Don Camillo had prepared a lively program for the inauguration ceremony: choral singing, athletic competitions and a game of soccer. For the latter Don Camillo had mustered a really formidable team, a task to which he had brought so much enthusiasm that in the team’s eight months of practice the kicks he alone had administered to the eleven players were far more numerous than those all the players put together had succeeded in giving to the ball.
Peppone knew all this and was very angry. He couldn’t bear the thought that the party of the people would have to play second fiddle in the celebration organized by Don Camillo on the people’s behalf. And when Don Camillo informed him that to show his “sympathetic understanding of the more ignorant social strata of the village” he proposed a match between their “Dynamos” and his own “Knights,” Peppone turned pale. He summoned the eleven lads of the local team and made them stand at attention against the wall.
“You are to play against the priest’s team. You’ve got to win or I’ll smash in every one of your faces. The Party orders it for the sake of the downtrodden!”
“We’ll win!” replied the eleven, sweating with terror.
As soon as he heard this, Don Camillo mustered the “Knights” and addressed them as follows: “We are not uncouth savages like our opponents,” he said, smiling pleasantly. “We are capable of reasoning like gentlemen. With the help of God we shall beat them six to nothing. I make no threats; I merely remind you that the honor of the parish is in your hands—and in your feet. If there is some Barabbas among you who is not ready to give his all even to the last drop of his blood, I shall not indulge in Peppone’s smashing of faces. I’ll simply kick his backside to a pulp!”
The entire countryside attended the inauguration led by Peppone and his satellites with blazing red handkerchiefs round their necks. In his capacity as Mayor, he expressed his satisfaction at the event and as personal representative of the people, he emphasized his confident belief that the occasion they were celebrating would not be made to serve “unworthy ends of political propaganda such as were already being whispered by evil-minded persons.”
During the performance of the choral singers, Peppone was able to point out to Brusco that singing was also a sport, inasmuch as it developed the lungs, and Brusco replied that in his opinion, the exercise would prove even more efficacious as a means of physical development for Catholic youth if they were taught to accompany it with gestures for the improvement not only of their lung power but also of the muscles of their arms.
During the game of basketball, Peppone expressed a sincere conviction that ping-pong too had not only an athletic value, but was so graceful that he was astonished not to find it included in the program.
Since these comments were made in voices that could easily be heard half a mile away, the veins in Don Camillo’s neck were very soon swelled to the size of cables. He therefore awaited with indescribable impatience the hour of the soccer match.
At last it was time. White jerseys with a large “K” on the breast for the eleven “Knights.” Red jerseys bearing the hammer, sickle and star combined with an elegant “D” adorned the eleven “Dynamos.”
The crowd ignored symbols, and hailed the teams in its own way: “Hurrah for Peppone!” or “Hurrah for Don Camillo!” Peppone and Don Camillo looked at one another and exchanged slight and dignified bows.
The referee was a neutral: the clockmaker Binella, apparently a man without political opinions. After ten minutes’ play the police sergeant, pale to the gills and followed by his two equally pallid subordinates, approached Peppone.
“Mr. Mayor,” he stammered, “don’t you think I should telephone to the city for reinforcements?”
“You can telephone for a division for all I care, but if those butchers don’t let up, there will be a heap of corpses as high as the first-floor windows! His Majesty the King himself couldn’t do a thing about it, do you understand?” howled Peppone, forgetting the very existence of the Republic in his blind fury.
The sergeant turned to Don Camillo who was standing a few feet away. “Don’t you think…” he stuttered, but Don Camillo cut him short.
“I simply think that nothing short of the personal intervention of the United States of America will prevent us from swimming in blood if those bolsheviks don’t stop disabling my men by kicking them in the shins!” he shouted.
“I see,” said the sergeant and went off to lock himself in the barracks, although perfectly aware that the usual sequel to such behavior is a general attempt to set fire to the police barracks.
The first goal was made by the Knights, and the crowd sent up a howl that shook the church tower. Peppone, his face distorted with rage, turned on Don Camillo with clenched fists. Don Camillo’s fists were already in position. The two of them were within a hair’s breadth of conflict, but Don Camillo saw out of the corner of his eye that all other eyes present were fixed upon them.
“If we start fighting, there’ll be a free-for-all,” he muttered through clenched teeth to Peppone.
“All right, for the sake of the people.”
“For the sake of the Faith,” said Don Camillo.
Nothing happened. When the first half ended a few moments later, Peppone called the Dynamos together. “Fascists!” he said in a voice thick with contempt. Then, seizing hold of Smilzo, the center forward: “As for you, you dirty traitor, suppose you remember that when we were in the mountains I saved your worthless skin three times! If in the next five minutes you haven’t made a goal, I’ll fix that same skin of yours!”
Smilzo, when play was resumed, got the ball and set to work. And work he did, with his head, with his legs and with his knees. He even bit the ball, he spat his lungs out and split his spleen, and in the fourth minute he sent the ball between the posts.
Then he flung himself on the ground and lay motionless. Don Camillo went to the other side of the field lest his self-control fail him. The Knights’ goalkeeper was in a very bad temper.
The Dynamos closed up into a defensive phalanx that seemed impregnable. Thirty seconds before the end, the referee whistled and a foul was called against the Knights. The ball flew into the air. A child of six could not have muffed it at such an angle. Goal!
The match was over. All Peppone’s men had to do now was pick up their injured players and carry them back to the locker rooms. The referee who had no political views left.
Don Camillo was bewildered. He ran off to the church and knelt in front of the altar. “Lord,” he said, “why did You fail me? I have lost the match.”
“And why should I help you more than the others? Your men had twenty-two legs and so had the Dynamos, Don Camillo, and all legs are equal. Moreover, they are not My business. I am interested in souls. Don Camillo, where are your brains?”
“I can find them with an effort,” said Don Camillo. “I was not suggesting that You should have taken charge of my men’s legs, which in any case were the best of the lot. But I do say that You did not prevent that dishonest referee from calling an unjust foul against my team.”
“The priest can make a mistake in saying Mass, Don Camillo; why do you deny that others can make a mistake and yet be in good faith?”
“Errors happen in most circumstances, but not in sport! When the ball is actually there… Binella the clock-maker is a scoundrel…” Don Camillo was unable to go on because at that moment he heard an imploring voice and a man came running into the church, exhausted and gasping, his face convulsed with terror.
“They want to kill me,” he sobbed. “Save me!”
The crowd had reached the church door and was about to pour into the church itself. Don Camillo seized a weighty candlestick, and brandished it menacingly. “Back! In God’s name or I strike!” he shouted. “Remember that anyone who enters here is sacred and immune!” The crowd hesitated.
“Shame on you, you pack of wolves! Get back to your lairs and pray God to forgive you your savagery.”
The crowd stood in silence, heads were bowe
d and there was a general retreat.
“Make the sign of the cross,” Don Camillo ordered them severely, and as he stood there brandishing the candlestick in his huge hand, he looked like Samson.
Everyone made the sign of the cross.
Don Camillo stood back and closed the church door, drawing the bolt, but there was no need. The fugitive had sunk into a pew and was still panting. “Thank you, Don Camillo,” he murmured.
Don Camillo made no immediate reply. He paced to and fro for a few moments and then pulled up opposite the man. “Binella!” he said furiously. “Binella, here in my presence and that of God you dare not lie! There was no foul! How much did that heretic Peppone give you to call a foul in a tied game?”
“Two thousand five hundred lire.”
“M-m-m-m!” roared Don Camillo, thrusting his fist under his victim’s nose.
“But then…” moaned Binella.
“Get out,” bawled Don Camillo, pointing to the door.
Alone again, Don Camillo turned toward Christ. “Didn’t I tell You that the swine had sold himself? Haven’t I a right to be mad?”
“None at all, Don Camillo,” replied Christ. “You started it when you offered Binella two thousand lire to do the same thing. When Peppone bid five hundred lire more, Binella accepted.”
Don Camillo raised his hands. “Lord,” he said, “but looking at it that way makes me the guilty man!”
“Exactly, Don Camillo. When you, a priest, made the first offer, he assumed it wasn’t wrong and then, quite naturally, he took the more profitable bid.”
Don Camillo bowed his head. “And do You mean to tell me that if that unhappy wretch gets beaten up by my men, it will be my fault?”
“In a certain sense, yes, because you were the first to lead him into temptation. Nevertheless, your sin would have been greater if Binella, accepting your offer, had agreed to cheat on behalf of your team. Because then the Dynamos would have done the beating up, and you would have been powerless to stop them.”
Don Camillo reflected awhile. “In fact,” he said, “it works out better that the others won.”
“Exactly, Don Camillo.”
“Then, Lord,” said Don Camillo, “I thank You for having let me lose. And if I say that I accept the defeat as a punishment for my dishonesty, You must believe that I am really penitent. Because, to see a team like mine, who could easily swallow and digest a couple of thousand Dynamos, to see them beaten … is enough to break one’s heart, and cries for vengeance to God!”
“Don Camillo!” Christ admonished him, smiling.
“You don’t understand me,” sighed Don Camillo. “Sport is a thing apart. Either one cares or one doesn’t. Do I make myself clear?”
“Only too clear. I understand you so well that… Come now, when are you going to get your revenge?”
Don Camillo leaped to his feet, his heart swelling with delight. “Six to nothing!” he shouted. “Six to nothing that they never even see the ball! Do You see that confessional?”
He flung his hat up in the air, caught it with a neat kick as it dropped and sent it like a thunderbolt into the little window of the confessional.
“Goal!” said Christ, smiling.
The Avenger
Smilzo rode up on his racing bicycle and braked it by letting his rear end slip off the seat backwards and stop the wheel.
Don Camillo was sitting reading the newspaper on the bench in front of the rectory. He looked up. “Does Stalin hand you down his trousers?” he asked placidly.
Smilzo handed him a letter, touched his cap, leaped on his bicycle and was about to disappear around the corner when he slowed down. “No, the Pope does that,” he called, then stood on his pedals and was gone in a flash.
Don Camillo had been expecting the letter. It contained an invitation to the inauguration ceremony of the People’s Palace, with a program of the festivities enclosed. Speeches, reports, a band and refreshments. Then in the afternoon: “Great Boxing Match between the Heavyweight Champion of the Local Section, Comrade Bagotti Mirco, and the Heavyweight Champion of the Provincial Federation, Comrade Gorlini Anteo.”
Don Camillo went off to discuss the event. “Lord!” he exclaimed, when he had read the program aloud. “If this isn’t vile! If Peppone weren’t an utter boor, he would stage the return match between the Knights and the Dynamos instead of this pommeling bout! I’m going to…”
“You’re entirely wrong,” Christ interrupted him. “It’s perfectly logical of Peppone to try something different. Even if his champion loses, he is still all right: one comrade fights another; it all remains in the family. But if your team beat his, it would be detrimental to the prestige of his party. Don Camillo, you must admit that Peppone couldn’t possibly have staged a return match.”
“And yet,” exclaimed Don Camillo, “I did stage a match against his team, and what’s more, I lost it!”
“But, Don Camillo,” Christ put in gently, “you don’t represent a party. Your team was not defending the colors of the Church. Or do you perhaps think that that Sunday afternoon defeat was a defeat for the Catholic Faith?”
Don Camillo began laughing. “Lord,” he protested, “You’ve got me wrong if You accuse me of any such idea. I was only saying, as a sportsman, that Peppone is a boor. And so You will forgive me if I laugh when his famous champion gets such a licking that by the third round he won’t know his own name.”
“Yes, I shall forgive you, Don Camillo. But I find it less easy to forgive your enjoying the spectacle of two men pounding each other with their fists.”
Don Camillo raised his arms. “I have never done anything of the kind. Such manifestations of brutality only foster that cult of violence which is already too deeply rooted in the minds of the masses. I agree with You in condemning any sport in which skill is subordinated to brute force.”
“Brave, Don Camillo,” said Christ. “If a man feels the need to limber his muscles, he doesn’t have to fight with his neighbor. He can put on a pair of well-padded gloves and take it out on a sack of sawdust or a ball suspended somewhere.”
“Exactly,” agreed Don Camillo, crossing himself quickly and hurrying away. A little later he passed through the church again.
“Will you satisfy My curiosity, Don Camillo?” called Christ. “What is the name of that leather ball which you have attached to the ceiling of your attic?”
“I believe it is called in English a ‘punching bag’,” muttered Don Camillo, stopping for a moment.
“And what does that mean?”
“I don’t know any English,” replied Don Camillo, making a quick escape.
* * *
Don Camillo attended the inaugural ceremony of the People’s Palace, and Peppone accompanied him personally upon a tour of the entire grounds; it was all thoroughly up-to-date.
“What do you think of it?” asked Peppone, who was burbling with joy.
“Charming!” replied Don Camillo, smiling cordially. “To tell you the truth I never would have thought that a simple builder like Brusco could have done it.”
“True enough!” muttered Peppone, who had spent God only knew how much for the best architect in the city.
“Quite a good idea to make the windows horizontal instead of perpendicular,” observed Don Camillo. “The ceilings are not very high but it’s not too obvious. And this I suppose is the warehouse.”
“It’s the Assembly Room,” Peppone explained.
“Ah! And have you put the armory and the cells for dangerous adversaries in the basement?”
“No,” replied Peppone. “We haven’t any dangerous adversaries, they are all harmless little people who can remain in circulation. As for an armory, we thought we would use yours if we needed to.”
“An admirable idea,” agreed Don Camillo politely. “You have been able to see for yourself how well I look after the Tommy gun which you entrusted to my care, Mr. Mayor.”
They had pulled up in front of a huge picture representing a man with a heavy
walrus mustache, small eyes and a pipe. “Is that one of your dead leaders?” asked Don Camillo, respectfully.
“That is someone who is very much among the living and when he comes will end up sitting on the lightning rod of your own church.”
“Too high a position for a humble parish priest. The highest position in a small community always belongs to the Mayor, and from now on I put it at your complete disposal.”
“Are we to have the honor of your presence among us at the boxing match today, Reverend Sir?” asked Peppone, thinking it best to change the subject.
“Thank you, but you had better give my seat to someone who is better qualified to appreciate the innate beauty and educational significance of the performance. But I’ll be available at the rectory in case your champion needs the Last Rites. Just send Smilzo and I can be with you within a couple of minutes.”
During the afternoon, Don Camillo chatted for an hour with Christ and then asked to be excused: “I’m a bit sleepy and I think I’ll take a nap. And I thank You for making it rain cats and dogs. The crops needed it.”
“And moreover, according to your hopes, it will prevent many people from coming to Peppone’s celebration,” added Christ. “Am I right?”
Don Camillo shook his head.
But the rain, heavy though it was, didn’t dampen Peppone’s festivities: people flocked from every section of the countryside, and the gymnasium of the People’s Palace was as full as an egg. “Champion of the Federation” was a fine title and Bagotti was popular in the region. And then it was also to a certain extent a match between town and country, and that aroused interest.
Peppone surveyed the crowd triumphantly from the front row. He was sure that at the worst Bagotti could only lose on points, which would be almost as good as a victory.
The Little World of Don Camillo Page 6
