“It’s not your personal property,” said an angry woman. “A hidden treasure belongs to all of us together.”
“You’re not out in the public square,” Don Camillo replied. “You’re in the church. And I’m responsible for everything in the church to the ecclesiastical authorities.”
The carabinieri and their sergeant lined up beside Don Camillo, but the people were so frenzied that no one could keep them from pushing forward.
“Very well,” said Don Camillo; “step back and I’ll open up.”
They stepped back, and Don Camillo opened the first door. The compartment was filled with books, every one of which bore a number. And there were more and more books in all the other compartments. Don Camillo pulled out a book at random and leafed it through.
“It is a treasure,” he explained, “but not of the kind you imagined. These are birth, death and marriage registers of the two hundred and fifty years ending in 1753. I don’t know what happened in that year, but apparently the priest was afraid they might be destroyed and walled them up here for safe-keeping.”
Things had to be arranged in such a way that everyone could see with their own eyes the truth of what Don Camillo was saying, and only when they had all marched by the wardrobe could Don Camillo call it a day.
“Lord,” he said when he was left alone in the church, “forgive me if through my fault Your house was turned into an encampment of sacrilegious gold-diggers. I repeat that the blame is not theirs but mine I was the first one to be in an indecent hurry. When the shepherd acts like a madman, what can you expect of his flock?”
In the course of the following days Don Camillo was stricken with another madness; his impatience to examine all the registers at once. He looked at them quite at random, one after another, and this turned out to be a good idea, for along with the registers of 1650 he found a notebook in which the priest had written up all the events worthy of remark every day.
He threw himself eagerly upon this diary and discovered all sorts of curious things. But among the notes of May 6, 1650 he found two really remarkable items, the first one of which was concerned with Giosue Scozza, whose marble statue stood in the main square of the neighbouring village of Torricella on a pedestal marked with the following inscription:
Giosue Scozza
Creator of Divine harmonies
Beloved son of Torricella
Who wrote its name and his
own on the rolls of Glory
1650–1746
Torricella had dedicated to this favourite son not only this monument but also its main square, the theatre, the widest street, the primary school, the public orphanage, and the local band. His name inevitably came out in every piece of writing or speech-making in these parts and even big-city newspapers and magazines always referred to Giosue Scozza as “the swan of Torricella”.
For centuries there had been a feud between the two villages, and the compatriots of Don Camillo and Peppone could not bear to see or hear this name. Now, in the old diary, Don Camillo found a passage which, translated into contemporary language ran:
Today Geremia Scozza, blacksmith, moved away to enter the service of Count Sanvito of Torricella. With him went his wife, Geltrude, and his son, Giosue, born in this parish on 8 June 1647.
The records of 1647 confirmed the fact that the great man had indeed been born in this parish, and those of preceding years made it clear that the same was true of his family. In short, Torricella had acquired its “swan” when he was three years old.
This item in the diary was preceded by another equally extraordinary:
Today, 6 May 1647, Giuseppe Bottazzi, blacksmith, 48 years old, was decapitated in the public square, having on 8 April made an armed attack and inflicted wound, upon Don Patini, rector of Vigolenzo for the purpose of stealing a bag of gold. Giuseppe Bottazzi, a skilled worker but a man of sacrilegious ideas, was not born here but came twenty years ago and married a local girl, Maria Gambazzi, who bore him a son baptized Antonio, now fifteen years old. Giuseppe Bottazzi has turned out to be the chief of a band of brigands who have committed thefts and murders in the land of Count Sanvito. Last December they surprised and murdered the men-at-arms at the Castello della Piana where Count Sanvito himself was in residence and managed to save his life only by fleeing through the secret underground passage.
Don Camillo took a look at the records of later years and clearly established the fact that the present-day Giuseppe Bottazzi, known as Peppone, mayor and Red leader, was a direct descendant of this blacksmith of the same name.
“When elections come around, I’ll cook his goose,” muttered Don Camillo. “I’ll have this page of the diary photographed and plaster it up at every street corner, and under it the phrase: ‘Blood will tell.’ History repeats itself!”
This project was one that could not be carried out until the time was ripe, but its appeal was tremendous, for it meant killing two birds with one stone. Don Camillo planned to stake an indisputable claim to “the swan of Torricella” and strike a fatal blow at Peppone.
But the news about Giosue Scozza was so exciting that Don Camillo couldn’t help dropping hints about it, and one day Peppone came to the rectory to see him.
“Father,” he said, “there’s a lot of talk about some of the things you’ve discovered in the famous books. Since it’s no political matter, but one concerning the honour of the village, may I ask you to tell me the whole story?”
“What’s this?” muttered Don Camillo, throwing out his arms. “It’s just a bit of history, that’s all.”
“What do you mean by history?”
“I mean something in the nature of geography—geography is what makes history, you know.”
“I don’t get it,” said Peppone, scratching his head. “Will you kindly explain?”
“I don’t know whether it’s really proper.”
“I see. You’re cooking up some of your usual reactionary propaganda and planning to destroy somebody’s reputation.”
Don Camillo turned bright red.
“If I go in for propaganda, there’s nothing false about it. I have documents to show that ‘the swan of Torricella’ was born not in Torricella, but right here, three years earlier than it’s always been stated.”
Peppone leaned forward.
“Either you’re telling tall tales or else you’re a man completely without honour. Because if you can demonstrate in private that Scozza came from here rather than from Torricella and refuse to do so openly, then you’re depriving the village of a God-given right.”
Don Camillo pulled out the diary and shoved it in front of Peppone’s nose.
“Here’s the whole truth for you; and there’s other proof, besides.”
“Then why don’t you release it?”
Don Camillo lit his cigar butt and blew several mouthfuls of smoke up to the ceiling.
“The only way to release the news is to print a photograph of a whole page of the dairy, or at least to be ready to show it to anyone who asks to see.”
“Well, what’s the matter with that?”
“I can’t make up my mind to do anything so drastic. The note about Scozza is preceded by another one corroborating the date, which happens to bear your family name. So, in the last analysis, it’s up to you.”
“My family?” exclaimed Peppone, dumbfounded.
“Yes, the Giuseppe Bottazzi who fills the entry for 6 May, 1647 is the unfortunate ancestor of the tribe of Peppone. I’ve checked the whole thing, and it’s indubitably correct.”
Don Camillo pointed out the entry to Peppone and the latter proceeded to read it.
“Well,” he said afterwards, “what have I got to do with a Bottazzi of 1647?”
“You know how people are. The original Giuseppe Bottazzi revealed to be a blacksmith, a priest-baiter, and gang-leader, just like you! Your enemies would be able to put that to good use in their campaign. Just think it over.”
Peppone read the two items several times and then gave the d
iary back to Don Camillo.
“I don’t care what the reactionary swine may say. The important thing is to add Giosue Scozza to our village’s glory. I put the village’s reputation before my own. So go ahead and make the whole thing public.”
Peppone started to go, then wheeled about and went over to the desk where Don Camillo was sitting.
“And do you know what?” he added. “I’m proud to have that Bottazzi for an ancestor. It means that Bottazzis had the right idea even in 1647; they knew that they must get rid of priests and land-owners, even at the cost of their own lives. And it’s no use your smiling, Father. Your turn is coming!”
“Remember that my name’s Don Camillo, not Don Patini!” said the priest in reply.
“Politics may divide us, but for the good of the village, we are as one,” Peppone shot over his shoulder. “We’ll talk of that later; meanwhile, let’s get after Giosue Scozza!”
* * *
Don Camillo threw himself like a lion into the chase for “the swan of Torricella”. Without dragging Peppone’s ancestor into the picture, he placed devastating articles in the provincial paper. Eventually the big-city papers chimed in. The romantic discovery of the archives sealed into the church wall made a good story, and they spread it so widely that Torricella had to surrender. And when people of Torricella were convinced that Giosue Scozza belonged to their enemies, they turned against him. A “public safety committee” was formed, for the purpose of wiping out all traces of the interloper, beginning with the statue in the public square, which was to be replaced by a fountain. Thus the blot would be washed away.
At this point Peppone appealed to the Reds on the other side. He proposed to give Torricella a marble fountain in exchange for the marble statue of the great man. It was settled that the exchange of gifts should be made into a solemn occasion. A wagon drawn by white oxen would carry the fountain to the boundary-line of the villages, and meet there a similar wagon, bearing the statue. The money for the fountain was quickly raised, and a month later the wagons set forth. Giosue Scozza arrived in the village nailed to his pedestal and tied with ropes to the sides of the wagon, but looking very proud indeed. And Peppone, who was waiting to receive him, with the rest of the persons in authority and the local band, pronounced a speech written for the occasion, which began:
“Greetings, illustrious brother, upon your return, after centuries of absence, to your native place.”
It was all very moving. When the wagon from Torricella had taken over the fountain and gone away, Peppone took a hammer and chisel out of his pocket and knocked off the tablet which described Giosue Scozza as the “beloved son of Torricella”. The smashed tablet was thrown outside the boundary line, and the little procession wound its way happily into the central square. There everything was ready: masons, marble-workers, a crane, and a stone for the base. Soon the statue stood erect on its new foundation and a new tablet was fastened to the pedestal. A canvas had been thrown around it, and this was removed at just the right moment. Don Camillo pronounced a blessing and made a short speech on the theme of the return of the prodigal son. The welcoming committee, which was non-political in nature, had done things proud, and the festivities did not end until evening, when Peppone rose to explain the significance of the occasion.
“We have seen your face, dear long-lost brother,” he said, “but we have not heard your voice, that divine voice which you raised to the heights of immortal glory. And so a string orchestra is to play a programme which will acquaint all of us with the greatest melodies of our own celebrated Giosue Scozza.”
The square was crowded with people, and after Peppone had finished speaking there was a burst of applause, followed by a religious silence. The string orchestra, which had been brought from the city, was really first-class, and the first of the twelve pieces on the programme The Andantine Number Six, turned out to be a musical jewel. After this came the Air in C sharp Minor and the Sonata in D, which met with equal success. But when the fourth piece, Ballet in F, began, there was a chorus of voices shouting:
“Verdi, Verdi!”
Peppone and Don Camillo were sitting in the front seats, and the conductor looked beseechingly at Peppone. Peppone looked at Don Camillo and Don Camillo nodded. Then Peppone called peremptorily:
“Verdi!”
Everyone was wild with joy. The conductor held a whispered consultation with his musicians, tapped the music stand with his baton, and the crowd was silent. At the first notes of the prelude to La Traviata, people had difficulty restraining their applause and after it was finished it was almost overpowering.
“This is real music!” shouted Peppone.
“You can’t beat Verdi,” answered Don Camillo. Verdi supplied all the rest of the programme, and at the end the orchestra conductor was carried off in triumph. As Smilzo passed in front of the statue of Giosue Scozza, “creator of divine harmonies,” he observed:
“The climate of Torricella didn’t do him any good.”
“Exactly,” said Bigio. “If he’d stayed here, he’d have written much better music.”
“Historical things are beautiful even when they’re ugly,” put in Peppone severely. “Giosue Scozza belongs to history and he’ll go down as a very great man, don’t you agree, Don Camillo!”
“Of course,” Don Camillo answered. “You must always look at an artist against the background of his times.”
“But Verdi…” objected Smilzo.
“What’s Verdi got to do with it?” Peppone interrupted. “Verdi’s no artist; he’s just a man with a heart as big as this—”
And he threw out his arms so eloquently that they cut a wide swathe all around him. Don Camillo wasn’t agile enough to get out of the way, and received a blow in the stomach. But out of respect for Verdi he said nothing.
Revenge Is Sweet
THE people of Torricella were furious over having lost their musical supremacy and were dead set on winning a championship in some other field. So one fine morning our villagers found posters stuck up all over the place, which read as follows:
If you have eleven young men
who know the difference
between a soccer ball
and a tin of tomato sauce,
Send them to the sports field at
Torricella
to see what’s going on.
As soon as Peppone had read this challenge he turned to his lieutenant, Smilzo, and said:
“Tell the Dynamo team to start training immediately and then go to Torricella to decide on a day for the match.”
Smilzo got on his bicycle, rode off at full speed and came back an hour later. Peppone was waiting impatiently in his office, and before him were proofs of the poster to be plastered, by way of a reply, on the walls of Torricella.
“Well, is it all set?” he shot at Smilzo.
“Set, my eye!” Smilzo growled. “We missed the boat.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that the priest’s team got there ahead of us.”
Without hesitation Peppone pulled his cap down over his eyes and marched on the rectory. He found Don Camillo in the square in front of the church and plunged right into the subject which was on his mind.
“If there’s any team that has a right to defend the village honour, it’s the Dynamos,” he stated emphatically.
“Ditto for the Diehards,” answered Don Camillo.
“The Diehards aren’t a team, they’re a deformation.”
“The Dynamos aren’t a team, they’re a collection of chickens.”
On these premises, there seemed to be no likely agreement, and the argument continued in such an excited key that it attracted nearly a hundred listeners. Finally, after Peppone and Don Camillo had reached so high a pitch that it seemed as if they could never climb down from it, the voice of reason intervened. The voice was that of the local chemist.
“There can be no real discussion here,” he said. “The teams are neck and neck, and we must choose between two solu
tions. Either we toss a coin to see which one is to represent the village, or else we take the best men of both and weld them together.”
“The Diehards have eleven best men,” maintained Don Camillo.
“And the Dynamos twelve,” retorted Peppone, “because I’m including the masseur, who may be lame but rates as high as any Diehard you care to mention.”
But the idea of welding the best men of both teams into one was obviously sensible and eventually both Peppone and Don Camillo had to admit it.
“We’ll talk about it another day,” said Don Camillo, retiring to the rectory.
“Yes, another day,” echoed Peppone, withdrawing to the People’s Palace.
The next day the two men met on neutral ground, each of them accompanied by a group of backers.
“I don’t want to be mixed up in this business,” said Don Camillo. “My job is to be a priest, and so I’ve turned it over to this committee of experts.”
“My job is to be mayor,” echoed Peppone, “and so I’ve put it up to a committee too.”
“Then let the two committees get together,” concluded Don Camillo.
“Exactly,” said Peppone, “I shall stay on merely as an observer, and whatever the committees decide suits me. It should be easy enough to reach a decision, because after having made a dispassionate analysis of the Diehards, it’s obvious that we should take their centre man and leave the rest of the places to the Dynamos.”
“That’s just what we thought after we had taken the Dynamos under careful consideration. Give us Smilzo, and we’ll supply the other ten.”
Peppone gritted his teeth.
“I don’t want to influence the committees’ decision, but one thing is sure: if you like it, then it’s just as I say, and if you don’t, then it’s just as I say too. And you can thank God for the honour of having one of your men play with a team like ours.”
“Smilzo will be a decided handicap to the Diehards,” said Don Camillo, “but we want to show that on our side there’s a real spirit of conciliation.”
Don Camillo’s Dilemma Page 5
