now we’re getting somewhere!” said the ringmaster. “I can see that you’re a sensible pair. And indeed, you will have work, both of you—oh yes you will. You will become stars.”

“I’d rather become a French fry,” objected the potato.

“A French fry? You—with your talent? That would be a crime! Would you really prefer to be eaten than to be famous?”

“What do you mean, ‘eaten’? Do people eat French fries?” asked the potato.

“Do we eat French fries? Of course we eat them! Why do you think we’re always frying more?”

“Really? I didn’t know!” said the potato. “Well, if that’s how things stand, then fine. I’d rather become a star.”

A week later, all over the town, big yellow posters appeared on which were written:

The big top was full on the new show’s first night, for nobody in that part of the world had seen anything like it before.

When their turn came, the band played a military march while the potato and the guitar stepped bravely into the ring. To start with, the potato introduced their number. Then the guitar played a difficult piece by herself. Then the potato sang a song, accompanied by the guitar, who sang a harmony while playing herself at the same time. And then, the potato pretended to sing a wrong note and the guitar pretended to catch her out. The potato pretended to get angry and they both pretended to have a big argument, to the great delight of the audience. Finally, they pretended to make up and be friends again and they sang their last song together.

The potato and the guitar were a huge success. Their act was recorded for radio and for television and, soon, people were talking about it all over the world. Having seen it on the news, the Sultan of Bakofbiyondistan flew over that afternoon in his private jet, to see the ringmaster.

“Hello, Mister Ringmaster.”

“Hello, Mister Sultan. What can I do for you?”

“I should like to marry the potato.”

“The potato? Now, look here, she’s not a person!”

“Very well, I’ll buy her.”

“But she’s not an object either… She speaks, she can sing…”

“Very well, I’ll take her from you!”

“But you’ve no right to do that!”

“It’s my right to do anything I please, for I have oodles of money!”

The ringmaster realized he should try to be a little cleverer.

“You will cause me great sadness,” he said, sobbing. “I love that potato, I’ve grown attached to her…”

“And how I sympathize!” said the Sultan, with just a hint of sarcasm. “In that case, I can offer you a caravan full of diamonds for her!”

“Just the one caravan?” asked the ringmaster.

“Two, if you prefer!”

The ringmaster wiped away a tear, blew his nose loudly, then added in a wobbly voice:

“I feel, if you were to go as far as three caravans…”

“Done! Three it shall be, and let that be an end of it.”

The next day, the Sultan flew back to his sultanate, taking the potato with him, and also the guitar, for the two old friends were determined to stay together. That week, a popular weekly magazine published a photograph of the brand-new couple with the following front-page headline:

In the weeks that followed, the same magazine published more photos, and the headlines changed accordingly. In order of appearance, they went like this:

And beneath that last headline followed more photographs—from the wedding of the Sultan and the potato. Only a week later, the newspapers were full of other news, and soon, everyone had forgotten all about the love story of the Sultan, the potato and the guitar.