“Father,” he muttered, “if there’s anything I can do for you, don’t hesitate to call on me.”
“I’m quite all right,” said Don Camillo, “but I’m worried about Thunder. See if you can find him.”
There came a whimper from under the table, which was Thunder’s way of answering “Present!” to the mention of his name. Peppone bent over to look at him more closely.
“It seems as if his … conscience were bothering him too,” said Peppone. “Shall I take him to the same discreet doctor?”
“No,” said Don Camillo. “This is a strictly family affair. Carry him up to my bedroom and I’ll operate on him myself.”
Thunder allowed Peppone to carry him up to the second floor. When Peppone came down he stood at the door, with one finger pointing to heaven, and looked severely at Don Camillo.
“The sins of the priests are visited upon the innocent dogs,” he observed sententiously.
“Not fair!” retorted Don Camillo. “The priest in question is half-dead!” He was still standing on his two feet and still looking very pale.
When Peppone had gone he barred the front door and went down to the cellar to look at the twenty-one “flying chickens”. There turned out to be twenty-two of them, because while he was waiting for Don Camillo to come out of the doctor’s Peppone had bought a magnificent capon. Before Don Camillo went to throw himself (face down) on his bed, he went to kneel before the crucified Christ on the altar.
“Lord,” he said, “I can’t thank You for having protected me, because I was doing a dishonest deed and one that deserved to be punished. Perhaps the game warden’s shotgun ought to have dispatched me to the next world.”
“Even the worst of priests is worth more than twenty-two pheasants,” answered Christ severely.
“Twenty-one, to be exact,” whispered Don Camillo, “I’m not responsible for the twenty-second.”
“You meant to shoot him down, however.”
“Lord, my heart is very sore, because I know that I have done wrong.”
“You’re lying, Don Camillo. Your heart is full of joy, because you’re thinking of the happiness coming to thirty needy families tomorrow.”
Don Camillo rose, stepped back, and sat heavily down in the first pew. Perspiration trickled down his increasingly pale face.
“Rise!” said the crucified Christ. “Ego te absolvo. Your sins are forgiven.”
An Exchange of Courtesies
“THE only way to have a genuine exchange of courtesies with the Catholic workers is to belabour them with a stick. But directives are directives, and so we’ll simply tickle them with a feather.”
These were Peppone’s words to his lieutenants, and he accompanied them with the observation that talk is all very well, but that to get anything concrete accomplished by workers—Catholic or non-Catholic—you must begin by subtracting something from their wallets.
“When the priest is in the pulpit, he’s unbeatable,” Peppone went on. “If he has nothing better to say, he can always fall back on dogma, the Ten Commandments, Heaven, Hell, and all the rest. But when he stands behind the counter of the Co-operative Store, then his authority is not the same. There’s where we must attack him.”
For a long time the People’s Co-operative had been a thorn in Don Camillo’s side, a thorn whose sting even the “White Co-operative” of his own creation could not remove, became the Reds dealt not only in food and other articles but they had also a bar, a tobacco shelf, a television set, and petrol pump. Altogether it was big business and functioned very smoothly; he knew that he would never be able to transform his frail enterprise into one equally powerful. He ate his heart out continuously, and every time he was told something new about the Red Co-operative he felt as if he had taken a beating.
As soon as the plan for an exchange of courtesies was put into action, Don Camillo’s beating was worse than ever. For one day the Reds lowered the price of bacon, another the price of cheese, the next oil and so on. Soon Camillo could not compete with these crazy reductions and so he simply tried to stop up as many holes as he could and stay afloat. He was hardened by now to adversity and when he felt especially low in his mind and sought the succour of the Christ on the main altar, he simply threw out his arms disconsolately and said:
“Lord, You see how things are. I don’t ask You to take an interest in my paltry shop, but I do beg You to help me keep my temper.”
God did help him and he achieved considerable self-control, but when he heard about the new department in their Co-operative store his temper boiled up within him. He was not satisfied with other people’s description and went to see for himself. The window which had formerly served to show groceries was now given over to the new merchandise, and a big sign explained that in order to meet its customers’ every want the Co-operative had undertaken to sell materials and patterns for making baptismal, First Communion, and wedding outfits, not to mention handsomely decorated candles. “Compare prices,” said the sign, “and see who is exploiting the religious feelings of good Catholic workers.” This sign was set up in the middle of the display, at the feet of a big statue of Saint Joseph the Worker, while another sign, nearby, explained that the “People’s Co-operative” also furnished printed invitations to any of the above functions, with a wide variety of conventional texts.
As if by chance, Smilzo appeared at the Co-operative door and whispered into Don Camillo’s ear:
“Father, you’d better get some of those candles. We give a fifteen per cent discount to active clergy. That means we lose money, but what does it matter? We want to help the Church.”
There was a small crowd in front of the window, and Don Camillo could not afford to lose his temper. All he could do was seize the peak of Smilzo’s cap between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand and pull it down all the way to the chin. But Smilzo managed to have the last word.
“Nothing doing, Father!” he exclaimed from under his cap. “The Dark Ages are over!”
The next morning Don Camillo found three handsomely decorated votive candles burning in the Lady Chapel. The day after there were six, and it was quite obvious that the Reds had put them there, simply to annoy him. In order to be certain he hid in a confessional, and sure enough, that very afternoon an elderly man came into the church, crossed himself and made resolutely for Saint Anthony’s chapel. From underneath his coat he extracted one of the famous candles, which he proceeded to light and then to fit into a holder. It was just at this moment that Don Camillo appeared at his side. To the priest’s amazement, the fellow was not a Red but one of his own faithful, Matteo Frossi by name.
“Matteo,” exclaimed Don Camillo; “I’d never have expected you to play a filthy trick like that!”
“Is it a filthy trick to light a candle to Saint Anthony?” asked the astonished old man.
“It’s a filthy trick to light one of those candles, and you know it!”
“Father, if I can give thanks to Saint Anthony and save thirty liras at the same time, why should you object? The wax of this candle and the wax of yours come from the same place!”
After Frossi had gone away, Don Camillo gave vent to his feelings before the crucified Christ on the main altar.
“The human race is growing cheaper and cheaper, Lord,” he told Him. “Judas sold You for thirty pieces of silver, but this fellow sells You for thirty miserable liras!”
“Who are you talking about, Don Camillo?”
“This fellow, Frossi, who just lit a candle to Saint Anthony.”
“Don Camillo, didn’t you promise never to drag me into the affairs of your paltry shop? Have you lost your memory?”
“No, Lord; I’ve lost my temper.” And Don Camillo humbly bowed his head.
Eventually, although it cost him a considerable effort, Don Camillo regained his composure. In the pulpit and out of it he said what he thought he should about the ridiculous tactics with which certain people tried to deceive the faithful. He explained that Satan employs the mos
t devious means to win men’s souls, and that, like the Greeks, he is most to be feared when he brings gifts. For every apparent gift, Satan extracts a hundredfold return; he exploits our sloth and our avarice together.
Certainly Don Camillo himself didn’t play Satan’s game. Rather than buy it at the “People’s Co-operative”, he ate a whole meal one day without salt, and one rainy night he rode eight miles on his bicycle in order to purchase a cigar at Torricella. This was the least of what he was willing to do for the sake of boycotting Peppone. He was called upon to make the supreme sacrifice the day when he went to collect donations for the Orphan Asylum. As usual, he borrowed a truck from Filotti and with the aid of a husky boy picked up produce from all the neighbouring farms. When the truck was filled with wheat, maize, potatoes, apples, and wood he drove happily back to the village. The motor had worked like a dream, the farmers had given cheerfully, and it was a mild, sunny day. He turned down the main street of the village, which went by the People’s Co-operative and then, two hundred yards farther on, to the square in front of the church. Just thirty yards from the “People’s Co-operative” the engine began to sputter. It seemed as if Satan himself must have had a hand in the matter, for it came to a stop in front of the petrol pump. Don Camillo got out, opened the hood, and then went round to take the cap off the tank.
“We’re out of fuel,” he told his helper.
“Well, we’re pretty lucky,” said the boy gaily. “There’s the pump, right beside us.”
A roar from Don Camillo compelled him to silence. But the enemy was already in the know. The enemy was standing at the door of the Co-operative, enjoying the autumn sun. And he had not only keen hearing but also knew a lot about engines.
“Good evening, Father,” he said amiably.
“Good evening, Mr Mayor,” Don Camillo answered between clenched teeth, and turned to talk to the boy.
A minute later the entire group of Peppone’s lieutenants and a large number of his followers poured out of the door and stood round their leader.
“What’s up, Chief?” asked Smilzo.
“He’s out of fuel,” answered Peppone.
“Too bad it didn’t happen out in the country,” said Smilzo. “Here, for just over a hundred liras, he can get enough to take him home.”
“You mean to say he’d have the nerve to buy no more than a quart?” muttered Bigio.
“He’s just as likely to ask for a pint,” Smilzo answered, with a mocking laugh. “You don’t know how tough and stingy these priests can be.”
They talked among themselves, turning their backs to Don Camillo, but in such loud voices that they could be heard all the way to the edge of the village. It was only natural that Don Camillo’s temper should rise to boiling-point, but he held it in and continued to confer, from the place where he was standing, with the boy in the seat of the truck. At this point Peppone entered his henchmen’s discussion.
“A pint, did you say? He can’t use a single drop of it. This is the devil’s own petrol, and if he were to take so much as a teaspoonful the Standard Oil Company would excommunicate him.”
“Then what’s he going to do, Chief?” Smilzo asked.
“That’s easy,” said Peppone to the small crowd which had gathered about him. “Priests’ cars have two fuelling systems: one of them runs on petrol and the other on prayers. He’ll fill the tank with Our Fathers, press the starter, and the Holy Ghost will ignite the motor.”
They all laughed. At this Don Camillo couldn’t resist looking them in the face and saying what was on his mind. Swelling up his chest and shaking his fist in the direction of Peppone, he said:
“You can leave the Holy Ghost out of it. I’ll manage alone.”
“That’s what you think,” Smilzo retorted. “But a Don Camillo won’t do; it will take a Don Caterpillar!”
Don Camillo lost control of himself altogether.
“Hold the wheel!” he shouted to the boy, leaping to the rear of the truck and pushing on it.
Something creaked: either Don Camillo’s bones, or the rear of the truck, perhaps both of them together. Don Camillo was no longer a man, he was a living jack. Peppone’s gang was breathless, for one of two things was bound to happen: either the truck would move or Don Camillo would break into small pieces. With God’s help, the truck moved slowly ahead. Peppone’s gang paraded after it, in horror and fascination. After fifty yards Don Camillo had to catch his breath. He stood up straight and turned around:
“If four of you big oafs are capable of doing what I did alone, let them step forward,” he said.
Naturally no four of them moved; only the massive Peppone solemnly answered the challenge. He signalled to Don Camillo to get out of the way and applied his shoulder to the rear of the truck. Once more there was a creaking sound; once more nothing broke and the truck moved slowly ahead. Ten, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty yards, but Peppone did not stop even when he had reached a hundred. As the truck rolled down the street the Reds exulted; they broke into loud shouts and soon the street was filled with people. Peppone was like a powerful traction-belt; he went on to a hundred and ten, a hundred and twenty yards, and finally all the way to the church square, where the crowd thunderously applauded him. Don Camillo did not bat an eyelash; he waited until Peppone had stopped panting and the applause had subsided. Then he raised his arms to ask for silence.
“Good enough,” he observed. “I was looking for some sucker to push the truck all the way home for nothing.”
“I’m not so much of a sucker as you may think,” shouted Peppone.
His henchmen caught the idea. Smilzo edged the boy out of the seat and took the wheel; the others hurled themselves at the front of the car and pushed it all the way back to the petrol pump. There they stopped, and when Don Camillo re-joined them Peppone had his say.
“He who laughs last laughs best. The rectory is still two hundred yards away. Go to it, Father!”
Don Camillo kept cool and lit the butt of his cigar.
“Will you have some petrol, Father?” asked Smilzo, going over to the pump.
“Thanks, I’ve got some,” said Don Camillo, climbing onto the seat, opening the emergency valve and pressing the starter. Under its own power the truck went triumphantly back to the church square Peppone’s gang looked on with their mouths hanging wide open, until their leader threw his cap on the ground and began to protest:
“That’s the second time he’s fooled me with his emergency valve!”
But Smilzo had something more to say:
“Chief, you did a hundred and fifty yards to his fifty. You lost one to three, and saved your honour.”
Thus they sought to find what consolation they could in writing an end to the story. But people still talk about it and bid fair to go on talking.
A Speech to Go Down in History
“FOR that meeting on the twenty-sixth, we’ve got to think up something special,” Peppone said gravely.
Bigio, Brusco, and Smilzo all looked puzzled, and Peppone hastened to enlighten them.
“We’re lucky enough to have our rally scheduled as the last one before the election, which means that no matter what we say no one can contradict it. But we’re called upon for some substantial oratory, not just the usual hot air. There’s no question of bringing in a speaker from the outside, because this is a local election, and we’re on our own. We’ve got to produce something smashing, something that will go down in history.”
His three aides relaxed. If this was all he had on his mind, there was no need to worry.
“Chief, we’re riding the crest of the wave,” Smilzo answered gaily. “All you have to do is drive the last nail in their coffin!”
Peppone shook his head.
“A concluding speech is no joke. Election eve is not the time for a political harangue. It’s got to be something factual: a record of past accomplishments and a pledge of others to come. It’s one thing to promise social justice, and another to date the opening of a public laundry. Big ide
as are all very well for a national election, but on the local level it’s better to stick to the concrete. The question is how to make parish-pump politics sound epoch-making.”
Smilzo continued to dissent.
“If a fellow knows what he wants to say, it’s simple enough to say it.”
“Simple, indeed!” retorted Peppone. “But one point I grant you. It’s a question not of just the appropriate thing, but of what you want to say. An historical speech can’t be improvised; it must be thought out in advance, with every word weighed and every effect calculated. Words aren’t enough; you’ve got to know their meanings. It takes spadework with the dictionary.”
“You have a big enough vocabulary, Chief,” Smilzo assured him. “Why work so hard over it?”
“A big vocabulary isn’t enough, I tell you,” shouted Peppone. “I need peace and quiet, for purposes of meditation. That’s why I’ve called you together. Even if the People’s Palace goes up in smoke, or Togliatti himself makes a tour of inspection, yes, even come the revolution, I’m not to be disturbed. No one must break the continuity of my speech. Have I made myself clear?”
They understood him perfectly.
“Chief” said Smilzo, “even if we have to guard your house with machine-guns, no one shall come near you. Just leave it to us!”
This is why, at a certain point, Peppone disappeared from circulation.
Just as election day was drawing close and the atmosphere was growing hotter and hotter, when his enemies were showing their claws and a strong hand was needed to put them in their place, Peppone vanished from sight. Had he been taken ill? Purged? Gone underground? Sent on a secret mission? His workshop was silent and the sign hanging on the door carried the simple word “Closed”. The windows and doors of his own house were barred and his children were staying at their grandmother’s, with not a word to be got out of them. Even his wife was gone.
Don Camillo and the Devil Page 14
