Don Camillo’s Dilemma

by Giovanni Guareschi

  As his glance fell upon the field of alfalfa and the wire fence, he murmured to himself: “The little rascal!…” Then he started as a moving white object caught his attention. Only when it was within a few yards of the fence did he recognize it. It was little Magrino, bundled up in a long white night-shirt, which his father had formerly worn by day, weaving in and out of the tall grass, like a drunkard or a sleepwalker. He stumbled and fell, but stood up again and went on, clutching all the while a big rubber ball. When he reached the fence he threw it up in the air, but the fence was too high and it fell back on the same side. He threw it again and it hit the wire. Don Camillo’s forehead was covered with perspiration.

  “Lord,” he prayed, “give him the strength to throw it over!”

  Magrino was tired out and the tiny arms sticking out of the shirtsleeves seemed to have lost all their former skill. He staggered in order to remain erect and paused for several minutes before making another try. Don Camillo shut his eyes, and when he opened them the ball was in the playing field, while Magrino lay motionless among the alfalfa. The priest went like an avalanche down the stairs. When he picked up the little boy the lightness of his burden struck terror into his heart. Magrino’s eyes flickered open, and finding himself in the enemy’s grasp he whispered:

  “Don Gumshoe … the ball’s inside.”

  “Good fellow,” said Don Camillo.

  The bell-ringer, who went to tell Jo, found her beside herself over the disappearance of her son. When she saw him lying on a couch before the fire in Don Camillo’s study her amazement knew no bounds.

  “I found him in a dead faint among the alfalfa, just twenty minutes ago,” Don Camillo told her.

  “And what in the world was he doing there? My head is completely woozy.”

  “Always has been, hasn’t it?” asked Don Camillo.

  The doctor told Jo not to dream of taking the boy away but gave him an injection and left precise instructions for his care. Meanwhile Don Camillo was in the sacristy, preparing for mass.

  “Lord,” he said to the Crucified Christ as he stood before the altar, “how did it all happen? After the upbringing that boy’s had, how could he know the difference between good and evil?”

  “Don Camillo,” said Christ, “how do fish learn to swim? By instinct. And conscience is instinctive in the same way; it’s not something that can be transmitted from one person to another. It’s not like taking a light into a dark room. The light is burning all the time, covered by a thick veil. When you take the veil away, the room is lit.”

  “Very well, Lord, but who unveiled the light in that boy’s soul?”

  “Don Camillo, when the darkness of death is impending, everyone instinctively searches within himself for a ray of light. And now, don’t you bother your head about how it came about; just rejoice in it and thank God.”

  * * *

  Magrino stayed for a fortnight in the rectory and Jo came morning and evening to see him; that is, she knocked at the window and when Don Camillo opened it, she said:

  “I’ve come to see the prisoner.”

  Don Camillo made no reply but let the two of them talk together. After a fortnight had gone by he came home one day to find Magrino letting the air out of his bicycle tyres. He gathered together the boy’s few clothes and took him to the door saying:

  “You’re cured. Go along home!”

  That evening Jo came boldly to the door.

  “How much do I owe you?” she asked.

  “Nothing. The most that you can do for me is to stay out of my sight forever, per omnia saecula saeculorum.”

  “Amen,” mumbled Jo.

  But out of sheer spite she appeared at eleven o’clock mass the following Sunday, sitting in the front pew, with Magrino beside her. Don Camillo shot her a terrifying glance, but from the bold way in which she stared back at him he knew perfectly well that she was saying to herself:

  “Don Gumshoe, don’t make those ferocious eyes at me. I’m not the least bit afraid!”

  The Card Sharpers

  SMILZO had the post-office job of taking around special delivery letters, and now he braked his bicycle in breakneck Mao Tse-tung style right in front of the sunny bench where Don Camillo was quietly reading his paper.

  The method of stopping a bicycle by sliding off the saddle towards the rear and at the same time jerking up the handlebars in such a way as to lift the front wheel off the ground and produce the effect of a bucking broncho had been known until recent years as “Texas Cowboy” style. Now for obvious political reasons, this reactionary Western name had given way to an appellation from the proletarian and revolutionary East.

  Don Camillo raised his eyes and viewed Smilzo’s cyclonic arrival distrustfully.

  “Does a certain Jesus Christ live here?” Smilzo asked, pulling a letter out of the bag hanging over his shoulder.

  “Someone lives here that may give you a swift kick,” Don Camillo answered tersely.

  “Due respect must be paid to all officials engaged in the public service,” said Smilzo. “The address on this Special Delivery letter is: Jesus Christ, Parish House. If no such person resides here, then I write: Unknown at the above address, and that’s all there is to it.”

  Don Camillo took hold of the letter, and sure enough, the address was just what Smilzo had represented it to be.

  “I’ll take it,” he said. “It will give me grounds for a complaint to the postal authorities. They have no right to encourage such a piece of sacrilegious imbecility.”

  “The postal authorities are only doing their duty,” said Smilzo. “The parish house exists, and they don’t have to know who’s inside. A man can have anyone in his house he wants to. And the name doesn’t matter; it may be an alias for all we care.”

  Don Camillo bent over with studied indifference and the intention of taking off his shoe to serve as a missile, but Smilzo rode off like a flash, before he could reach it.

  The joker who had written the sacrilegious address had added the word Personal, and underlined it, and Don Camillo went to give vent to his indignation before the Crucified Christ over the altar.

  “Lord,” he exclaimed, “won’t You tell me who pulled off this disgraceful trick? Won’t You enable me to go and wring his neck and force him to eat the letter?”

  “Don Camillo,” Christ answered with a smile, “we must respect the privacy of the mails. We can’t go against the principles of the Constitution.”

  “Then, Lord, are we to allow these fellows to blaspheme You with the written word as well as the spoken one?”

  “How do you know that the author of the letter is a blasphemer?” Christ asked. “Mightn’t he be a simple-minded man or a mad one? You’d better read it before you condemn him.”

  Don Camillo threw out his arms in resignation, tore open the envelope and took out a sheet of paper with words printed in capital letters upon it, which he read slowly to himself.

  “Well, Don Camillo? Is it as dreadful as you imagined?”

  “No, Lord, it’s the work of a madman, who deserves only compassion.”

  Don Camillo stuffed the letter into his pocket and started to go away, but Christ called him back.

  “What does this madman ask of Me, Don Camillo?”

  “Nothing in particular. His letter’s a mass of chaotic sentences, with no order or meaning.”

  “All well and good, but you mustn’t pass such a quick judgement upon the expression of a troubled mind. Madness has a logic all its own, and the understanding of this leads to a discovery of the cause of the trouble.”

  “Oh, the trouble is a vague sort of affair,” said Don Camillo hurriedly. “It’s impossible to understand it.”

  “Read it to Me, Don Camillo.”

  Don Camillo shrugged his shoulders in resignation, drew the letter out of his pocket, and read it aloud.

  Lord, I beg you to illuminate the mind of a certain priest and convey to him that he is carrying his political activity too far. In fact, if he carries it
much farther, he may find his hind quarters in contact with a hickory stick. To exercise the priesthood by vocation is one thing, and, by provocation is another. Signed—A friend of democracy.

  “What priest do you suppose he means?” Christ asked at the end of the letter.

  “I haven’t the slightest idea,” said Don Camillo.

  “Do you know any priest who carries his political activity too far?”

  “Lord, I get around so very little…. All the priests in this part of the country are quiet, well-balanced fellows.”

  “What about yourself, Don Camillo?”

  “Lord, we were speaking of priests in this part of the country. If the letter had referred to me, it would have said ‘the local priest’, or ‘the priest of this parish’, instead of ‘a certain priest’. As so rightly remarked, madness has a logic all its own, and I am trying to reason along the lines of this logic.”

  “Don Camillo,” Christ sighed, “why are you trying to keep the truth from Me? Why don’t you admit that you are the priest in question?”

  “Lord, do You pin Your faith on poison-pen letters and anonymous accusations?”

  “No, Don Camillo, but I’d pin My faith on any accusation you care to make against yourself.”

  “Lord, the election is very near, and we’re waging an important battle. I must be loyal to the parish priest. I can tell him to be careful, but I can’t bring any accusation against him.”

  “You mean you’ll advise him to keep his hind quarters out of contact with a stick, is that it?”

  “No, Lord, I’m concerned not with my body but with my soul.”

  With which Don Camillo went to meditate in his study, and as a result the next day Smilzo brought a Special Delivery letter to Peppone.

  “What are we to do with this, Chief?” he asked. Peppone saw that the address on the envelope was: Mr Malenkov, People’s Palace. Undaunted, he took out the letter and read the printed text:

  Mr Malenkov, please inform your follower known as ‘a friend of democracy’ that his interesting letter will be photographed for reproduction in the local reactionary Press. Gratefully yours, A Certain Priest.

  Peppone turned purple with anger, but Smilzo calmed him down.

  “Chief, you’ll just have to take it and let the whole thing blow over. He’s manoeuvred himself into a favourable position.”

  “He’s got himself out of range of a hickory stick,” roared Peppone, bringing his massive fist down on the desk. “But if I beat him up with a branch of elm or acacia, then no one will suspect me.”

  “Naturally, Chief. There are dozens of ways you can get the better of him, without giving yourself away by the use of hickory. All nature is on the People’s side!”

  The publication of the letter aroused considerable talk and everyone accused the Reds of its authorship. In self-defence Peppone decided to relax the general tension by organizing a ‘Poker Tournament for the Peace Crusade’. In this part of the world, which is cut off by the winter fog from the rest of humanity, poker is not so much a game as it is a vital necessity and a tournament of this kind, even if it was organized under the shadow of the wings of Stalin’s Peace Dove, was bound to be a success.

  Tournament headquarters was set up at the Molinetto tavern, which was filled every evening with people of every class and condition. The match grew more and more exciting as poor players were eliminated and undisputed experts held the field. At last it came to a final showdown, which brought two champions face to face. Don Camillo informed Christ of the latest developments.

  “Lord, this evening brings the last round. Everyone’s excited, because as always happens in these parts, politics has entered the situation. I shouldn’t be surprised if fists were to fly before the evening’s over.”

  “How does that happen, Don Camillo?”

  “Lord, politics has a way of changing the aspect of everything it touches, and so the last round of the tournament has turned into a duel between the People’s champion and the champion of Reaction. The finalists are Farmer Filotti and Peppone. If Filotti wins, then it is a victory for Reaction, and if instead, Peppone manages to beat him, then the proletariat will rejoice.”

  “This is all very silly,” said Christ. “What interests are tied up in this game?”

  “It’s just a matter of prestige. Foolish, if you like, but in politics it makes a big difference. Anyhow, we’re certain to be defeated. I say ‘we’ because the Reds are our natural enemies. But it had to end this way. Peppone isn’t coming up against our best player. Filotti may be good, but he’s not our top man. And Peppone’s such a schemer that he’s not above pulling off some funny business with the cards. Now, it may be blasphemous to speak of ‘Justice’ in something so frivolous as a game of poker. But, if I may be allowed to say so, it’s unjust that victory should go to someone who doesn’t deserve it.”

  “Don’t take it too hard, Don Camillo,” Christ interrupted. “You said yourself that it’s a frivolous matter. As matter of fact, all such games are bad for a man, even if they are playing for nothing more than fun. Card-playing is a vice, just like everything else that serves merely to kill time.”

  “Of course,” said Don Camillo, with a bow. “But if it’s legitimate to draw up a scale of values among all these vicious games, I should say that poker was the least harmful of the lot, because it’s based on reason and provides mental gymnastics as well as wholesome reaction.”

  “Don Camillo, you talk like a real fan.”

  “No, just like someone that knows the game. Like a very mediocre player, but one that could beat three Peppones to a frazzle…. But of course it’s unthinkable for a priest to mingle with card-players in a tavern, even if he is motivated by a noble desire to prevent a leader of godlessness from carrying off an undeserved victory.”

  “Quite right,” Christ answered. “A priest must never set foot in a tavern simply in order to take part in some petty game. Priests serve the King of Heaven, not the kings of clubs and diamonds.”

  It was late by now, and Don Camillo started off to bed. Meanwhile the crowded Molinetto tavern was the scene of the final battle. Peppone was in good form; indeed, he seemed to have a calculating machine in place of his brain. The last game won him deafening applause. Filotti threw his cards down on the table and called for a glass of white wine.

  “Let’s have a drink on it,” he said. “There’s nothing else I can do.”

  Peppone was the winner and the Reds were so wild with joy that they began to shout for a speech. Amid general silence Peppone took the floor.

  “Comrades in the battle of sport as well as the battle of labour, the working man must win. This victorious tournament, played under the auspices of…”

  But at this point he stopped short, because someone was knocking at the window which gave on to the street. Smilzo prudently opened it, and there behind the grating was the face of Don Camillo. There was a dramatic silence.

  “What do you want?” Peppone asked threateningly.

  “I want to play,” answered Don Camillo.

  “To play? Play with whom?”

  “Anyone that’s not afraid to play with me.”

  Peppone shot him a pitying glance.

  “I’m not afraid of anybody. But the tournament is over. If you wanted to play you should have signed up for it.”

  “I did sign up,” Don Camillo explained. If you look at the list, you’ll find a registration under the name of Il Calmo, or ‘The Calm Man’.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything,” retorted Peppone. “Anyone can come along and claim to have signed up under that name.”

  “No, because Il Calmo is an anagram for ‘Camillo’.”

  “This isn’t an anagram contest or a Latin lesson; it’s a serious card game.”

  Don Camillo explained the nature of an anagram, and after Peppone had counted the letters he had to admit that Camillo and Il Calmo came to the same thing.

  “Of course if His Honour the Mayor is afraid of coming a cropper,
then I’ll go away.”

  “Come on in,” shouted Peppone.

  “I can’t do that,” said Don Camillo; “it wouldn’t be proper. I’ll stay here and we’ll play on the window-sill.”

  “That may be a good idea,” said Peppone. “You’ll feel safer that way.”

  Don Camillo grasped two bars of the grating in his hands and twisted them back.

  “That makes it more convenient,” he explained, “but if the fresh air bothers you, you can fix it the way it was before.”

  “It does bother me,” said Peppone, grasping the bars and pulling them back into their original position.

  The crowd had never seen a more formidable sight. People held their breath the way they do at the circus when two tightrope walkers advance to the roll of drums. Peppone took a pack of cards and laid it on the window-sill; Don Camillo picked it up and shook his head.

  “These are too thin and frail for a temperament like mine,” he objected. And taking the pack in his big hands, he tore it in two. Peppone paled, and Smilzo came up with another pack of cards.

  “Will this do?” asked Peppone.

  “No,” said Don Camillo.

  “I don’t like it myself,” said Peppone, picking up the pack and mangling it in exactly the same way.

  Someone offered them a third pack.

  “It has to be brand new and in its original wrapping,” Don Camillo insisted. “Trust is all very well, but mistrust is better.”

  Smilzo brought out a pack of cards still wrapped and sealed in cellophane paper, which Peppone examined carefully and then handed to Don Camillo.

  “I’m satisfied,” he said. “What about you?”

  “It’s all right with me,” said Don Camillo, turning the cards over in his hands and giving them back to Peppone. “Go ahead and shuffle, but keep your hands out of mischief?”