Peppone gritted his teeth, shuffled the cards and laid them on the window-sill.
“The tournament’s over, and I won it,” he said. “The Cup goes to the Party, and no one can take it away. But in order to make this a good game and lend it some social significance, I’ll put up my shotgun as stakes. What about you?”
A murmur went through the room. Peppone’s gun was the finest for miles around and everyone knew how he prized it. He would have cut off a leg rather than give up that precious gun. Everyone waited for Don Camillo to make a fitting reply. And he did not disappoint them.
“I’ll put up my dog!” he said boldly. And everyone knew that the dog was the apple of Don Camillo’s eyes.
The game that followed was of an epic character. If Homer’s heroes had played poker they would have played it in just the same way. The two men fought with all their wits until the bitter end, and Don Camillo won. No one dared applaud him. Finally Don Camillo tipped his hat.
“Thanks for the good game, and good night. Gambling debts are due within twenty-four hours.”
Don Camillo went straight to the rectory, without passing through the church, but Christ’s voice overtook him.
“At this late hour, Don Camillo!”
“I went to look in at the last round of the tournament. But I didn’t set foot in the tavern; I stayed just outside the window. And just as I thought, Peppone was the winner.”
“Did that cause any trouble?”
“No, everything went smoothly, and there was general agreement that the best man won.”
“Don Camillo, this game of poker interests me. I gather from what you say, that it must be played with a pack of brand-new cards, in their original wrapping.”
“That’s a wise precaution, especially if you’re playing with nimble-fingered fellows who may connive with the tavern-keeper to use marked cards.”
“I see. So a pack of new cards is brought out; the first player examines it and passes it to the second, who then slips it into his pocket and puts in its place another identical pack, inconspicuously marked with his thumb-nail and rewrapped in the original paper. Isn’t that the system?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t put it that way,” said Don Camillo.
“Then what have you got in your pocket?”
“I can’t imagine how in the world it got there,” stammered Don Camillo, pulling out a pack of new cards and laying it on the table.
“Peppone gave it to you and you slipped his pack into your pocket and gave him back another pack which you had brought with you.”
“Obviously there was a mix-up of some kind,” said Don Camillo.
“Yes, you mixed up right and wrong, and added to the immorality of a gambling game. But you’re the real loser, Don Camillo.”
Don Camillo was wiping the perspiration off his forehead when Peppone came into the room. He took his famous shotgun out from under his coat and handed it over.
“Gambling debts are paid promptly,” he said, “but if you’re an honest man, you’ll give me a chance for revenge.” Then he noticed the pack of cards on the table. “This is luck,” he added. “Here’s a brand-new pack, which guarantees a fair game. Open it and shuffle the cards.”
They sat down at the table and Don Camillo opened the pack and shuffled. The game was just as Homeric in character as the one that had gone before, but this time Peppone won.
“Shall we play a third game to break the tie?” he suggested. Don Camillo did not answer, because he was fingering the cards.
“Aha!” he said all of a sudden. “So you mark the ace like this, do you?”
Peppone did not blench. He pulled another pack of cards out of his pocket and searched for the seven.
“And your mark is these two fine lines, isn’t it?” he countered.
Don Camillo picked up Peppone’s pack and threw it on to the fire. And Peppone did the same thing with Don Camillo’s.
“Well, we’re even,” said Peppone as he got up to leave.
“No,” said Don Camillo; “I’m the loser.”
And he said it so sorrowfully that Peppone was touched.
“Father, don’t take it too hard. In a game of poker the prospect of winning addles a man’s brain and he can’t help himself. I’ll lend you my gun to go hunting, and you can lend me your dog in return. How about it?”
After Peppone had gone, Don Camillo stared into the fire. “Don Camillo, I said that you were in the service of the King off Heaven, not of the kings of clubs and diamonds. You ought to be ashamed!”
Don Camillo threw out his arms, raised his eyes to heaven and exclaimed:
“Lord, I know I’m in the wrong. But you heard what he said about the game and how it addles a man’s brain.”
Then something caught Don Camillo’s eye. It was Peppone’s pack and the flames of the fire were just beginning to curl round it. In a moment it would be too late to find out how an expert like Peppone marked the kings and queens.
Christ sighed.
“Don Camillo, who’s going to save you from burning in Hell?”
Don Camillo did not answer, but he sat quite still and did not go up to bed until the glowing coals had turned to ashes.
Hunger Strike
SMILZO’S mother had paralysed legs, but she also had a head on her shoulders, and even though she had been confined to a chair for five or six years, she knew exactly what was going on. When she was present Smilzo and his wife didn’t dare talk politics, but she had a keen ear and heard much of what they didn’t even say. They thought they had everything under control but a few days after their son was born the old woman came out and said:
“It’s time to baptize him.”
Smilzo was taken by surprise and stood there gaping, but his wife jumped into the breach.
“There’s no hurry,” she said. “Let’s wait at least until this cold spell is over.”
The old woman said nothing, but two days later she attacked again.
“Well, is he going to be baptized or isn’t he?”
With the passage of time she became more and more insistent, and finally Smilzo screwed up his courage to say: “Don’t let’s hear any more talk about this business of baptism. Times have changed in a great many ways that you don’t know.”
The old woman shook her head. “From the day when Jesus Christ started this business of baptism, times have changed over and over and any number of things have happened, but newborn babies have always been baptized.”
Smilzo muttered something about political parties and excommunications but the old woman knew what she was talking about and stuck to it.
“Newborn babies aren’t party members. And so they’ve got to be baptized.”
Smilzo repeated that she didn’t understand, but she went on shaking her head.
“I understand perfectly well. Your father was worse than you are when it comes to political notions, but you were baptized shortly after you were born.”
“Things were different in those days,” Smilzo’s wife exclaimed.
“And wives were different too!” retorted the old woman.
“Wives were different? What do you mean? What have you got against me?”
“The fact that you’re a silly girl?”
“All right, then,” the wife shouted. “I won’t have my baby baptized for certain. If when he’s older he feels like being baptized, then he can do something about it.”
The old woman looked at her son, but he failed to agree with her.
“It’s putting something over on children to baptize them when they don’t know what it’s all about,” he mumbled.
“Very well,” said the old woman. “From now on, I’m not eating. I shan’t eat until the baby’s been baptized.”
“You’ll starve for years, then,” said her daughter-in-law with a mocking laugh.
Smilzo said nothing, but brought his fist down on the table and went out of the house.
The next day the old woman did not drink her usual cup of milk for breakfast a
nd at noon she sat quietly in her chair, watching the others eat their lunch. It was the same thing at supper, and finally Smilzo lost his patience.
“You’ve behaved quite long enough like a spoiled child,” he said. “Go ahead and eat, instead of trying to upset me.”
“She’ll eat when she’s hungry,” his wife reassured him. But another day went by in the same way, and the daughter-in-law began to be worried.
“We must call the doctor,” she said, “tell him what’s happened and have her taken away. Otherwise, if she dies of starvation, we’ll be blamed for it. Can’t you see her little game? She wants to ruin our reputation.”
At this point the old woman spoke up.
“Give me pen and paper and I’ll write down that I’m dying of my own free will. I’m not trying to ruin your reputation; I simply want to save my grandson’s soul.”
Smilzo’s wife had an attack of nerves and began sobbing:
“She hates me! I won’t have any milk for the baby if she goes on this way.”
“What of it?” said the old woman. “Snake’s milk won’t do him any good.”
Smilzo ran out of the house in despair. But he could just as well have stayed at home, because the old woman did not open her mouth to speak again. The third day she chose to stay in bed.
“I’d rather die in this position,” she explained. “Please call the priest.”
“No!” shouted her daughter-in-law. “No!”
“It doesn’t really matter,” said the old woman. “God will listen to me just the same.”
“You’ll die with a curse upon you!” shouted her daughter-in-law. “It’s a clear-cut case of suicide, because you won’t eat.”
“No, you’ve prevented me from eating by refusing to have the baby baptized.”
She closed her eyes and sank back on the pillows, while her daughter-in-law withdrew uneasily. Smilzo had been listening just outside the door.
“Something must be done in a hurry,” he said.
“Are you going to give in to the priests?” his wife panted. “They’ve thrown you out of the Church and you ask them to baptize your son? That doesn’t go very well with the beliefs you profess in public.”
“Take it easy!” said Smilzo. “We’ve got to find a way to kill two birds with one stone. I’m going to see Peppone.”
Peppone was in his workshop when Smilzo burst in upon him.
“Chief, you’ve got to help me. I’m in hot water.” He proceeded to tell his thorny story and concluded: “Chief, I don’t want to betray my political principles, but I can’t let my mother die. Suppose I get a fancy, lace-trimmed baptismal dress; you put on your best clothes and come for us in your car. We’ll have the baby all rigged out in white and show him to his grandmother, with you in a godfathers role. We’ll drive to the People’s Palace, sneak in through the courtyard, drink a bottle of wine and then go back and say to my mother: ‘Here he is, fresh from the font, just as you wanted!’ Then she’ll start eating again and my conscience will be clear.”
“I see,” said Peppone. “But what if she ever finds out?”
“She won’t,” said Smilzo curtly. “And the main thing just now is to get her to eat.”
Peppone shrugged but agreed to cooperate and while Smilzo went to buy a robe he put on his best clothes. Half an hour later they were at Smilzo’s house. The house was in a lonely spot and there was a heavy fog in the air, both of them favourable circumstances. Smilzo’s wife ran to wake up the old woman.
“If you really don’t want to ruin our reputation, then get up for a minute. The baby’s godfather is here.”
“His godfather?” exclaimed the old woman, opening her eyes wide.
“Yes, the mayor himself, who’s honoured us by consenting to present him for baptism.”
Voices rang out downstairs, and the old woman pulled herself into an upright position and threw a shawl around her shoulders.
“Where’s the baby?” she asked.
“They’re dressing him now.”
“Is he fitted out properly?”
“You’ll soon see.”
There was a knock at the door, and Smilzo came in, carrying the baby wrapped in the most elaborate outfit that can be imagined. Behind this dazzling white vision was the massive figure of Peppone. But the old woman had eyes only for the baby.
“What a little beauty,” she sobbed, raising her gaunt hands as if before some miraculous apparition.
Even the mother was amazed to see her child in such festive array. She snatched him out of Smilzo’s arms in order to smooth out the pleats and straighten the bows of the baptismal robe and put the cap at the proper angle on the tiny pink head.
“How are you?” Peppone asked the old woman.
At last she managed to take her eyes off the baby and look at Peppone.
“What an honour you are paying us, Mr Mayor!” she exclaimed, grasping one of his big paws. “God bless you I know it’s thanks to you that my son came around to reason. But never mind about that; it’s all over.”
Peppone tried to free his hand, but she held it in an iron grasp.
“Don’t say that!” he replied. “Your son doesn’t need advice from anybody. He’s a fine man. And the honour of being his child’s godfather is all mine. But tell me how you are feeling.”
“Splendid, thank you,” she answered. “I had a touch of flu, just like everyone else this winter, but I’m quite well now.”
“Take good care of yourself!” Peppone admonished her in an authoritative tone. And after this he could find nothing else to say.
“We must hurry along,” put in Smilzo. “The priest is waiting.”
The old woman insisted on looking at the baby again and laid a finger on his forehead.
“He’s smiling!” said Peppone. “Seems as if he knew you already.”
The baby had clutched the old woman’s hand and for a moment he would not let it go.
“He wants me to come along,” she sighed, “but I’m in no condition to go. When I hear the church bells ring I’ll be happy.”
“You may not hear them at all,” mumbled her daughter-in-law nervously. “There’s a fog outside so thick you could cut it with a knife.”
“I’ve a keen ear, and besides, I’ll open the window,” the old woman answered, smiling.
In the bar of the People’s Palace, there was no one but Bigio, who was engaged in going over some accounts. He was startled to see Peppone and Smilzo come in, bearing the decked-out baby.
“Pull down the blinds,” said Peppone, “and bring us a bottle of dry white wine.”
Bigio brought the bottle of wine and three glasses. “Aren’t you having a drink too?” asked Smilzo.
“Well, there are three of us, aren’t there? And I’ve brought three glasses.”
“What about the fourth?” asked Smilzo, pointing with a laugh at the white bundle on the table.
“I don’t get it,” Bigio said.
“A proletarian baptism!” explained Smilzo, raising his glass. “To the health of a new comrade!”
Bigio and Peppone drained their glasses. Then, while Peppone told Bigio what it was all about, Smilzo dipped his finger into the wine and held it up to the baby’s lips.
“Look how he sucks it!” he said proudly. “It’s plain he’ll grow up to be a very fine fellow!”
The others made no answer, and Smilzo drank down another glass of wine. For several minutes he was absorbed in his thoughts, but finally he said:
“The church bells! She wanted to hear them ringing!”
Just then the church bells actually rang, and the three men jumped as if in the presence of something supernatural.
“Oh yes,” said Bigio. “Today they were going to baptize the chemist’s baby.”
Smilzo gave a roar of joy.
“She wanted to hear the church bells, did she? Well, there they are! What luck!”
The bundle on the table began to wriggle and Peppone touched the baby’s warm, rosy forehead with his en
ormous hand. The baby took hold of his middle finger and would not let it go. Peppone reflected that a short time before the baby had held his grandmother’s old hand in the same way. Now the baby held fast again. Meanwhile Smilzo drank a third glass of wine.
“We can go home now,” he said, slamming the empty glass down on the table.
Peppone and Bigio did not move.
“Ring down the curtain!” said Smilzo. “The play is over, and I’m a perfect swine.”
Peppone and Bigio had never heard what the Party calls confession couched in such very honest and appropriate terms.
“Go to it, Bigio,” said Peppone, “and make it snappy.”
And Bigio was off like a shot.
* * *
“What’s this?” asked Don Camillo, going over to the baptismal font.
“My son!” said Smilzo, straightening the ribbons which stuck out of the bundle on Peppone’s arm.
“Poor boy!” sighed Don Camillo. “Couldn’t he have chosen a better father?”
The baby was in good form by now and proceeded to grasp Don Camillo’s middle finger. “Brat!” Don Camillo said severely. “Are you trying to take other people’s belongings away from them so soon?”
Smilzo wanted to say something, but Don Camillo drowned out his voice.
“Silence! As you know, no convinced Communist can serve as a godfather. Are you a convinced Communist, Peppone?”
“No sir!” said Peppone.
“God only knows whether you are telling the truth, and He’ll call you to account for it on Judgement Day.”
After the ceremony was over and Peppone had gone out to the car, in which Bigio was waiting before the church, Smilzo went up to Don Camillo.
“How much do I owe you for your trouble?” he asked.
“Nothing. You too can settle your accounts with God Almighty.”
Smilzo looked at him with mistrust.
“You won’t get my next baby, though!” he said defiantly.
“The future is in God’s hands, my son!” said Don Camillo, throwing out his arms. “But get out of here in a hurry, because the present might be in my feet!”
This was a theory just like any other. But Smilzo knew the size and strength of Don Camillo’s feet and so he took it into due consideration.
Don Camillo’s Dilemma Page 17
