“From my point of view, you’re quite right.”
“From mine too…. Lambrusco wine or Fontanella?”
“Lambrusco,” said Peppone without hesitation.
It was an unusually fine bottle and so were the two that followed. At a certain point Peppone raised his glass and shouted:
“Hurrah for Garibaldi!”
“Hurrah!” said Don Camillo, clinking his glass against the other.
Then they had to drink a toast to the conscripts born in 1899, iron men, one and all.
“We ninety-niners!…” exclaimed Peppone. And he said these three words in such a way that they were as meaningful as a long oration.
The Case of the Disappearing Dog
DON CAMILLO’S dog, Thunder, had fallen from grace, and was punished by being tied up, for several weeks, on a chain. Just when it seemed as if he had mended his ways he made for the garden gate, returned to the gay life, and for several days on end failed to put in an appearance.
“The fact that the hunting season is over doesn’t dispense you from the everyday duties of a well-bred dog,” said Don Camillo. “You’re not a mutt or a stray, you have a pedigree. Noblesse oblige, and although you’re quite free to go out by yourself you must come home at night.”
Thunder cocked his head and listened with a penitent air, but these high-sounding words went in one ear and out the other. Don Camillo was genuinely fearful of losing his beloved pet. Even the loss of his indispensable motorcycle would have been less difficult to bear. But fate willed, perversely, that Don Camillo should lose his dog. Thunder disappeared on Saturday morning while Don Camillo was saying his first mass. For a couple of days the priest hoped for his return, then he betrayed his worry by making inquiries of his neighbours. No one in the village had seen him, and gradually Don Camillo extended his search to the outlying farms.
Actually, his first thought had been to question Peppone, for Peppone was the only other person for whom Thunder felt affection. One day Peppone had even gone so far as to say: “Politics may divide us, but Thunder makes us one. Nevertheless, come the revolution, Thunder won’t save you from the fate you so richly deserve!” Now Peppone was just the man to whom Don Camillo wanted to turn, but the political situation was unusually tense, and if he had made any contact with the Red leader, an earthquake might have ensued. In the long run, however, after he had exhausted all other possibilities, Don Camillo did have to knock at Peppone’s door, that is he wrote him a letter.
Dear Mr Giuseppe Bottazzi:
My dog, Thunder, has been missing for two weeks past. If you can give me any news of him, I shall be most grateful. Yours very truly…
The answer came by return of post:
Dear Mr Priest:
If your dog has run away, it means that he, too, has got wise to you. Very truly yours…
Don Camillo did not abandon his quest, and after a month had gone by he asked Barchini to print fifty notices, which he proceeded to post in the surrounding district:
Lost: Hunting dog. Reward to anyone bringing information which leads to his return.
After three days Don Camillo received a missive with crudely printed letters and no signature at the bottom:
Reverend: If you want to find your dog, without having to give any reward, go to the acacia grove at Pragrande and look in the vicinity of the sewer.
Without losing a single minute, Don Camillo set out across the fields in the direction of Pragrande. He didn’t have to look far, because near the sewer entrance there was a pole sticking out of the ground, with a dog-collar wired to it, and a crudely printed sign saying:
Here lies one of the two dogs of the rectory. He was run over by a truck: too bad, because the other one is more of a dog than he.
With his stick Don Camillo dug up the loose earth round the pole. After he had gone down a couple of feet he replaced the dirt and went away. Back in the rectory he shut himself up in his bedroom in order to quiet the sorrow and indignation that welled up in his breast. Turning the collar over and over in his hands he repeated to himself: “They killed him … they killed him…” There was no doubt in his mind: out of sheer spite, someone had murdered the dog. But who could it be? In spite of his resentment, Don Camillo could not bear to think that the murderer was someone he knew. No one in the village could have been so vile. There were people who might have killed a man, but never a dog, just in order to hurt the master. All day long he was in the dumps, and when evening came he was as exhausted as if he had unloaded a transatlantic steamer. He had no wish to talk, and when he went to close the church and found the old Desolina Fiorini waiting to see him he started to dismiss her roughly.
“Father,” she said mysteriously, “I have a secret to tell you.”
“What is it?” asked Don Camillo curtly.
“I read the notice about the dog….”
“Well…” said Don Camillo, taken by surprise.
“It’s no use your offering a reward. Someone knows where the dog is, but he’s not talking.”
“Well, you can talk, can’t you?” panted Don Camillo. “Don’t you trust me?”
“I trust you, Father, but I don’t want to get in trouble with those people….”
“What people?”
“The usual people, Father. Didn’t the dog disappear on the twenty-fourth of last month?”
“Yes.”
“Well. I saw him with one of them on that day.”
Don Camillo could contain himself no longer. The old woman’s caution was driving him crazy. Still, it would have been unwise to put too much pressure upon her.
“Speak up, Desolina,” he said. “After all, you know me.”
“I know them, too… This wasn’t the first time your dog had gone out with them, either. First he took up with the ringleader; he was always underfoot in the workshop. After that he shifted his attentions to the ringleader’s right-hand man. I must admit I was shocked to see the company your dog was keeping.”
“They made the overtures,” protested Don Camillo. “And what does he know of politics?”
“Nothing, of course, Father. But I know that it could only come to a bad end. Anyone that takes up with the Reds…”
“Desolina,” said Don Camillo prudently, “when you speak of ‘the ringleader’s right-hand man’, do you mean Smilzo?”
“Yes,” she said unwillingly, after a fearful look around her. “That was his special friend. I saw them go off more than once together, on Peppone’s truck…. On the twenty-fourth of last month, which was a Saturday, that’s exactly what happened. Only that time Smilzo came back alone.”
Don Camillo had heard all too much. After reassuring the old woman, he went back to the rectory and brooded over his wrong in bed. He slept very little, rose at dawn, and as soon as he had said mass made straight for the workshop of Peppone. It looked suspiciously like a coincidence that Smilzo should be on the scene as well. But Peppone was obviously unprepared to see Don Camillo turn up at this early hour and with such an angry look on his face.
“Did you have a bad night, Father?” he asked.
“I did. But I slept better than someone with a dungheap where a conscience should be.”
“For instance?…” asked Peppone threateningly.
“For instance the fellow who murdered my dog simply in order to spite me.”
Peppone shook his head.
“The loss of the dog has affected his mind,” he muttered. “There’s nothing to do but let him have his say. He’s dreamed that somebody killed the dog and come to tell us about it instead of going to a soothsayer who might have interpreted the dream in terms of a winning lottery number.”
“I didn’t dream it at all,” said Don Camillo, pulling Thunder’s collar out of his pocket, along with the letter and sign. “I found him dead over at Pragrande, with this sign for a tombstone.”
Peppone read both documents.
“Too bad,” he said. “But you’re barking up the wrong tree. Here there are people that
would have been glad to kill you in order to please the dog, but none that would have killed the dog just to spite you.”
“This isn’t the wrong tree at all,” Don Camillo insisted. “I’m looking for a fellow who on the twenty-fourth of last month rode off on the truck belonging to a certain Giuseppe Bottazzi, who rode off with my dog and rode back without him.”
Peppone took a step forward.
“You’re barking up the wrong tree, Father, I tell you!”
“The police sergeant won’t bark up the wrong tree, though, after I’ve told him my story and given him the names of witnesses.”
“I’m not afraid of you or the police, either. If somebody killed your dog, we can’t do anything about it. The sins of priests who have sold their souls to America are visited upon innocent dogs!”
“We’ll see who has the last laugh!” shouted Don Camillo, moving towards the door. “Ten minutes from now there’s going to be an H-bomb explosion, and then the fun will begin.”
Smilzo had turned as pale as the lady of the camellias. He grasped Peppone’s arm and pleaded:
“Chief, don’t let him go!”
But Peppone stared at him in amazement and shook him off.
“What’s the matter, you fool?” he asked.
Don Camillo had stopped to look round.
“I’ll expose you and your whole miserable gang,” he shouted towards Smilzo. “No use your putting on an act like that with me.”
“Father, I didn’t kill your dog, I swear it!” Smilzo exclaimed.
“Good for you! Then swear that you didn’t write this sign and this letter. And while you’re at it, swear that you didn’t take Thunder away with you on Peppone’s truck on the twenty-fourth of last month?”
“I’m not swearing indiscriminately,” Smilzo objected. “I simply swore that I didn’t kill your dog.”
“And what dog is buried at Pragrande, then?”
“I can’t tell you,” said Smilzo. “I found him dead on the road a week ago and buried him there. He looked a lot like Thunder, that’s all. Afterwards I wrote you an anonymous letter in order to make you stop whining about your lost dog.”
Peppone took Smilzo by the lapels of his jacket and shook him as if he meant to make a single hash out of brains and belly.
“Come out with the whole story,” he shouted, “or I’ll kill you like a dog.”
After Smilzo had caught his breath, he told everything he knew.
“Thunder and I were great friends. He’s a good dog; you’d never suspect he belonged to a priest.”
Don Camillo picked up a hammer.
“Be calm, Father,” said Peppone. “There’s no use scaring an innocent witness like me…. Go ahead, Smilzo.”
“We were friends, as I say. Every Saturday, when I went round to the markets with Peppone’s truck, he came along. Once we stopped in a tavern at Peschetto and a fellow asked me if I’d sell the dog. I said that he wasn’t mine, that I’d found him on the road. He said he had to have the dog to go hunting and put a thousand-lira note into my hand. I had had a good bit to drink, so I took it and went away. A mile farther on, I realized what a fool I’d been and started to go back for Thunder. While I was turning round Thunder himself ran up and made a flying leap onto the truck. We stopped at the next tavern along the way and drank up the thousand liras.”
“You lout!” said Don Camillo disgustedly. “Did you teach him to drink, as well?”
“That was just a manner of speaking I drank red wine and he ate a dish of red meat, such as I wager he never enjoyed when he was with the clergy.”
“Never mind about the clergy,” said Peppone. “Tell what you have to tell.”
“There isn’t much more,” said Smilzo. “The following Saturday I thought over what had happened. Before stopping to eat lunch in Fornella I took off the dog’s collar, smeared him with mud, and took him in with me on the end of a piece of rope. Of course, the rope was tied around his neck in clerical style, so that it could be slipped off, and I had showed him how to get free. I went to a tavern frequented by hunters and there I found a man who wanted to buy him for two thousand liras. And so on, and so on.”
“What do you mean, ‘and so on’?”
“I mean that I drove a mile or so down the road, stopped, and waited for Thunder to catch up with me. When he came we had another bout of eating and drinking, just as before. In short, I’d found a first-class racket. I sold him, he ran away, and then we split the profits.”
“And did he enjoy this game?”
“Of course he enjoyed it. He hasn’t sold his soul to America, like you. He understands the economic situation and the necessity of sharing the wealth.”
Once more Don Camillo picked up the hammer.
“And where is Thunder now?” he demanded.
“Last time I saw him was at Castelmonti, where I sold him for three thousand liras, but he never came back. I suppose he never managed to get away. That’s the whole story. I didn’t kill him; I only pretended he was dead in order to stop your whining about him.”
“Good enough,” said Don Camillo, waving the card in the air. “Theft, embezzlement, libel…”
Peppone felt he had to step in.
“To say that you’re more of a dog than Thunder isn’t libel; it’s no more than the simple truth.”
“We’ll see what the court has to say,” said Don Camillo. “I for one shan’t let you off so easily.”
“For once it’s not a matter of politics,” said Peppone. “Smilzo may have done wrong, but he did it entirely on his own, and with the complicity of your dog, who didn’t hesitate to second him. Your legal action is directed at a private individual. If you want to send him to jail, go right ahead.”
Don Camillo brought the hammer down on the anvil.
“I don’t want to send anyone to jail. I want my dog! Between a thief who sells another man’s dog for three thousand liras and a brute who cheats him by paying only a twentieth of the real value, there’s not much to choose. But the dog is mine, and I want him back.”
Peppone took his jacket off the hook and slipped it on.
“Shut your holy mouth,” he said. “You shall have your dog.” And followed by Smilzo he went out and climbed into his truck.
“I’m coming along,” said Don Camillo.
“To Castelmonti,” said Peppone, as Smilzo took the wheel. “We’ll inquire in the tavern who bought the dog and then ransom him, by fair means or foul.”
The truck speeded over the dusty roads of the lower Po valley in the direction of the distant hills. But after seven or eight miles Smilzo abruptly threw on the brakes.
“What’s the matter?” Peppone asked impatiently.
Smilzo opened the door and a dog leaped into the cab. The dog was Thunder. Nobody said a word, and Smilzo turned round and made for home. After a mile the silence was broken by an angry growl and again Smilzo came to a sudden stop.
“What’s the matter now?” asked Don Camillo.
“Our understanding is that at the first tavern we stop and divide the spoils,” Smilzo explained. “I still owe him his share from the last time.”
With Thunder at his heels he got out and went into the tavern in front of which he had stopped the truck. Peppone followed suit, leaving Don Camillo alone. It was as hot as summer, and under the metal top of the cab Don Camillo soon began to perspire. Finally he got out, went into the tavern, and asked for a glass of water.
“Come in, Father,” said the host, going by with a huge bowl of spaghetti in his arms. “Your friends are waiting for you in the next room.”
The room was shady and quiet, and the spaghetti emanated an ambrosial odour. Don Camillo sat in front of a heaping plateful, and only then did Thunder abandon his reserved air and show his adoration. But Don Camillo was not to be corrupted.
“I’m paying for what I eat,” he said stoutly. “No dishonestly gained bread for me!”
“Nor for me,” said Peppone. “Every man must pay for himself, and th
e devil take the hindmost. But Smilzo’s paying for both himself and Thunder.”
“Then I’ll pay for you, Peppone,” said Don Camillo. “That way Smilzo and I shall both have dog guests!”
And he proceeded to enjoy his meal, because having the last word made it worthwhile to pay for an entire regiment.
Victims of War
MILCO didn’t know how to begin, but finally he managed to say:
“It’s about that German woman. Today is the twenty-sixth, and she’ll be here the day after tomorrow.”
He seemed to be intensely worried, and Don Camillo couldn’t see why.
“Every twenty-eighth of March since 1946 she’s descended upon you. She may just as well come this year, too.”
Milco shook his head.
“You don’t know the whole story, Father,” muttered Milco; “that’s why you can’t understand.”
True enough, Don Camillo knew no more than did the rest of the village. The story went back to the end of September 1943, when a small detachment of Germans had occupied the village. Among them was Sergeant Fritz, who functioned as quartermaster. He himself was lodged in Milco’s house at La Torretta, not very far from the village, between the highway and the Stivone River.
At this time Milco was thirty years old, but he had stayed at home because of a lame leg and also because, in spite of this disability, he was the only man able to run the farm. Milco’s wife was not strong, and his extremely healthy son was only eleven years old. There were no other members of the family, and in time of war, when agriculture is just as important as heavy industry, there can be no question of leaving the land deserted and unproductive.
Sergeant Fritz was a good-natured fellow, the same age as Milco, who went about making war as another man might have gone about store-keeping or accounting. Good German that he was, he had a weakness for Italian wine, and when he had drunk a bit more than necessary he would pull out of his wallet the photograph of a handsome, blonde young woman and a ten-month-old blond baby boy, which invariably moved him to tears.
Don Camillo and the Devil Page 3
