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A Modern-Day Fairy Tale

Once upon a time there was a lonesome globetrotter who, after having travelled the four corners of the world, decided he’d like to settle himself someplace quiet. Jonathan, as was his name, had gathered a small fortune during his voyages selling stories to the rich. Gifted with a beautiful singing voice, and accompanied by the magnificent sound of his self-made lute, he entertained the wealthy townsfolk night after night with the wittiest tales of fantastic faraway kingdoms and magical creatures your brains could not muster the imagination to conjure up.  

Jonathan bought a large piece of land at the back of beyond where he knew not many people would come. Here he built himself a nice and cosy farmhouse, though he never bothered to top it off with a roof for reasons as will be disclosed below.

This part of the story of his life has often been told in many different forms and details vary from one tale to another. The one and the only true and correct version has been written down below. The written notes and memoirs he had always kept safely hidden in places unbeknownst to anyone, have been handed down from him to his only child. She, in her turn, handed it down to her children and so on and so forth, all the way down to me. I am the first in a long line of descendants to convey the wondrous tale of Jonathan and the Roofless People to you, a grand and noble audience.  

It was not long after he had finished building his rather eccentric looking dwelling that the footman of a rich merchant got wind of this oddity and informed his master. The man did not take a moment to think it over and immediately set out in his sedan chair, four carriers and the footman to have a gander himself. His trusty servant led him to the place and the merchant, without hesitating, knocked on the door to have a little tête-à-tête with the owner, Jonathan.  

Luckily, he was at home and greeted the merchant with a pleasant smile and a strong shaking of the hands. Although he’d have preferred people would just let him be, he could smell the riches and felt there was money to be made with a good story or two. He invited the merchant in and offered him the finest tea in his collection. By a warm fire they settled down on worn out chairs and lighted their pipes before they engaged in a conversation. 

“Tell me, mon frère, what is the meaning of all this?” The merchant started. 

“I am taking it, dear sir, you are referring to the lovely cottage I have built here in the middle of nowhere. Is it not to your liking?” 

“It is a most extraordinary structure, indeed. It is perfectly built. A perfect example of true craftsmanship, maybe even the sign of a master at work. The hearth is most pleasant and the interior is magnifique even though it is showing visible signs of wear and tear. Why, that even adds to the ambiance. But then there is the small matter of your roof. Or, to be more precise, the lack of one.” 

“I don’t think I am quite following you, dear sir. The lack of a roof, you say?” 

“Mais oui. Your beautiful dwelling seems to be missing one.” 

“Surely, you must be joking, dear sir.”  

“Allez, any blind man can see your house does not have a roof. Do you not agree?” 

“You must be mistaken, dear sir. Every house has a roof.” 

“Then dit moiI, why does yours not?” 

“I believe my house does have a roof. It would be foolish to think it does not.” 

The merchant, not believing his ears, looked up and stared straight into the dark night sky and he could count the stars in the heaven above. He rubbed his eyes in disbelief and scratched the back of his head, for clearly, he was in the right and the lonely miser in the wrong. How was it possible that his host could not fathom he was mistaken?  

“Are you telling me, mon frère, that my eyes are deceiving me?”  

“I cannot see with your eyes, good sir, and would not dare tell you that you are being deceived. All I know is what I believe. And I believe this house has a roof. Did I not build this house with my own two hands? Did I not gather the wood of which this house was made? Did I not wield the hammer with which I nailed together the beams and boards? Am I not the one living here? Should I therefore not know best?” 

“I cannot deny the things you say for proof of the contrary is not in my possession, and I am confident that you could provide me with proof of your statements when requested. Yet, I cannot see the roof you speak of. Impossible! Dit moi, how is this possible?” 

“My dear sir, is it not so that we cannot see our thoughts, yet they are there? And it is also not true that we cannot see the air, yet it is there right in front of our very eyes?” 

“You must be a man of great wisdom. Perhaps it is for that reason that you can see what I cannot. So, you are certain, mon frère, your house has a roof?”  

“Every house has a roof. This is a house, therefore it must have a roof. I believe there is a roof, therefore it must be a house.” 

“Mon dieu, your logic is irrefutable. I can clearly see your point and you have opened my eyes. Why, it must have a roof. It does have a roof.” 

The two men smoked their pipes while the former traveller entertained the rich merchant with the stories he used to tell, and in the end was rewarded with a nice sum of money. Though he had no use for it, as he had plenty already, he gladly accepted the heavy purse that was handed him by his grateful single-man audience.  

It was not long after this meeting of the minds that the rich merchant started building a house of his own in the vicinity of his new acquaintance. Of course, it comes as no surprise to you, dear reader, that this house also did not have a roof. For the merchant, whose eyes had been opened and whose mind had been expanded by the incredible display of knowledge by Jonathan, believed he had built a house. And as he had learnt that every house had a roof, his house had one. He believed it had one and that was, according to the information he had been given, just as good.  

Daily, the merchant would travel into town, and he would hear people talk of his new abode. Some made fun of him. Some believed he had gone round the bend. Some would eye him with suspicion thinking he was up to something. He did not falter, and kept his head up high for he knew that he had drunk from the fountain of wisdom. These people who spoke or thought ill about him were considered beneath him and unworthy. He would tell his story to anyone who would listen, and relay the conversation he had had with the odd yet knowledgeable traveller; his new best friend. 

The theory on this absent roof caught on with a couple of his closest friends and those who believed soon started building houses of their own next to the merchant’s. All of them without a roof. Of course, having no roof, everything got wet during even the shortest of drizzles. The wetter their interiors got, the stronger they believed they actually had roofs over their heads.  

“But the fact of the matter is that there is no roof. Are your soaking wet chairs not proof enough?” Jonathan was asked by a sceptical passer-by.  

“If there were such a thing as facts, young man, you might have been right. But what are facts other than lies we have all agreed upon as being truths? Is a rose actually red or have we all just agreed on calling it red? And is it really a sandwich you are eating or have we, even without speaking, just agreed on it? Can we not, then, agree on the houses having roofs?”

This was the old traveller’s quick response leaving the passer-by baffled. It shut him up. Just to be sure, Jonathan topped it off with,

“Believing is seeing and a common belief is just about as good as what you call ‘facts’.” 

Jonathan sure knew how to silence the non-believers with his incredible wits and eloquence. Alas, there were those who did not have a way with words like him, who were far less intelligent and unable to cite him. They saw no other means but to turn to bullying people into silence. Hoping this would shut them up. The inhabitants of the nearby village the merchant once lived was now full of like-minded people. Those who thought differently were often chased away, ex-communicated, sacked from their jobs or publicly shamed for something that was considered offensive. Even it was something someone may or may not have said or done many a year before. This continued until only the true believers were left.  

Months passed and more houses arose. Roads were built. Shops followed, also without roofs. Banks. Post offices. Schools. Train stations. All roofless. The community grew and grew. It took a little over two years before a new village had fully emerged in what was once a barren field a weary traveller had chosen to spend the last of his years.

After the umpteenth new roofless cottage, the instigator decided it was time for him to go and so he left the village idiots behind. The people who had been so easily fooled by what he considered ‘his best story yet’. Unfortunately, he died not long after, leaving behind a beautiful daughter, only one year old, and a loving woman whom he would have wedded had he not died.  

Jonathan never got to witness how this absurd idea of his, only invented to lighten a rich man’s purse, had not just given rise to this one small town but had spread across the nation, and was about to take the world by storm. Had it not been for the notes he had left his daughter in his will, the story behind the roofless people would have followed him into the grave. Now, as I have written down his words for the entire world to read, anyone can have the opportunity to see the folly of humankind.  May you all live happily ever after. La voilá.

Fin