Don Camillo meets Hell’s Angels

by Giovanni Guareschi

  Don Camillo spread his arms out in supplication. “Dear child, let’s drop the subject…”

  “Dear child my foot!” Flora shouted. “I was born in October 1949, and in a few months I’m going to be twenty-one. And when I am, I’m really going to open your eyes!”

  “I don’t see how you can make any bigger messes than you already have. Anyway, in 1949, the air here was pretty foul. The war was over but we still had the civil war going on. Your life, shall we say, was worth about as much as your shoes. People were poisoned with hatred and with politics and the extremists, who had been trained in schools for violence, were making things as bad as they could. The Reds were sure that they could gain power and removed anybody who got in their way. Now, Krik…”

  “Krik? Who’s Krik?” the girl asked.

  “Your father. They called him Krik because he was so strong. He was a type like Venom.”

  “A stupid wet like that?” Flora interrupted, clenching her fists.

  “Venom is neither stupid or wet. Krik always said exactly what was in his mind, in the square and in the cafés. Even during town meetings, if somebody said something he didn’t agree with, he’d jump up and contradict them. So, one night when he was coming home, they shot him in the back with a machine gun. You were only two months old, because it happened in December. Your grandfather and your grandmother Celestina sold their farm and moved to town to help your mother and bring you up. With the fine results that we are here today to observe.”

  “And this Garrotte, after bumping off my old man and a whole lot of other people, and after he was supposed to be thrown inside for life, he gets away and now he’s legally free and he comes back here a big hero?”

  “More or less,” Don Camillo shrugged.

  “You and your society nauseate me!” Flora snapped. “I knew there was something missing from my life!”

  “There’s something missing from your head!” Don Camillo snapped back.

  “No, my very reverend Father Uncle! The hole is inside the heads of hypocritical lying old men like you! If we young people are restless and rebellious, obviously there’s some reason for it. We feel that the world out there is a pile of filth filled with vermin and the laws you make serve to disguise this pile of filth and those vermin as moral society and pious citizens. We kids may not have the strength to tear down the whole slimy world, but at least we have the courage to spit on it. In any case, my old man must have been an idiot, because otherwise he wouldn’t have let them bump him off.”

  “He was an honest man!”

  “When you’re dealing with vermin, honesty is idiocy.”

  “Honesty is always and only honesty. Your father was right.”

  “Anybody who gets bumped off is wrong. Always.”

  “No!” Don Camillo exploded. “The justice of the Lord is behind everything.”

  “So I hear tell,” the girl drawled. “However, ever since the miracle went out of fashion, it’s been pretty hard to blow the breath back into a dead man’s lungs, justice or no justice.”

  Don Camillo had been mortally afraid that Celestina’s bursting in would upset the girl, but seeing that Flora was accepting the revelation calmly, in fact almost apathetically, even though he was filled with disdain, he thanked God and ended the conversation.

  The girl kept up a steady, rhythmic tapping and humming, and after a week, Don Camillo was convinced she had a Beatles record in place of a heart. Then one afternoon, Anselma appeared in the rectory to announce that Flora had broken the lock on the woodshed door and had disappeared with her motorbike.

  “Good riddance,” Don Camillo said. “Undoubtedly she’s gone home: better for all concerned.”

  “I don’t think so,” Anselma answered. “She left all her things here. Even her record player and her blasted records.”

  “Girls of her type, if they had to choose between saving their child or their records, would drop the child into the sea. That means she’ll be back soon. But let’s not think about her until she gets back.”

  However, he had to think about her before that, because when he went upstairs to his room, he discovered that, although his rifle and his over-and-under shotgun were in their places, his five-shot Browning was nowhere to be found. And his shell case was empty. Suddenly his head felt full of wind, and he said: “Lord Jesus, please start thinking for me, because I think I’ve lost the ability!”

  Peppone was at home checking over some of the town records with his wife when Don Camillo appeared before him, with an expression on his face that Peppone had never seen before.

  “You murderer!” Don Camillo shouted. “Wasn’t it enough to make her Queen of the Unity Festival? Did you have to go and publish the daughter of Krik’s picture in your lousy newspaper?”

  “Krik’s daughter?” Peppone babbled. “What daughter?”

  “Flora!” Don Camillo shouted. “Flora is Krik’s daughter. And Krik’s mother saw the picture and came charging down here and blurted out everything to the girl. And now she’s gone off on her motorcycle with my browning!”

  Peppone turned white. “I had no idea,” he sighed. “You have three sisters, how was I to know that this girl was Krik’s daughter? She wouldn’t tell me her last name.”

  “That’s just fine, you didn’t know; anyway it doesn’t make any difference now: she’s just as impetuous as her father and if she brings on some disaster, the whole thing will be on your head!”

  “Father, you’re jumping to conclusions,” the wife said. “Perhaps she went out to shoot squirrels.”

  “God willing,” Don Camillo said. “But what if she’s gone after Garrotte?”

  Peppone jumped up. “That will be the end, because Garrotte’s always got two bodyguards with him and he might end up killing her too. He’s going around the area today making speeches. We must find him and stop him, or at least find the girl!”

  Peppone organized the search party. He went off in his big Fiat, Brusco went in his little Fiat, Bigio in the van, and Smilzo on his motorbike.

  “We don’t know which way Garrotte went, and there are five roads going from La Rocca,” Peppone explained. “So she’s obviously not in town because that’s where he lives. She’s probably waiting for him along one of the roads. As soon as we get to La Rocca, we will each take one road. Maria, as soon as Michelone comes home, send him over to La Rocca and tell him to take the main road back.”

  “Meanwhile, I’m going ahead,” Don Camillo said. “I have my bicycle. I’ll cross the river where it’s dry and take the main road to La Rocca and then come back.”

  * * *

  Flora knew just where Garrotte had gone and which of the five roads he would be using to come back, and so she had taken up position along the main road, hiding behind a dilapidated wayside shrine that was surrounded by shrubs. The girl had studied her plan carefully and perfected all the details. The new road, at the vantage point she had chosen, had been blasted through a hill; at the top of the embankment was the abandoned wayside shrine, and to one side of the shrine, a poplar. Flora had sawed through the trunk, leaving only a piece of bark on the road side. A cord anchored by the shrine kept the tree upright; all that was required to case the tree to crash down and stop traffic was to cut the cord. Her motorcycle was hidden in a clump of trees and gorse. She knew what Garrotte’s car looked like, his license number, and she’d memorized all the features of his face.

  “You’ll have to pass by here, you monster, and you’ll have to get out to move the tree. And if your two gorillas get out instead, then I’ll shoot you through the car window!”

  Don Camillo pedaled as fast as he could across the dry riverbed and got on the main road. “Jesus,” he prayed, “please give me enough breath and good eyesight.” He had pedaled nearly as far as the wayside shrine when a car passed him, but almost immediately had to stop, because the poplar beside the shrine had mysteriously toppled into the highway.

  Don Camillo pedaled even faster, while the three passengers got out of the
ir car and set about removing the obstacle from their path. He recognized Garrotte and raced to warn him, but he didn’t reach him in time.

  “Get out of here or I’ll kill you too!” Flora shouted.

  Don Camillo stopped in front of Garrotte and covered his body.

  “I mean it, clear away from there!” Flora shouted furiously.

  “And you two, stay where you are and up with your paws or I’ll shoot!”

  One of the bodyguards had a bright idea and Flora gave him a warning volley at his feet which made him give a smart little hop.

  “Get out of there,” Flora shouted for the third time. “Garrotte, you don’t scare me, Garrotte, the way you scared my father. And when you’re dead, which is going to be very soon, there isn’t going to be anyone about to say prayers for you.”

  Flora had evidently gone mad, and to look at her face was chilling. But Venom, who’d come round from behind, saw only her back and so could feel no fear.

  Flora was instantly disarmed and held up by the scruff of her neck, which took her breath away. “Father, hold the gun while I take care of this maniac.”

  Don Camillo came forward to recover his shotgun, while Venom used his belt to strap the girl’s arms to her sides.

  “You creep, that bandit father of yours had me elected Queen of the Unity Festival just to give my father’s murderer a good laugh!” Flora screamed, trying to free herself.

  “If that hooligan’s father is Peppone,” Garrotte said, after he had regained his composure, “then he has a long way to go to make me laugh. But I’ll have one for him pretty soon, the traitor!”

  “In that case, why don’t you try me on for size,” said Venom, dropping Flora and moving towards Garrotte menacingly.

  Garrotte was truly capable of living up to his nickname, but the Russians, apart from teaching him to call the longhairs “hooligans”, had fattened him up like a pig, and venoms first tap made the sweat ooze from Garrotte’s every pore.

  Venom was twenty-one years old and even though he was a longhair, he had a fearsome respect for his elders. Therefore he wasn’t using his fists, only his open palms, and he had even put on his gloves for safety’s sake.

  One of the two gorillas had managed to sneak round behind the car and was stealthily making for Venom’s back.

  “Forget it, Falchetto,” Don Camillo suggested, waving the Browning. “It’s their business.”

  When his gloves were nearly in shreds, Venom put a stop to the rubdown he was giving Garrotte. “This is because you called me a hooligan,” he explained, “but you’ll have to see my father about the rest of it, because I don’t get mixed up in politics.”

  Garrotte and his bodyguards roared off. Soon afterwards, Bigio arrived with the truck, and Venom threw in Flora, Flora’s motorcycle, and Don Camillo’s bicycle. Don Camillo got in beside Bigio. Venom and his thundering motorbike escorted the truck as far as the rectory.

  It was already dark, so Venom stayed for dinner. Flora didn’t say anything until the very end. “Would you be good enough to tell me why you butted in?” she inquired aggressively of Don Camillo. “Why didn’t you let me kill him?”

  “I had two reasons,” Don Camillo explained. “First, we old priests are still somewhat hampered by the Commandments. Second, because if you had killed him, you would have gone to gaol for thirty years, and nobody would have given you an amnesty.”

  Flora was not appeased. “How can you say we young people have no call to rebel against your rotten society which worships murderers and picks on kids just because they wear their hair long? Do you think we should go to war for your foul, filthy society?”

  “Actually, you know the girl has a point,” Venom murmured.

  Flora eyed him with disdain. “Yes, I have a point, but you’re going to go into the army soon. Which is the way things should be: the army takes care of poor sissies like you who are afraid of the putrid laws of this society of hypocrites. It takes more courage not to go into the army than to go in like a sheep. And when they’ve shaved you bald, do you think you can still tour round sporting a leather jacket with ‘Venom’ printed on the back?”

  Venom, who was sweating under his wig, blushed and got up to leave.

  “Good night, all,” he mumbled, and left.

  “Is that the way you treat a man who stopped you from doing something stupid and irreparable?” Don Camillo chided her.

  “I should be the sole judge of whether what I do is stupid or not, it’s none of that wet’s business!”

  “I have already told you, he is not a wet.”

  “All men are wets!” Flora declared fiercely.

  Don Camillo was offended. “Watch your tongue, young lady. Remember I’m a man too.”

  “Since when do you have anything to do with it?” the girl snapped back. “A priest is not a man. He’s something less … or something more. It depends.”

  Don Camillo was speechless. He had not expected a statement like that.

  Devils Are Not Necessarily Beings with Horns and a Tail

  After the highroad incident, Flora performed another radical volte-face. She gave up all her idiosyncrasies and took to dressing modestly, like a normal girl of old bourgeois family. She seemed the essence of a decent, pretty girl. She even went to all the religious functions, causing Don Chichi—who, to tell the truth had rather diffident feelings towards her resulting from his treatment by her longhair friends—to admit to Don Camillo: “Your niece seems like a different person.

  Don Camillo spread his arms and said: “God only knows.” Actually he was well aware of it himself.

  Flora listened attentively to the little priest’s ardent sermons and one day, cautiously approaching him, she confessed: “Your sermons aren’t filled with the usual commonplaces, you talk about God without forgetting men. I want to ask my friends to come hear you.”

  Don Chichi started to laugh. “I didn’t think your friends like me very much, to judge by the way they set upon me that famous afternoon.”

  “The boys were wrong,” Flora explained. “They took you for another pious country-priest type like Don Camillo. But you’re not a parrot repeating the catechism from the pulpit; you’re not afraid of the truth. And by the way, I can’t understand why, while you bravely condemn war, all wars, you have never discussed the question of conscientious objectors.”

  “It’s a delicate question, Miss Flora.”

  “I’m sure of that, Don Francesco. But there are priests who defend it at the risk of being brought before the Curia.”

  “It’s not a question of fear, but of respect,” the priest defended himself. “Your uncle was a military chaplain and he has different ideas….”

  “Wrong ideas!” Flora exclaimed. “My uncle is a fossil! And as for respect, he certainly doesn’t show much towards you! It strikes me as being quite dishonest, him sneaking off to celebrate clandestine Masses the old way in that chapel of his.”

  “There’s nothing clandestine about it!” Don Chichi answered. “He tells me all about it. It’s not really wrong if he gathers round his old altar those who won’t come here any more because they’re offended by my frankness.”

  “I disagree, it’s absolutely wrong! Don Francesco, what you are doing is to cast out the false Christians from the Church—and then he turns round and lets them in through the back door! You condemn them and he absolves them, thereby ruining the work you have done. As a matter of fact, what he is doing is stirring up dissidence in the Church, he’s creating an opposition Church, an anti-Church! Don Francesco, you know it’s true: to divide the Catholics is heresy!”

  “You’re blowing things up out of proportion!” Don Chichi exclaimed. “However, a lot of what you say has some truth to it. Tomorrow I will speak on the subject of conscientious objection.”

  “That’s wonderful, Don Francesco!” the girl said, very moved.

  The next Sunday, when he climbed up to the pulpit to give his sermon, Don Chichi was a bit taken aback: staring up at him were forty
Scorpions, their leather jackets and long mops packed tightly near one of the doors. They were poised to defend their motorcycles, which they had left propped up against the facade of the church, with two sentinels to keep close watch over them. And Flora, wearing a modest dark dress and a shred of black lace on her copper-coloured hair, was there too, right in the middle of the front row of Scorpions, smiling at him. She was almost angelic.

  Don Chichi threw himself directly into the fire. He condemned all wars, any wars, moving from Cain and Abel to Julius Caesar to the crusades, winding up with Korea and Vietnam. Then he asserted that the only attitude a true Christian could take towards military service was conscientious objection. And he did not omit a nasty dig at men of the cloth who served as military chaplains.

  The forty city-bred longhairs approved vehemently, nodding their city-bred bushes, and Flora’s smile was so radiant that it would have dazzled a bishop.

  After Mass, Flora went to congratulate the priest in the sacristy.

  “I let them know,” she explained. “And what I told them about you interested them so much that they came in spite of the huge risk they had to run. Don Francesco, you were marvelous! Those forty boys will go home much the better for listening to you!”

  (Actually they went home much the worse for wear, since Venom and his rural gang were waiting for them outside the town, armed with great acacia sticks. It was like a film spectacular: Venom, heaven knows why, had a bone to pick with Ringo, the head of the Scorpions, and while two of the biggest toughs held Ringo tight, Venom gathered up his endless locks and shaved him bald as an apple.)

  Flora was angelic, with all those tears brimming in her huge eyes: Don Chichi felt his heart fill up with tenderness. Not for long though, for Don Camillo, who had listened to the sermon hidden up in the organ loft, burst in, the veins in his neck as thick as six-year-old grapevines.