He must indeed have been Satan in disguise, or else how could he have known that, besides the burning desire for a television set, Don Camille had exactly five thousand liras in his wallet? In any case, when he walked out of the rectory he had them in his pocket, together with a signed contract and a sheaf of signed promissory notes. Of course, he said that these notes were a mere formality and Don Camillo mustn’t worry about meeting them. Don Camillo didn’t worry. For some time he had warm feelings about the smiling young man, because the television set was a beauty and worked very well. But one day he found himself in trouble.
At the end of the fourth month Don Camillo couldn’t meet the payment. The television set was his own personal luxury and he had to pay for it out of his own personal funds, which at this point were not merely low but virtually non-existent. Eighteen thousand liras aren’t so very much, but if a poor country priest hasn’t got them, what is he to do? He can’t work overtime or give private instruction in the catechism. There was no excuse for appealing to his wealthier parishioners, for no object or institution of charity was involved. And no matter how poor he was, Don Camillo had his dignity. He couldn’t borrow money to meet the payment due for a television set; after all, it was an extravagance and he ought never to have taken it if he didn’t have extra means.
Finally he wrote to Guardian Purchases, but they wrote back that although they appreciated the unusual circumstances in which he found himself and were truly sorry, there was nothing they could do. The note had been sent to the bank and he must either pay up or submit to the bank’s demand for payment. Complications increased, because Don Camillo was unable to pay the next instalment either. This time he did not have the nerve to write; he simply said a prayer and waited for pandemonium to break loose. The situation was particularly delicate for this reason. Although with time Don Camillo would doubtless have been able to restore his affairs to good order, a local election was at hand, and this was not the moment to have the bank publish his name. Don Camillo was not a candidate for office; he was not even enrolled in any political party. But the Christian Democrats’ opponents were sure to seize any pretext for attacking a priest. Furthermore, to tell the truth, Don Camillo had been active in the last national election and the Christian Democrats had discussed their tactics with him. He broke out into cold perspiration at the thought of what Peppone and his gang would do if they had the bank’s list of bad accounts in their hands.
After a number of sleepless nights and tormented days, the time for the bank bulletin’s publication came round, and Don Camillo went all the way to the city to get a copy. Sure enough, the first thing he saw was his own name. He went back to the village in a state of great dismay and shut himself up in the rectory where nobody could see him. For he imagined that everyone must be in the know. That evening he ate no supper and could not even make up his mind to go to bed, but paced up and down the hall, with black thoughts crowding his mind. Peppone and his gang had acquired a formidable weapon against him, and he could just hear the accusations they would make in political meetings. His horror was all the more intense because he seemed to hear the crowd laughing. He must do something—anything—about it. And so, abruptly, he did.
Peppone was still hammering away in his workshop, and the sight of Don Camillo caused him to start.
“You must have something on your conscience,” said Don Camillo.
“A priest flitting about by night is bound to startle even an honest man,” said Peppone dryly. “What do you want?”
There was no use making a short story long.
“I want to talk with you, man to man.”
“What about?”
“The promissory notes.”
Peppone threw his hammer into one corner.
“I have something to say, man to man, too,” he said. “And I’d like to point out that, in spite of our enmity, I’ve never made political capital out of your personal misfortunes.”
“I can say the same thing,” said Don Camillo.
“I’m not so sure about that,” Peppone grumbled. “But there’s one thing that is sure: if you dare to be funny about my overdue note, I’ll wring your neck.”
Don Camillo thought he must have misunderstood.
“What’s your note got to do with it?” he asked.
Out of his pocket Peppone pulled a crumpled paper, which he thrust roughly at the priest.
“If you haven’t seen or heard about it, you’ll be sure to see or hear tomorrow. On the list of notes that have not been honoured there’s one signed by your humble servant, Giuseppe Bottazzi.”
And there, under the letter B, was listed a note for twenty thousand liras in Peppone’s name. Don Camillo had never noticed it simply because he was so intent upon looking for his own.
“Is that the only thing of interest you found?” he asked, shaking the bulletin in front of Peppone’s nose.
“I confine myself to my own business,” said Peppone. “I wanted to know if I was there, and there I was.”
Don Camillo put the bulletin into his hand, pointing to a certain line. Peppone read and re-read it, and then stared hard at Don Camillo.
“No!”
“Yes!” Don Camillo exclaimed. “Devil take ‘Guardian Purchases’.”
Peppone started.
“‘Guardian Purchases’? A most agreeable young fellow with a big tan briefcase?”
“Exactly.”
“And did you get a refrigerator, too?”
“No, a television set.”
Peppone launched into a tirade against instalment buying, an institution worse than the atomic bomb. Just a spot of cash and a trifle to pay every month, a debt that pays itself…. Then when you’re unable to pay, you see that you were the trifler, and two hundred thousand liras of debt are … two hundred thousand liras. Finally he calmed down.
“Well, since my refrigerator is working perfectly well, and you’re in the same boat, there’ll be no political consequences. Why worry? Don’t you agree?”
“That’s what I say,” said Don Camillo. Then a sudden thought caused him to turn pale.
“What about the third ticket?” he shouted.
The third ticket was a group of candidates put up by the Rightists, who were opposing both Peppone’s Reds and the Christian Democrats’ Shield and Cross. These candidates would have a cogent argument against both their adversaries, and the village would enjoy no end of laughter. Pietro Follini, the Rightist leader, was a fast thinker and an eloquent speaker. Peppone too turned pale.
“The idea that because of these filthy notes they may bracket me with the wearer of a clerical collar makes me see red!” he shouted.
“And the idea of being dragged down to the level of a godless fool makes me see black!” retorted Don Camillo.
They mulled it over for a quarter of an hour, and then Peppone pulled on his jacket and said:
“I’ll go through the fields, and you go along the river. We’ll have a showdown with that miserable Pietro Follini. First, you try to make him see reason. If he doesn’t respond, I’ll make him see stars.”
Follini had gone to bed, but he came downstairs when he heard Don Camillo calling. Great was his amazement when he saw Peppone beside him.
“Have you set up a common front?” he asked. “I’m not surprised. Reds and clericals have the same end in view: dictatorship!”
“Follini, keep your wit for political meetings,” said Peppone. “See if you can grasp what Don Camillo is going to tell you.”
They went to sit down in the parlour, and Don Camillo at once showed Follini the bank bulletin.
“Have you seen that?” he asked.
“Yes, I’ve seen it. I went to the city this morning for the express purpose of buying it. When I saw my name, I took it hard. But when I saw the names of the priest and the mayor, I felt better.”
Don Camillo took back the bulletin and thumbed nervously through it. Under the F’s there was Pietro Follini, listed as owing forty thousand liras. The three me
n looked at one another in silence, until Don Camillo said:
“I owe Guardian Purchases twenty thousand liras for a television set; he owes them the same for a refrigerator. How about you?”
“I owe them forty thousand for a television set and a refrigerator. Both of them are working very well.”
“Same here!” said Peppone.
“Same here!” echoed Don Camillo.
Follini opened a bottle of wine. They drank together and before Don Camillo went back along the river he muttered:
“I’m glad there’s not a fourth ticket!”
And before Peppone went back through the fields he mumbled:
“We’re neatly matched. Television against television, refrigerator against refrigerator, and promissory note against promissory note! It’s democracy in action!”
The Devil Swishes His Tail
MICHAELMAS was close at hand, and festive preparations were under way, when the bombshell burst. It burst in the form of a notice posted by Don Camillo.
For too many years the coming holiday has been celebrated with indecent public dancing in the square. It is time for all good Christians to join in outlawing this immoral spectacle. If foolish folk of both sexes and all ages must cavort like monkeys to the accompaniment of jungle cacophony, let them find a place more appropriate to their carnival than the square in front of God’s house.
It is prohibited by law to organize public dancing or other offensive activities in the neighbourhood of a church, and I call upon the duly constituted authorities to enforce this prohibition.
Of course, the notice sent Peppone into a paroxysm of anger, for he and his gang were the sponsors of the “indecent public dancing” in question. The “Public Welfare Committee” was called into immediate session at the People’s Palace, and proceeded to discuss countermeasures to this act of clerical aggression. When Brusco was called upon to speak, he declared:
“We have all the time in the world to counter-attack. Just now we must concentrate on obtaining a permit for the dancing. After that is cleared, the priest can protest till he’s blue in the face.”
The majority seconded him, and Peppone went by bicycle to police headquarters.
“I was just about to bring you the permit,” the sergeant told him.
“So we can go ahead with our dancing, just as in previous years?” asked Peppone with relief.
“Yes, you have the all-clear of the provincial police. Only you mustn’t dance in the square. The carnival ground isn’t the legal distance from the church.”
“But, Sergeant,” Peppone exclaimed, turning purple with rage, “the distance was legal enough for the past seven years! What’s the matter with it now?”
“The distance was never legal, Mr Mayor. But as long as the priest didn’t kick, the police winked at it. Now that there’s been a protest, we’ve had to open our eyes. It’s a matter of only a few yards, and it’s up to the priest’s discretion.”
“But if we can’t dance in the square, where can we dance?” asked Peppone in dismay.
“Anywhere you like, just as long as the carnival is set up at a legal distance from the church. The permit is issued under that condition.”
Peppone called the committee together again and explained the situation.
“This cursed village seems to be laid out in a way designed to benefit the clergy and poison honest working people! If you take away the square, there’s no space large enough to hold a carnival. It’s either the square, or the outskirts; there’s no other alternative. And if you stage it in the outskirts, what happens? First, you miss the crowd from the cafés and taverns on the square; second, you have to pay rent for the use of the land; and third, you are humiliated by having to operate in the middle of a sea of mud, littered with fallen apples.”
Brusco had a word to put in.
“Chief,” he said, “since the sergeant told you it was up to the priest’s discretion, why don’t we go and talk reason to Don Camillo?”
Peppone pounded the table with his fist.
“I’ll never lower myself to the level of a priest! Never!”
“I didn’t say you should be the one to go parley with him. There are twelve of us, all able to speak up and hold our own. Let’s write our names on slips of paper and then draw one out of a hat. Tell the barman’s son to bring us something to write on.”
And so, after each one had written his name, folded his sheet of paper, and thrown it into Brusco’s hat, the barman’s son proceeded to the drawing.
“Peppone!” he announced.
“Did it have to be me?” Peppone groaned.
Brusco threw out his arms.
“Never mind; I’ll go,” muttered Peppone. “Brusco, you stay here, and the rest of you can go on home.”
When Brusco and he were alone together, Peppone picked up the hat and took out the eleven remaining ballots. He unfolded them, one by one, and spread them out in a row on the table.
“Look at those, Brusco, and then tell me whether or not you’re a bunch of rascals!”
Brusco examined the ballots and saw that every one bore the name of Peppone.
“Brusco,” Peppone shouted again, seizing his companion by the shoulder; “is this the way the comrades rat on their leader?”
“No, Chief, it only goes to show what confidence they have in him!”
“Father,” said Peppone, sitting down on the chair which Don Camillo pointed out to him, “have we come to the point where we have to argue over a matter of inches?”
“I’m not arguing over inches,” Don Camillo replied. “I’m raising a moral question, which defies all measurement.”
“But in past years you didn’t raise any moral question. There wasn’t anything wrong then, so what can there be now?”
“There was always a moral question involved, Mr Mayor. But I was hoping you would see it for yourself.”
“It’s much simpler than that,” jeered Peppone. “The fact is that you were more afraid of us in past years.”
“I was never afraid of a living soul, and you know it,” said Don Camillo, shaking his head. “If I didn’t step in before, it’s just because I knew people were incapable of seeing the light. It’s no use arguing with madmen. Now the atmosphere is calmer, and the question can be raised. When people have lost all sense of proportion there’s no point in talking about inches. Everything has its proper time.”
“I see, Father,” assented Peppone. “According to you, the Communists have lost strength and so you can speak your mind. You may think as you please, but I consider you’re making a mistake. One day you’ll find out that the Communists still count.”
“I don’t doubt it, Comrade; otherwise I should have ceased to combat them. Wolves stay wolves, and sheep can’t be anything but sheep. When the wolves are prowling around the sheepfold, the sheep daren’t stick out their noses, but when the wolves go back to the woods, the sheep may come out and nibble a few blades of grass.”
“So I’m a wolf, am I?” muttered Peppone.
“Yes.”
“And you’re an innocent lamb, is that it?”
“Exactly.”
“A fine lamb you are!” shouted Peppone, leaping to his feet. “You’re a Bengal tiger.”
As he went towards the door, Don Camillo called out: “See you soon, baboon!”
Peppone, still fuming, informed the committee of the upshot of this conversation.
“Curse that priest! Devil take him and his legal distance! We’ll dance in the outskirts, but with two orchestras playing so loudly that they’ll be heard on the square. It’s only a matter of finding the right location.”
While Peppone was holding a meeting in the People’s Palace, Don Camillo addressed a group of landowners whose property lay in the outskirts of the village.
“I called you together,” he said, “because you are good Christians and hence lovers of law and order. Once more the day sacred to Saint Michael is going to be defiled by the Reds’ public ball. I have managed to pr
event its being held, quite shamelessly, on the square. But the Reds won’t give up so easily; they’ll simply transfer it to the outskirts. Even there, they’ll be checkmated, because you’ll refuse them the use of your land. I trust you are all in agreement.”
His eight hearers were all ferociously anti-Red, but Don Camillo’s words were not greeted with the enthusiasm which he had expected. They said nothing, and stared at the mat on the oval table before them.
“Well, then?” said Don Camillo in amazement. “If you don’t see things in the same light, just say so.”
They stared at one another, until finally Cerelli said what was on all their minds.
“Father, you’re quite right. But to tell the truth, I don’t see the necessity for a clash with the Communists on this particular occasion. If they ask me for the use of a piece of land and are willing to pay for it, why should I say no?”
The other seven admitted that they felt the same way. Don Camillo crossed his arms over his capacious chest.
“Very well. Your priest calls for your help and you refuse to give it.”
“No,” said Cerelli. “We’d do anything for you, Father. But you mustn’t ask us to do more than we feel like doing.”
“And what if I were to ask you to do something involving no risk and giving you a chance to make some money?” asked Don Camillo, bringing his fist down on the table. “How would you feel about that?”
“It sounds good, Father.”
“Splendid! How much do you think Peppone may offer you for your land?”
They said somewhere between fifteen and twenty thousand liras.
“Excellent,” said Don Camillo. “Then the eight of you must agree that anyone who wants your land must put down a sixty-thousand lira deposit. Just think, some one of you may actually pocket that much money!”
This idea won his listeners’ favour.
“Good,” said Don Camillo. “But we’ll have to be sure that no one puts anything over on his neighbours by accepting less. Are you willing to give me your word of honour that nothing less than a deposit of sixty thousand liras will induce you to do business?”
Don Camillo and the Devil Page 7
