The second round began well for Bagotti, who took the offensive, but suddenly he went down in a heap and the referee began the count.
“No,” bawled Peppone, leaping to his feet. “It was below the belt!”
The federal champion smiled sarcastically at Peppone. He shook his head and touched his chin with his glove.
“No!” bellowed Peppone in exasperation, drowning the uproar of the audience. “You all saw it! First he hit him low, and when the pain made him double up he gave him a left to the jaw! It was a foul!”
The federal champion shrugged his shoulders and snickered, and meanwhile the referee, having counted up to ten, was grasping the fallen champion’s hand in order to pull him to his feet. Then the tragedy occurred.
Peppone threw away his hat and in one bound was in the ring and advanced with clenched fists upon the federal champion. “I'll show you,” he howled.
“Give it to him, Peppone,” yelled the infuriated crowd.
The boxer put up his fists, and Peppone fell upon him like a Panzer and struck hard. But Peppone was too furious, and his adversary dodged him easily and slugged him one right on the point of the jaw. He put all his weight behind it, as Peppone just stood there motionless and wide open; it was like hitting a sack of sawdust.
Peppone slumped to the floor and the audience froze into silence. But just as the champion smiled compassionately at the giant lying prone on the mat, there was a terrific yell from the crowd as a man entered the ring. Without even bothering to remove his drenched raincoat or cap, he seized a pair of gloves lying on a stool in the corner, pulled them on, and standing on guard squarely before the champion aimed a terrific blow at him. The champion dodged it and danced round the man who simply revolved slowly. Then the champion launched a formidable blow. The other barely moved but parried with his left while his right shot forward like a thunderbolt; the champion was unconscious when he hit the center of the ring.
The crowd went crazy.
It was the bellringer who brought the news to the rectory, and Don Camillo had to leave his bed to open the door because the bellringer seemed to be insane, and if he hadn’t been allowed to pour out the whole story from A to Z, there seemed every reason to fear that he would blow up. Don Camillo went downstairs to report.
“Well?” Christ asked. “How did it go?”
“A very disgraceful brawl; such a spectacle of disorder and immorality as You can’t imagine!”
“Anything like that time when they wanted to lynch your referee?” asked Christ casually.
Don Camillo laughed. “'Referee, my foot! In the second round Peppone’s champion slumped like a sack of potatoes. Then Peppone himself jumped into the ring and went for the victor. Naturally, although he is as strong as an ox, he’s such a hothead that he slugs like a Zulu or a Russian, and the champion gave him one on the jaw that laid him out cold.”
“And so this is the second defeat his section has suffered.” “Two for the section and one for the federation,” chuckled Don Camillo. “Because that was not the end! No sooner had Peppone gone down than another man jumped into the ring and fell upon the victor. Must have been somebody from one of the neighboring villages, a fellow with a beard and a mustache who put up his fists and struck out at the federal champion.”
“And I suppose the champion dodged and struck back and the bearded man went down too and added to the brutal exhibition,” Christ remarked.
“No! The man was as impregnable as an iron safe. So the champion began dodging round trying to catch him off guard and finally, zac! he puts in a straight one with his right. Then I feinted with the left and caught him square with the right and left the ring!”
“And what had you to do with it?”
“I don’t understand . . .”
“You said: ‘I feinted with the left and caught him square with the right’.”
“I can’t imagine how I came to say such a thing.”
Christ shook His head. “Could it possibly be because you were the man who struck down the champion?”
“It wouldn’t seem so,” said Don Camillo gravely, “I have neither beard nor mustache.”
“But those of course could be acquired so that the crowd wouldn’t suspect that the parish priest is interested in the spectacle of two men fighting in public with their fists!”
Don Camillo shrugged. “All things are possible, Lord, and we must also bear in mind that even parish priests are made of flesh and blood.”
Christ sighed. “We are not forgetting it, but if parish priests are made of flesh and blood they themselves should never forget that they are also made of brains. Because if the flesh and blood parish priest wishes to disguise himself in order to attend a boxing match, the priest made of brains prevents him from giving an exhibition of violence.”
Don Camillo shook his head. “Very true. But You should also bear in mind that parish priests, in addition to flesh and blood and brains, are also made of another thing. And when that other thing sees a Mayor sent flat before all his own people by a swine from the town who has won by hitting below the belt — which is a sin that cries to Heaven for vengeance — that other thing takes the priest of flesh and blood and the priest of brains and sends the lot of them into the ring.”
Christ nodded. “You mean to say that I should bear in mind that pariah priests are also made of heart?”
“For the love of Heaven,” exclaimed Don Camillo. “I never presume to advise You. But I would point out that nobody knows the identity of the man with the beard.”
“Nor do I then,” replied Christ with a sigh, “but I wonder if you have any idea of the meaning of ‘punching bag’?”
“My knowledge of the English language has not improved, Lord,” replied Don Camillo.
“Well, then we must be content without knowing even that,” said Christ smiling. “After all, culture in the long run often seems to do more harm than good. Sleep well, champ.”
Nocturne with Bells
For some time Don Camillo had felt that he was being watched. On turning round suddenly when he was walking along the street or in the fields, he saw no one, but was convinced that if he had looked behind a hedge or in the bushes he would have found a pair of eyes and everything that goes with them. When he left the rectory on a couple of evenings, he not only heard a sound from behind the door but he caught a glimpse of a shadow.
“Never mind,” Christ advised him. “Eyes never did anyone any harm.”
“But it would be nice to know whether those two eyes are going about alone or accompanied by a third, for instance one of 9 caliber,” sighed Don Camillo. “That is a detail not without its own importance.”
“Nothing can defeat a good conscience, Don Camillo.”
“I know, Lord,” sighed Don Camillo once more, “but the trouble is that people don’t usually fire at a conscience but between the shoulders.”
However, Don Camillo did nothing about the matter and a little time elapsed, and then late one evening when he was sitting alone in the rectory reading, he “felt” the eyes upon him. There were three of them, and raising his head slowly, he saw first of all the black eye of a revolver and then those of Biondo.
“Do I lift my hands?” inquired Don Camillo quietly.
“I don’t want to do you any harm,” replied Biondo, thrusting the revolver into his jacket pocket. “I was afraid you might be scared when I came in unexpectedly, and might start shouting.”
“I see,” replied Don Camillo. “And did it never strike you that by simply knocking at the door you could have avoided all this trouble?”
Biondo didn’t reply; he went and leaned over the window sill. Then he turned round suddenly and sat down beside Don Camillo’s little table. His hair was ruffled, his eyes deeply circled, and his forehead was damp with sweat.
“Don Camillo,” he muttered from behind clenched teeth, “that fellow at the house near the dike; it was me that did him in.”
Don Camillo lighted a cigar. “The house near th
e dike?” he said quietly. “Well; that’s an old story, it was a political affair and came within the terms of the amnesty. What are you worrying about? You're all right under the law.”
Biondo shrugged his shoulders. “To hell with the amnesty,” he said furiously. “Every night when I put my light out I can feel him near my bed, and I can’t understand what it means.”
Don Camillo puffed a cloud of blue smoke into the air. “Nothing at all, Biondo,” he replied with a smile. “Listen, go to sleep with the light on.”
Biondo sprang to his feet. “You can jeer at that fool Peppone,” he shouted, “but you can’t do it at me!”
Don Camillo shook his head. “First, Peppone is not a fool, and second, where you are concerned there is nothing that I can do for you.”
“If I must buy candles or make an offering to the Church, I'll pay,” shouted Biondo, “but you’ve got to absolve me. And in any case I’m all right legally!”
“I agree, my son,” said Don Camillo mildly. “But the trouble is that no one has ever yet made an amnesty for consciences. Therefore, so far as we are concerned we muddle along in the same old way, and in order to obtain absolution it is necessary to be penitent and then to act in a manner that is deserving of forgiveness. It’s a long drawnout affair.”
Biondo sneered. “Penitent? I’m only sorry I didn’t bag the lot!”
“That is a province in which I am completely incompetent. On the other hand, if your conscience tells you that you acted rightly then you should be content,” said Don Camillo, opening a book and laying it in front of Biondo. “Look, we have very clear commandments that do not exclude politics. Fifth: Thou shalt not kill. Seventh: Thou shalt not steal.”
“What has that got to do with it?” asked Biondo in a mystified voice.
“Nothing,” Don Camillo reassured him, “but I had an idea that you told me that you had killed him, under the cloak of politics, in order to steal his money.”
“I never said so!” shouted Biondo, pulling out his pistol and pushing it into Don Camillo’s face. “I never said so, but it’s true! And if it’s true and you dare to tell a living soul, I'll blow you to bits!”
“We don’t tell such things even to the Eternal Father,” Don Camillo reassured him, “and in any case He knows them better than we do.”
Biondo appeared to quiet down. He opened his hand and looked at his weapon. “Now look at that!” he exclaimed laughing. “I hadn’t even noticed that the safety catch was on.”
He raised the catch with a careful finger.
“Don Camillo,” said Biondo in a strange voice, “I am sick of seeing that fellow standing near my bed. There are only two ways out — either you absolve me or I shoot you.” The pistol shook slightly in his hand, and Don Camillo turned rather pale and looked him straight in the eyes.
“Lord,” said Don Camillo mentally, “this is a mad dog and he will fire. An absolution given in such conditions is valueless. What do I do?”
“If you're scared, give him absolution,” replied the voice of Christ.
Don Camillo folded his arms on his breast. “No, Biondo,” said Don Camillo.
Biondo set his teeth. “Don Camillo, give me absolution or I fire.”
“No.”
Biondo pulled the trigger and the trigger moved but there was no explosion.
Then Don Camillo fired, and this time there was no misfiring because Don Camillo’s blows always hit the mark.
Then he tore up the steps of the tower and rang the bells furiously for twenty minutes. And all the countryside declared that Don Camillo had gone mad, with the exception of Christ above the altar who shook His head, smiling, and Biondo who, tearing across the fields like a lunatic, had reached the bank of the river and was about to throw himself into its dark waters. Then he heard the bells.
Biondo turned back because he had heard a Voice that he had never known. And that was the real miracle, because a pistol that misfires is an accident, but a priest who begins to ring joy-bells at eleven o'clock at night is quite another matter.
Men and Beasts
La Grande was an enormous farm with a hundred cows, modern dairy, orchards and all the rest. And everything belonged to old Pasotti who lived alone. One day the army of farm hands who worked on the place went on strike and, led by Peppone, went en masse to the big house and were interviewed by old Pasotti from a window.
“May God smite you,” he shouted, thrusting out his head. “Can’t a decent man have peace in this filthy country?”
“A decent man, yes,” replied Peppone, “but not profiteers who deny their workmen what is their just due.”
“I only admit of dues as fixed by the law,” retorted Pasotti, “and I am perfectly within the law.”
Then Peppone told him that so long as he refused to grant the concessions demanded, the workers of La Grande would not work. “So you can feed your hundred cows yourself!” Peppone concluded.
“Very well,” replied Pasotti. He closed the window and resumed his interrupted slumbers.
This was the beginning of the strike at La Grande, and it was a strike organized by Peppone in person with a squad of overseers, regular watches, pickets and barricades. The doors and windows of the cowhouse were nailed up and seals placed upon them.
On the first day, the cows lowed because they had not been milked. On the second day, they lowed because they had not been milked and because they were hungry, and on the third day, thirst was added to all the rest and the lowing could be heard for miles around. Then Pasotti’s old servant came out the back door of the big house and explained to the men on picket duty that she was going to the village to the pharmacy to buy disinfectants. “I have told the master that he can’t possibly want to get cholera from the stench when all the cows have died of starvation.”
This remark caused quite a lot of head-shaking among the older laborers who had been working for more than fifty years for Pasotti and who knew that he was incredibly pigheaded. And then Peppone himself stepped in to say, with the support of his staff, that if anyone dared go near the cowhouse he would be treated as a traitor to his country.
Toward the evening of the fourth day, Giacomo, the old cowman from La Grande, came to the rectory.
“There is a cow due to calve and she is crying out fit to break your heart, and she will certainly die unless someone goes to help her. But if anyone attempts to go near the cowhouse they will break every bone in his body.”
Don Camillo went and clung to the altar rails. “Lord,” he said, “You must hold onto me or I shall make the march to Rome!”
'“Steady! Don Camillo,” replied Christ gently. “Nothing is ever gained by violence. You must try to calm these people so that they will listen to reason and avoid acts of violence.”
“Very true,” sighed Don Camillo. “One must make them listen to reason. All the same, it seems a pity that while one is preaching reason, the cows should die.”
Christ smiled. “By violence, you may save a hundred beasts and kill one man. By using persuasion, you may lose the beasts but avoid the loss of that man. Which seems preferable: violence or persuasion?”
Don Camillo who, full of indignation, was reluctant to renounce his idea of a march on Rome, shook his head. “Lord, you are confusing the issue: this is not only a question of the loss of a hundred cows but of the public patrimony, and the death of those animals is a loss for every one of us, good and bad. And it could intensify existing differences and create a conflict in which not only one but twenty men might die.”
Christ was not of his opinion. “But if, by reasoning, you avoid one man being killed today, couldn’t you also, by reasoning, avoid others being killed tomorrow? Don Camillo, have you lost your faith?”
Don Camillo went out for a walk across the fields because he was restless. And so it happened that quite by chance his ears became more and more painfully aware of the lowing of the hundred cows at La Grande. Then he heard the voices of the men on picket duty at the barricades, and at the e
nd of ten minutes he found himself crawling inside and along the great cement irrigation ditch that passed underneath the wire fence and which was fortunately not in use at that moment.
“And now.” thought Don Camillo, “I just need to find someone waiting at the end of this ditch to knock me on the head.” But there wasn’t anyone there and Don Camillo was left in peace to make his way cautiously in the direction of the farm.
“Halt!” said a voice presently, and Don Camillo jumped behind a tree trunk.
“Halt or I fire!” repeated the voice, which came from behind another tree trunk on the further side of the ditch.
It was an evening of coincidences and Don Camillo, quite by chance, had come prepared.
“Be careful, Peppone, because I’ll fire.”
“Ah!” muttered the other, “I might have known that you would be mixed up in this business.”
“Truce of God,” said Don Camillo, “and if either of us breaks it he is damned. I’ll count, and when I say ‘three’ we both jump into that ditch.”
“You wouldn’t be a priest if you weren’t so mistrustful,” replied Peppone, and at the count of three he jumped and they found themselves sitting together at the bottom of the ditch.
From the cowhouse came the desperate lowing of the cows, and it was enough to make one cry. “I suppose you enjoy such music,” muttered Don Camillo. “A pity that it will stop when all the cows have died. Why not persuade the farm hands to burn the crops and the barns? Just think of poor Pasotti if he were driven to take refuge in some Swiss hotel to spend those millions he has deposited there.”
“He’d have to reach Switzerland first!” growled Peppone threateningly.
“Exactly!” exclaimed Don Camillo. “It’s about time we did away with that fifth commandment which forbids us to kill! And when one eventually comes face to face with Almighty God one will only have to speak out bluntly: ‘that’s quite enough from you, my dear Eternal Father, or Peppone will proclaim a general strike and make everyone fold their arms!’ By the way, Peppone, how are you going to get the angels to fold their arms? Have you thought of that?”
Giovanni Guareschi Page 7