When the scaffolding was up, the masons swathed the façade with cloth so that no plaster would fall on the passers-by and then began the repairs. These went on for about a month, until one night everything was taken down, and the next morning the people of the village, along with a number of strangers who had come to the weekly market-day, found the tower completely restored. The masons knew their trade and had done a good job. Of course, they couldn’t leave politics out of it and so they had hung up a big sign, near the top, which said: “This public work was NOT financed by the Marshall Plan.”
Don Camillo was among the crowd that had gathered in the square and when Peppone saw him he edged up behind his back and sprung on him the question: “Well, what have you got to say?”
Don Camillo did not even turn around. “A good job,” he said. “Too bad that the looks of it should be ruined by that sign.”
Peppone turned to a group of his henchmen, who just happened to be standing by.
“Did you hear? He says that the looks of the thing are ruined by the sign. Do you know, I very nearly agree!”
“Where artistic matters are concerned, the priest’s word carries a lot of weight,” Smilzo put in. “I think he’s right.”
They discussed it further, and finally Peppone said:
“Someone go tell them to take down that sign. That’ll prove that we’re not like certain people who claim to be infallible.”
A couple of minutes later, someone loosened a rope, and the sign came down. And then appeared the real surprise: a magnificent new clock. For years and years the clock on the bell tower of the church had been the only public timepiece in the village, but now there was another on the town hall.
“You can’t appreciate it fully in the daytime,” Peppone exclaimed. “But the dial is transparent and lighted from inside, so that by night you can read the time from a mile away.”
Just then there was a vague noise from the top of La Rocca and Peppone shouted:
“Silence!”
The square was full of people, but they all fell silent to listen to the new clock strike ten. Hardly had the echoes died away, when the clock on the church tower began to ring out the same hour.
“Wonderful,” said Don Camillo to Peppone. “Only your clock is nearly two minutes fast.”
Peppone shrugged his shoulders.
“One might just as well say that your clock is nearly two minutes slow.”
Don Camillo did not lose his aplomb.
“One might just as well say so, but it’s inadvisable. My clock is exact to the second, just as it has been for the last thirty or forty years, and there was no use squandering public funds for a new one on the town hall.”
Peppone wanted to say any number of things, but there were so many he choked, and the veins of his neck stood out like ropes. Smilzo rushed into the breach, raising one finger.
“You’re angry because you wanted to have a monopoly on time! But time doesn’t belong exclusively to the clergy! It belongs to the people!”
The new clock struck a quarter past the hour, and once more the square was silent. First one and then two minutes went by.
“It’s more inaccurate than before!” exclaimed Don Camillo. “Now it’s a full two minutes fast.”
People took big silver watches out of their vest pockets and began to argue. It was all very strange, because before this none of them had ever cared about minutes at all. Minutes and seconds are strictly city preoccupations. In the city people hurry, hurry so as not to waste a single minute, and fail to realize that they are throwing a lifetime away.
When the town hall clock struck half-past ten, and the bell tower followed two minutes later, there were two schools of opinion. The conflict was not a violent one, because it remained within the circumference of the opposing parties’ vest pockets. But Smilzo had warmed up to all the implications and shouted:
“On the day when the La Rocca clock strikes the hour of the people’s revolution some people are going to find out that they’re not two minutes but two centuries behind!”
Smilzo always talked that way, but this time he made the mistake of shaking a threatening finger under Don Camillo’s nose. And Don Camillo made an unequivocal answer. He stretched out his hand, pulled Smilzo’s cap down over his eyes and then did the classical turn of the screw, leaving the visor at the back of his neck. Peppone stepped forward.
“What would you say if anyone played that trick on you?” he asked through his teeth.
“Try and see!” said Don Camillo. “No one’s ever tried so far!”
Twenty hands dragged Peppone back.
“Don’t do anything rash,” they said. “The mayor mustn’t get into trouble.”
The gang of Reds closed in on Don Camillo and began to shout. Don Camillo had an urge to create some fresh air about him and a bench was the first fan that came into his hand. With his steam up and a bench in his grasp, Don Camillo was a cyclone. In a second there was an empty space around him, but since the square was packed with people and market-stands, an empty space at one point meant increased density at some other. A chicken cage was trampled, a horse reared, and there was a chorus of shouts, moos and whinnies. The Red gang was muted, but Peppone, who was squashed into the entrance of the town hall by people who didn’t want him to get in trouble, managed to seize a bench in his turn And Peppone, too, when his motor was running at high speed, and he had a bench in his grasp, was a tornado that knew neither friend nor foe. The crowd stepped back while Peppone slowly and fatefully advanced toward Don Camillo, who stood his ground, bench in hand. The crowd had retreated to the periphery of the square, and only Smilzo kept his head and threw himself in Peppone’s way.
“Forget it, Chief! Don’t behave like a donkey!”
But Peppone implacably advanced toward the center of the square, and Smilzo had to back up as he delivered his warning. Suddenly he found himself between the two benches, but he stood firm and awaited the shock of the earthquake. The crowd was silent. The most desperate of the Reds had grouped themselves behind Peppone, and Don Camillo was backed up by a group of old peasants, who had a nostalgic longing for the blackjack, and now shook their stout cherry sticks at their opponents. There seemed to be a tacit agreement between both sides. As soon as Peppone and Don Camillo let go with their benches; there would be a free-for-all fight. There was a moment of deathly silence while the two protagonists brandished their weapons, and then something extraordinary happened. The old clock and the new both started to strike eleven, and their strokes were in perfect synchronization.
The benches fell, and the empty middle of the square filled up with people. As if they were coming out of a dream, Don Camillo and Peppone found themselves in a busy marketplace, where vendors were crying their wares. Peppone went off to the town hall and Don Camillo to the rectory. Smilzo was left alone in the middle of the square trying to figure out what had happened. Finally he gave up trying to understand, and since all the Reds had melted away he went over to a near-by stand and drink a coca-cola.
Rhadames
RHADAMES was the son of Badile, the locksmith, whose real name was Hernani Gniffa. Obviously an operatic family. Badile had a good ear, and when he had tucked away a bottle or two of wine he sang with a powerful voice that was a pleasure to hear. When Badile’s son, Rhadames, was six years old, his father brought him to Don Camillo and asked to have him taken into the choir. Don Camillo tested the boy’s voice and then said:
“The only thing I can do is set him to blowing the organ bellows.” For Rhadames had a voice as hard and cutting as a splinter of stone.
“He’s my son,” said Badile, “so he must have a voice. It’s still tight, that’s all. All it needs is loosening up.”
To say no would have meant giving Badile the worst disappointment of his life, so the priest sighed and said, “I’ll do my best.”
Don Camillo did everything he could, but after two years, Rhadames’ voice was worse than ever. Besides being even harsher than before, it
stuck in his throat. Rhadames had a magnificent chest, and to hear a miserable squeak come out of it was really infuriating. One day Don Camillo lost patience, got up from the organ and gave Rhadames a kick that landed him against the wall. Where singing is concerned, a kick may be more effective than three years’ study of harmony: Rhadames went back to the choir and came out with a voice that seemed to emerge straight from La Scala. When people heard him, they said that it would be a crime for him to discontinue his studies.
This is the way they are in a village. If a fellow is disagreeable and unattractive they’ll let him die of starvation. But if they take a liking to a fellow, they’ll put together the money to get him singing lessons. In this case, they collected enough to send Rhadames to the city. Not to live like a gentleman—that couldn’t be expected—but with his singing lessons paid for. And for the rest, Rhadames had to earn his board and keep by sawing wood, delivering parcels, and so on. Every now and then Badile went to see him and brought back the news: “He’s not doing too badly. He’s making progress.”
Then the war came along, and Rhadames was lost from sight. One day when it was all over he turned up in the village, Peppone was mayor, and when Don Camillo told him that Rhadames’ musical education must go on, he found the money to send him back to the city. A year or two later, Rhadames turned up again.
“They’re letting me sing in Aïda,” he said.
Things were tense in the village for political reasons, and violence was in the air, but on account of this news hostilities were suspended. Peppone held a meeting at the town hall, and Don Camillo attended it. The first question that came up was how to raise funds.
“The honor of the village is at stake,” Peppone explained. “Rhadames mustn’t cut a poor figure before those big shots in the city.”
And the committee agreed.
“If anyone can get money out of those that have it,” said Peppone, “I can guarantee the support of the common people.”
Don Camillo understood that this was a gentle hint, and answered. “Somebody will do it.”
Then Rhadames gave a detailed account of his needs, which was found quite satisfactory.
“Here there’s no question of corruption or special favors,” Peppone said proudly. “This is definitely a proletarian victory.”
Don Camillo turned to Rhadames.
“What is your stage name?” he asked him.
“His stage name?” shouted Peppone. “His own, of course! Do you want him to assume yours?”
Don Camillo did not lose his temper.
“Rhadames Gniffa isn’t the kind of name you can put on an opera program. It’s a most unfortunate name, because it’s bound to make people laugh.”
Then Rhadames’ father came into the discussion.
“My name is Hernani Gniffa, and I’ve borne it for sixty-five years without anyone’s laughing!”
“That’s all very well, but you’re a locksmith, not a tenor!” Don Camillo answered. “Around here nobody cares, but in the theatrical world, it’s a different matter. There you need a name that sounds well and is sure to be popular.”
“How ridiculous!” exclaimed Peppone. “Middle-class stupidity!”
Don Camillo looked at him hard.
“If Giuseppe Verdi had been called Rhadames Gniffa, do you think he would have won fame as a composer?”
Peppone stopped to think, and Don Camillo gave him another example. “If Joseph Stalin had happened to be called Euripedes Bergnocioni, would he have left the same mark on history?”
“The very idea!” stammered Peppone. “Think of Stalin under the name of Bergnocioni! Impossible!”
The committee sat until late at night, and finally made a unanimous choice of the name Franco Santalba.
“It’s a queer world!” they all said.
Rhadames shrugged his shoulders. “Whatever you decide is all right with me,” he said.
* * *
The great day came at last, and the committee met in the village square to read the announcement of the opera in the newspaper that had just arrived from the city. Rhadames’ photograph was there, and under it the caption: “Franco Santalba, tenor.” They couldn’t resist going to hear him.
“There’s room in the truck for all of us,” said Peppone. “And we’d better make an early start in order to get seats. We’ll meet here in the square at four o’clock.”
“Somebody must tell the priest,” one of the men observed. “He won’t be able to come, but he ought to know about it.”
“Priests don’t interest me,” said Peppone.
But they went to the rectory in a body.
“I can’t go, you know that,” Don Camillo said sadly. “It wouldn’t do for a priest to go to the opera, especially on the opening night. You’ll have to tell me all about it.”
When the committee had gone, Don Camillo went to confide his sorrow to Christ on the altar.
“I’m distressed that I can’t go,” he said with a sigh. “Rhadames is almost like a son to us all. But of course duty is duty. My place is here, and not amid the worldly frivolities of a theatre…”
“Quite right, Don Camillo. One of those small sacrifices that you must accept cheerfully.”
“Yes, of course from a general or absolute point of view, it’s a small sacrifice,” said Don Camillo. “But to the person concerned, it’s a large one. Of course, the greater the sacrifice it is, the more cheerfully it should be accepted. Complaints take all the value of a sacrifice away. In fact, if a sacrifice brings out a complaint, it doesn’t count as a sacrifice at all.”
“Naturally,” Christ answered.
Don Camillo paced up and down the empty church. “I developed the boy’s voice,” he explained, stopping in front of the altar. “He came not much higher than my knees, and he couldn’t sing; he squeaked like a rusty chain. And now he’s singing in Aïda. Rhadames in Aïda! And I can’t hear him. Surely, that’s a tremendous sacrifice. But I’m bearing up very cheerfully.”
“Certainly you are,” whispered Christ with a smile.
* * *
Peppone and his gang sat in the front row of the gallery with their heads whirling. To gain admission to the gallery, it’s not sufficient to pay for a ticket; one has to fight for a seat as well. And when Aïda is on the boards the gallery is a madhouse. That evening, however, a burly man made his way through the crowd at the last minute and came in just behind Peppone. He was wearing a green coat, and Peppone seemed to know him, because he squeezed over on the bench and made a place for him.
“If Rhadames loses his nerve, he’s out of luck,” Peppone mumbled. “This is a merciless crowd.”
“Here’s hoping,” said the burly man in the green coat.
“If they hiss him, I’ll kill somebody,” said Peppone excitedly, and the man in the green coat motioned to him to keep his head.
But they didn’t whistle; they were kind enough simply to snicker. Toward the end of the first act, things got worse and worse. Rhadames was scared pink and sang way off key. The gallery howled, vigorously enough to make the curtain tremble. Peppone clenched his teeth, and his stalwarts were ready to sow murder around them. But the burly man took Peppone by the collar and dragged him outside. They walked up and down in the fresh air, and when they heard a howl, they knew that Rhadames had hit still another false note. Then the triumphal march caused the audience to calm down. Shortly before the third act, the burly man said to Peppone: “Let’s go.”
The attendants didn’t want to admit them behind the scenes. But before two strapping men with the combined strength of an armored division, there was nothing to do. They found Rhadames waiting in terror to be howled off the stage for the third and last time. When he saw the two men, his jaw fell open. The man in the green coat went around behind him and gave him a kick powerful enough to launch a Caruso.
Rhadames practically sailed through the air onto the stage, but he was completely transformed when he got there. When he sang the great aria “Io son disonorato!”
the theatre almost broke down under the applause.
“You’ve got to know a singer down to the bottom,” the burly man said triumphantly to the hysterical Peppone.
“Yes, Don…” Peppone started to reply, but at one look from the burly man he broke his sentence off in the middle.
The Stuff from America
THE PARTY DELEGATE was one of those gloomy, tight-lipped characters who seem to have been made just for wearing a red scarf around the neck and a Tommy gun slung over one shoulder. The reason for his visit to the village was to galvanize and activate the local section of the Party. He made endless speeches to the cell leaders, for when these gloomy, tight-lipped fellows start talking politics they are as long-winded as the late Adolf Hitler. He stayed three whole days, and on the morning of the third day, when he had finished laying down the latest Party line, he said to Peppone:
“Saturday you’re to call a meeting of the village council and announce that you’re resigning from the post of mayor.”
“Have I done so badly?” stammered Peppone.
“No, Comrade; you’ve done so well that you’re to be promoted. You’re to run for Parliament on the People’s Front ticket.”
“Me run for Parliament?”
“Yes, that’s what I said.”
“But I haven’t any education…”
“You know how to obey, Comrade, don’t you? All a deputy to Parliament needs to know is how to obey Party orders. And you’re sure to attract votes. You’re known all over the province for the way you hustle around and get things done.”
Peppone threw out his arms.
“But what about my own village?”
“Do you care more for the community than for Communism?”
Peppone bowed his head.
“Of course you’ll have to make some campaign speeches. But we’ll send you those, don’t worry. You can just learn them by heart.”
While the delegate was giving him further instructions as to how to conduct his campaign, Smilzo burst breathlessly into the room.
Don Camillo and his Flock Page 2
