Don Camillo’s Dilemma

by Giovanni Guareschi

  “Don’t ask me,” said the sergeant. “I passed the note on to the proper persons, and only they can answer.”

  “Very well, Sergeant. Meanwhile, I have a signed letter addressed ‘Director of the People’s Palace’. I could have had this letter reproduced and used it for campaign purposes….” Peppone turned and gave Don Camillo a withering look. “Now, do you see what material I had there for propaganda?… And you, Sergeant, don’t you agree?”

  “Mr Mayor, that’s not up my alley. I have said all I have to say.”

  Don Camillo and Peppone walked away in silence, until Peppone said:

  “Now, wasn’t I justified in wanting to knock you over the head with a hammer?”

  “No, only God has a right to take away human life.”

  “All right. But isn’t it God’s duty to take away the life of the priest of this parish?”

  “God has rights, not duties. Duties are what men have in relation to God.”

  “Perfect!” shouted Peppone. “And before God, what is my present duty? To give the baby to the Biccis and let them bring him up to be a little egotist like themselves?”

  “Or to bring him up in the school of hate to which you belong?” retorted Don Camillo.

  They had reached Peppone’s house and now they walked in. There was a cradle in the kitchen, and in it the baby lay sleeping. When the two men drew near he opened his eyes and smiled.

  “What a beautiful child!” exclaimed Don Camillo.

  Peppone wiped the perspiration off his forehead and then went to fetch a paper.

  “Here’s the original letter from the mother,” he said. “You can see for yourself that I was telling the truth.”

  “Don’t give it to me!” said Don Camillo, “or else I’ll destroy it.”

  “Never mind!” Peppone answered. “Go ahead and look!” As he handed it across the cradle, a tiny hand stretched out and grabbed it.

  “Lord help us!” said Don Camillo, with his eyes wide open in astonishment.

  Just then Peppone’s wife came in.

  “Who let the baby have that paper?” she shouted. “It was written with an indelible pencil, and if he puts it in his mouth he’ll be poisoned!”

  She snatched the paper away and threw it into the fire. Then she picked up the baby and raised him into the air.

  Turning to Don Camillo she said, “Isn’t he a handsome fellow? I’d like to see if your De Gasperi could produce his equal!”

  And she spoke as if the baby were her very own. Don Camillo did not let this remark upset him, but took his leave with a polite farewell greeting.

  “Goodbye, Mr Mayor; goodbye, Signora Bottazzi; goodbye, Baby Bottazzi!”

  And Baby Bottazzi answered with a gurgle which filed Don Camillo’s heart with comfort and hope.

  The Elephant Never Forgets

  THUNDER, of course, was Don Camillo’s dog. And Antenore Cabazza, known as “Thunderer”, was a follower of Peppone. The dog was the brainier of the two, which fact is noted simply in order to give some picture of his two-legged namesake, with whom we are concerned in this story.

  Thunderer was an enormous fellow, who, once he got into motion, proceeded with all the grace and implacability of an elephant. He was the ideal man to carry out orders but for some reason Peppone took especial care not to entrust him with their execution. And so most of Thunderer’s Communist activities took place at the Molinetto tavern, where he went to play cards whenever he wasn’t working. He was an enthusiastic poker player, and his phenomenal memory made him a formidable opponent. Of course memory isn’t always the deciding factor in a card game, and every now and then Thunderer took a trouncing. But the experience he had one Saturday with Cino Biolchi was worse than anything that had ever happened to him before. He sat down to play with five thousand liras, and five hours later he was left without a penny. Now Thunderer couldn’t stomach the idea of going home in this condition.

  “Give me my revenge!” he panted, grasping the cards with shaking hands.

  “I’ve given you I don’t know how many thousand chances for a revenge game,” said Cino Biolchi. “But now I’ve had enough.”

  “Let’s have just one game, for all or nothing,” said Thunderer. “That way, if I win, I get back my five thousand liras.”

  “And what if you lose?” asked Cino Biolchi.

  “Well, you can see I haven’t got any more money,” stammered Thunderer, wiping the perspiration off his forehead, “but I’ll stake anything you say.”

  “Don’t be a donkey,” said Biolchi. “Go off to bed and forget about it.”

  “I want my revenge!” Thunderer roared. “I’ll put up anything … anything at all. You name it!”

  Biolchi was an original fellow. And now, after a moment of thought, he said:

  “All right; I’m with you. Five thousand liras against your vote.”

  “My vote? What do you mean?”

  “I mean that if you lose, you promise to vote for whatever party I say in the next election.”

  Gradually Thunderer was convinced that the other meant just what he was saying. And he accepted the terms in advance. So it was that Biolchi put a five-thousand lira bill upon the table and gave Thunderer a pen and paper.

  “Just write: The undersigned Antenore Cabazza solemnly swears to vote on 7 June for such-and-such a party. You can leave the name of the party blank, and I’ll put it in when I feel like it.”

  Thunderer wrote it duly down and then shot Biolchi a look of resentment.

  “It’s strictly between ourselves,” he said. “And sometime between now and election day, on 7 June, you have to play off the game.”

  “That’s a bargain,” Biolchi replied.

  * * *

  Peppone was just leaving the People’s Palace when Thunderer loomed up before him.

  “Chief I’ve just lost everything I have to Biolchi in a card game.”

  “Too bad. But that’s none of my business.”

  “Yes, it is, too. Because I lost something else; I lost my vote.”

  Peppone laughed after Thunderer had told him the story. “You don’t have to worry,” he said reassuringly. “After all, we have a secret ballot, and once you’re in the booth you can vote for whom you please.”

  “No I can’t,” said Thunderer ruefully. “I signed a paper.”

  “Devil take the paper That doesn’t bind you.”

  “I gave my word of honour, and we shook hands on it. And I’m not the kind of a fellow that breaks his word.”

  Yes, Thunderer had the character of an elephant rather than a jack-rabbit. He had a motor in place of a brain, and the motor ran with a logic of its own, which no one could stop without causing breakage. Peppone realized that the matter was more serious than he had thought, and that Thunderer was adamant on the subject of his honour.

  “Keep your shirt on,” he said. “We’ll talk it over tomorrow.”

  “At what time, Chief?”

  “At ten thirty-five,” muttered Peppone, meaning: “Devil take you for your stupidity!”

  * * *

  But at exactly ten thirty-five the next morning Thunderer turned up at the workshop, saying:

  “It’s ten thirty-five.”

  It was obvious that he hadn’t slept a wink, and he stood there with bewildered, drooping eyes. Peppone’s first impulse was to hit him over the head with a hammer. And when you come down to it, that impulse was a healthy one. But he felt sorry for the fellow and threw his hammer down on the floor instead.

  “You ass!” he shouted. “I ought to expel you from the Party. But elections are coming up and we can’t let our opponents use this story. Here are five thousand liras; now go tell Biolchi to release you from your word. If he won’t do it, let me know.”

  Thunderer pocketed the banknote and disappeared, but he came back no more than a quarter of an hour later.

  “He won’t do it.”

  Peppone put on his jacket and cap and hurriedly went out.

  “Wait for me her
e!” he tossed over his shoulder.

  Biolchi greeted him politely.

  “What can I do for you, Mr Mayor?”

  “Never mind about the mayor part of it. I’ve come about that stupid Thunderer. He must have been drunk last night. Anyhow, take the money and release him from his word.”

  “He wasn’t drunk at all. In fact, he was in full possession of his mental faculties. And he was the one to insist on my choice of a stake. Our agreement is crystal-clear. And I’m ready anytime between now and 7 June for the return game.”

  “Biolchi if I were to go to the police about this, they’d lock you up. But since I don’t want to make a public scandal, I’m here to tell you that unless you give me back the paper I’ll flatten you out against the wall like an electoral poster.”

  “And who’d go to the police, then? That would be very unwise, Peppone!”

  Peppone clenched his fists, but he knew that Biolchi had him cornered.

  “All right, then. But if you have any decency, you’ll play the return game with me instead of with that idiot, Thunderer.”

  Biolchi shut the door, took a pack of cards from a drawer and sat down at the table, with Peppone across from him. It was a desperately hard-fought game, but at the end Peppone went away minus his five thousand liras. That evening he met with his henchmen in the People’s Palace and told them the story.

  “That rascal doesn’t belong to any particular party, but he’s against us, for sure. We must settle this business quietly, or else he’ll turn it into a tremendous joke. Has anybody a suggestion?”

  “Well, we can’t settle it at cards, that’s certain,” said Smilzo. “Biolchi can play all of us under the table. Let’s try offering him ten thousand liras instead of five.”

  Although it was late at night, they went in a group to Biolchi’s door. He was still up and in a restless mood, as if something out of the way had happened. In answer to Peppone’s proposition, he regretfully threw out his arms.

  “Too late! I just played cards with Spiletti, and he won fifteen thousand liras off me, plus Thunderer’s paper.”

  “Shame on you,” said Peppone. “It was agreed that the matter was strictly between you.”

  “Quite right,” said Biolchi. “But Thunderer was the first to spill the beans, when he went to you about it. This simply makes us even. Anyhow, I got Spiletti to promise that he wouldn’t tell the story and that before 7 June, he’d give Thunderer a chance for revenge.”

  A pretty kettle of fish! The paper was in the hands of the head of the clerical party and there was no telling what use he would make of it. Peppone and his gang went back to headquarters, where Thunderer was anxiously waiting.

  “This is no time for talking,” said Peppone. “We’ve got to act, and act fast. Tomorrow morning we’ll post news of Thunderer’s expulsion from the Party.”

  “What’s that?” said Thunderer, pitiably.

  “I said that the Party is purging you for undignified behaviour. And I’ll date the expulsion three months back.”

  Peppone braced himself for an explosion of anger. But there was nothing of the sort.

  “You’re quite right, Chief,” said Thunderer in a voice that was anything but thunderous. “I deserve to be kicked out like a dog.” And he laid his Party membership card meekly on the table.

  “Were not kicking you out like a dog!” exclaimed Peppone. “The expulsion is just a pretence, to stave off an attack from the opposition. After the elections, you can make your little act of confession and we’ll take you back into the fold.”

  “I can confess right now,” Thunderer said mournfully. “I’m a donkey, and after the elections I’ll still be a donkey. There’s no use hoping I can change.”

  Thunderer went dejectedly away, and the spectacle was such that for several minutes Peppone and his henchmen could not settle down to business.

  “We’ll prepare the announcement,” said Smilzo, “but don’t let’s post it tomorrow. Perhaps Spiletti will keep his word.”

  “You can’t know him very well!” said Peppone. “But just as you say.”

  For the next two days nothing unusual happened, and it seemed as if the silence would remain, for a while at least, unbroken. But towards evening Thunderer’s wife came in a state of agitation to the People’s Palace.

  “He’s stark mad!” she burst out. “For forty-eight hours he hasn’t eaten. He lies flat on the bed and won’t look at a soul.”

  Peppone went to survey the situation, and sure enough he found Thunderer in bed immobile. He shook the fellow and even insulted him, but could not get him to say a single word or to abandon for even a second his pose of absolute indifference to the world around him. After a while Peppone lost patience.

  “If you’re really mad, I’ll call the asylum, and they’ll take care of you, all right.”

  With his right arm Thunderer deliberately fished for an object between the bed and the wall. And his eyes seemed to be saying: “If they come from the asylum, I’ll give them a proper welcome.”

  Inasmuch as the object in his right hand was an axe, there was no need of words. Finally Peppone sent everyone else out of the room and said sternly:

  “Surely you can tell me confidentially what’s got into you to make you behave this way.”

  Thunderer shook his head, but he put down the axe, opened a drawer of the bedside-table and took out a pad on which he wrote with considerable effort: “I’ve made a vow to the Madonna not to speak, eat, move or get up for any purpose whatever until I recover that paper, Signed: Antenore Cabazza.”

  Peppone put this note in his pocket and went to call Thunderer’s wife and daughters.

  “Don’t let anyone into the room unless he calls. Leave him strictly alone. It’s nothing serious, just an attack of simple psychosis, a sort of spiritual influenza, which requires rest and a severe diet.”

  But he came back the next evening to inquire alter the patient.

  “Exactly the same,” said his wife.

  “Good,” said Peppone. “That’s the normal course of the affliction.”

  Things were still stationary on the fourth day, and so Peppone went from Thunderer’s bedside to the rectory. Don Camillo sat at his desk, reading a typewritten paper.

  “Look,” said Peppone, “do you know the story of this fellow who lost his vote over a game of cards and…”

  “Yes, I happen to be reading it this minute,” answered Don Camillo. “Someone wants to make it into a poster.”

  “Oh, it’s that rascal Spiletti, is it? He gave his word of honour that he’d make no use of it before election day, and that he’d give the loser a revenge game.”

  “I don’t know anything about that. All I know is that we have here an interesting document signed by the losers own hand.”

  Peppone took out the sheet of paper he had torn off Thunderer’s pad.

  “Then read this authentic document as well. That will give you the whole story, and it may be even more interesting if the signer starves himself to death, as seems quite likely.” And he went away, leaving the paper in Don Camillo’s hands.

  Spiletti came to the rectory a quarter of an hour later.

  “Father, was there anything you didn’t like in my draft?”

  “No, but the trouble is that Thunderer came around here to demand his return game.”

  “His return game? Nonsense! I’m giving him nothing of the sort. This document is entirely too precious, and I have no intention of relinquishing it.”

  “What about your promise?”

  “Why should we have to keep a promise made to one of that mob which deals exclusively in lies?”

  “I see your point. But Thunderer is quite a menace when he’s well, and now he’s half crazy. If you deprive him of his revenge, he’s capable of bumping you off like a fly. And although propaganda is important, it’s more important for you to stay alive.”

  “Let’s play the game, then. But what if I lose?”

  “You mustn’t lose, Spiletti
. If you beat Cino Biolchi, then you ought to make mincemeat out of Thunderer.”

  “The truth is that I didn’t beat Cino Biolchi, Father. I didn’t win the paper away from him; he gave it to me so as to get rid of Peppone…. Look here, Father, why don’t you play in my place? I’ll say that now the document is yours, and I doubt if Thunderer will come anywhere near you.”

  Don Camillo was a shark at cards, and so he said laughing:

  “If he plays with me, I’ll demolish him! And he won’t dare say a word. Never fear, Spiletti, we shall win!”

  The next day Don Camillo went to see Peppone.

  “The document is now in my hands. If your fasting friend wants it back, then I’m his opponent. If he refuses, then it will go on public display.”

  “What?” said Peppone indignantly. “How can a poor wretch who’s had nothing to eat for almost a week stand up to you at a game of cards?”

  “You’re just as much of a wretch as he is, although you eat a large meal every day. If you like, I’ll play with you.”

  “Good enough!”

  “Then it’s five thousand liras against the famous paper.”

  Peppone put a banknote on the table and Don Camillo covered it with the incriminating document. It was an exceedingly fierce game, and Peppone lost it. Don Camillo put the money into his pocket.

  “Are you satisfied?” he asked. “Or do you want a return game?”

  Peppone put up another five-thousand lira bill. He fought hard but played a miserable game. However, Don Camillo’s game was even more miserable, and Peppone won.

  “Here’s Thunderer’s paper, Comrade,” said Don Camillo. “I’m satisfied with the money.”

  * * *

  Peppone had been present for a whole hour at Thunderer’s “Liberation dinner”, when Don Camillo appeared upon the scene.

  “Thunderer,” said the priest, “you lost five thousand liras to Biolchi, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” the elephant stammered.