Don Camillo meets Hell’s Angels

by Giovanni Guareschi

  It didn’t take a squad of Pinkerton detectives to figure out that “Ringo” was the notorious chief of the Scorpion gang, or that “Lucky” was his first lieutenant. And as if that wasn’t sufficient evidence, Ringo and Lucky had dropped out of sight.

  The police knew all about the Scorpions and they decided that the fact that Ringo’s girlfriend lived in the town was of some interest. So they were off in a flash to pick up Flora. The girl, smelling smoke, had run to hide under Don Camillo’s wing, and it was there that the police found her.

  “You’re Ringo’s girlfriend,” the police chief asserted. “Let’s go down to the station, dear.”

  “In the first place,” Flora aid calmly, “I am a tax-paying, voting adult and you will not use that tone in speaking to me again. In the second place, I haven’t had anything to do with Ringo or his gang for some time now. I sell electrical appliances under licence from the Chamber of Commerce and can account for every move I make. And lastly, I don’t understand why you’re looking for those two boys. The Scorpions have never stolen from anybody.”

  The police chief knew all about it and wasn’t impressed. “Well it’s odd then,” he answered sarcastically, “that the two thieves called each other Ringo and Lucky, had black and red hair like Ringo and Lucky, and rode Ringo’s and Lucky’s motorcycles.”

  “Well it’s even odder that they didn’t leave autographed pictures behind at the post office, and odder still that, having gone to all that trouble to make sure you knew who they were, they haven’t given themselves up,” Flora retorted.

  “All right,” the chief roared, “where are Ringo and Lucky then? Why have they disappeared?”

  “Ask the police, who know everything. I’m just a poor girl who sells electrical appliances,” Flora said.

  “That’s enough!” the chief said nastily. “You come along with us: we’ll continue this conversation down at my place of business.”

  Don Camillo stepped in. “Captain, I’m the girl’s uncle,” he said. “If you want to beat her up, you’re perfectly welcome to do it here.”

  “Father!” the chief protested. “We don’t beat anybody up and we certainly don’t intend to treat your niece in such a brutal fashion!”

  “Too bad,” Don Camillo sighed, genuinely disappointed. “A chance like this won’t come again in my lifetime.”

  They took Flora away at nine in the morning, and a taxi brought her back at nine that night.

  “How did it go?” Don Camillo enquired.

  “Well holy reverend Uncle,” Flora answered, “I’ll admit to you that once they really did scare me.”

  “What’s that? But you didn’t have anything to do with it, did you?”

  “That’s precisely why. How can an innocent person defend himself? The truth’s always too boring to convince anybody. If you don’t tell a pack of lies, it’s a sure thing you won’t be able to get out of it.”

  “And so you told a pack of lies?” Don Camillo shouted.

  “Of course: how else was I to prove I was telling the truth?”

  “You idiot! You’ll see, they’ll be after you.”

  “I should hope so,” Flora answered. “I sold them a fridge, two washing machines, a dishwasher, and a floor polisher. But I’m still worried about Ringo and Lucky, poor kids.”

  “You have the cheek to feel sorry for those two longhaired thieves?”

  Flora shook her head. “Holy reverend Uncle, you missed your calling. You should have been a policeman. You’re just the right size. And apart from everything else, a bad priest is worse than a bad policeman.”

  * * *

  Things began to happen around two in the morning. Somebody tapped on Don Camillo’s bedroom window with a pole; Don Camillo, seeing who it was, took down his shotgun and went to open the door.

  Dragging two beat-up bicycles, Ringo and Lucky came into the rectory. They were much the worse for wear, odiferous and quite black-and-blue. Don Camillo didn’t let go of the shotgun and demanded inhospitably, “Why did you come here?”

  “Pulsate et aperietur vobis,” Ringo said with a tired smile. “We’re cold, hungry, and bone tired. It’s been four days and nights that we’ve had to lie low and live off the land like dogs.”

  “Like wolves, not dogs!” Don Camillo snapped. “Anyhow, my only duty is to call up the police.”

  “All right,” Ringo said bitterly. “We haven’t even got the strength to climb back on our bikes. At least give us something to eat.”

  “You’ll get something down at the gaol,” Don Camillo said, moving towards the telephone.

  “Don’t waste your time, holy reverend Uncle,” said a voice from behind him. “I’ve cut the wires.”

  Flora, all decked out for the occasion, came into the room and planted herself between Don Camillo’s shotgun and the two longhairs.

  “I’ll give them something to eat,” she said. “My pickup’s right inside the woodshed. Get it out, you two. And then wait inside it.”

  “Flora,” Don Camillo croaked, “remove yourself from the middle of this. Don’t get mixed up with those two thugs.”

  “I’m no fat old priest dying of sleep and fear,” the girl answered. “Before I condemn people, I want to hear what they have to say.”

  “Forget it Flora,” Ringo said. “He’s right, you shouldn’t get mixed up in this. Just give us a piece of bread and something to put over our shoulders and we’ll hit the road.”

  The two longhairs were truly pathetic-looking, and Don Camillo felt like an idiot with his shotgun. To make matters sillier, the perfidious Flora had sneaked up and clasped her hand over the muzzle of the shotgun. Don Camillo pulled the gun away from her and propped it up in a corner.

  “Light the fire and make them something to eat,” he said. “Not even I can condemn a person without listening to them first. But I can’t imagine what these two criminals will have to say.”

  “Well for one thing, we didn’t have anything to do with that robbery,” Ringo said as a log began to burn in the huge fireplace. “Some son of a gun framed us. They swiped our motorcycles and made the whole thing look as if we’d done it.”

  “Just what I told the police,” Flora said, bringing in bread, salami, and wine.

  “Nonsense!” Don Camillo declared. “If so, you would have reported the theft to the police and you wouldn’t be in trouble now.”

  The warmth and wine had restored the two longhairs’ strength. Ringo sneered. “Are you kidding? The head of the Scorpions and his second-in-command let their cycles disappear right out from under their noses, then they go whimper about it to the police—like two middle-class mamma’s boys! Please! We have some self-respect. Apart from the fact that we haven’t got much faith in your rotten system of justice. The only justice we believe in is what we make for ourselves. This is between the Scorpions and whoever those two crooks were.”

  “Three,” Flora amended. “It’s obvious: two of them pulled off the hold-up and met a third who was waiting for them in a car. They ditched the bikes and drove off calm as could be in the car. Only a stupid policeman or a priest wouldn’t be able to see how simple the thing is.”

  Don Camillo had a great deal of respect for the forces of law and order, but it annoyed him to be compared to a stupid policeman. He studied the two longhairs in confusion. He had seen them risk their skins to save flood victims. With those long, dishevelled mops, unsightly beards, and filthy, torn clothes they looked like brigands. But ordinarily, he thought, brigands don’t look at all like brigands.

  “And who’s to assure me that’s the way it happened?” Don Camillo growled.

  “We are,” the two answered.

  “That’s not good enough,” Don Camillo said. “I need some guarantee that you’re not telling me a pack of lies just to show you don’t fear God.”

  “That’s not true,” Ringo protested. “God has His problems, and we have ours; peaceful coexistence.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to have just one thing stra
ight,” Don Camillo exclaimed in exasperation. “Do you or don’t you believe in God?”

  Ringo laughed. “If we denied the existence of God, we’d deny our own existence and that of the entire universe. We’re rebels, but we’re protesting and rebelling against men, not God.”

  Don Camillo was a typical product of the operatic nation and never missed a chance for a good theatrical scene. “Follow me!” he thundered, moving off.

  The church, illuminated only by a few votive candles, was full of deep, chilly mystery. He stopped in front of the ancient high altar.

  “Make the sign of the cross!” he ordered the two boys.

  They obeyed.

  “Do you swear to Christ on the cross that you are completely innocent of that robbery?”

  “We swear it,” the two said without wavering.

  They all trailed back to the rectory fireplace. “Wasn’t their word of honour good enough for you?” Flora stormed. “Do you believe a person couldn’t perjure himself in front of an old stick of wood?”

  “Of course that’s possible,” Don Camillo admitted gloomily. “But anybody who tried it would be starting something with God. It’s one thing to fool a poor country priest, and it’s quite another to try to fool God.”

  “We’re not trying to fool anybody,” Ringo sad. “Well, what do we do now?”

  “For the time being, you stay here. And not in those foul clothes. I’ll buy you some decent clothes and cut your hair.”

  “Forget the business about cutting our hair,” Ringo snapped.

  “But don’t you realise that if anybody sees you with those mops, the game is up immediately, and we’re all in trouble?”

  “We understand, all right,” Ringo answered. “Thanks for the hospitality. Rather than cut our hair, we’ll turn ourselves in!”

  Don Camillo came up with a compromise: he would lock them in the room at the top of the bell tower.

  “What about Don Chichi?” Flora asked, worried. “That one sticks his nose in everywhere, and he’ll find them there.”

  “He won’t find them because I’m going to tell him about them first,” Don Camillo reassured her.

  “Will he rat on us?” Ringo asked nervously.

  “No,” Don Camillo said. “All I have to do is make him believe you’re the two real crooks and you did it to spite society. He’ll defend you to the death. The important thing is not to let him suspect you’re innocent.”

  “Don’t you worry about it, reverend Uncle,” Flora said laughing. “I’ll explain everything to Don Chichi. I know all the ins and outs with these progressive priests. And I’ll think the rest of it through too. When the postmaster gave the alarm, the cops set up road blocks all around the area but didn’t spot any motorcycles. That means the two bikes should be somewhere near town. What we have to do is find them.”

  Flora mobilised Venom’s gang and gave them clear orders: “Get going and find two bikes. If you find them, don’t touch them, just stand guard and send somebody for me.”

  The great river had exhausted its fit of bad temper: it had come as far as the top of the embankment and dykes, licked them, and then retreated. A little path led down from the embankment ridge to a level place near the waters edge, and there two motorcycles blossomed from the mud. Flora notified the police, who went to collect them. They were the two motorcycles used in the hold-up, and inside the saddlebags were two wigs, one black and one red, two pistols, and two black neckerchiefs.

  Don Camillo brought the news to the bell tower.

  Ringo laughed. “Reverend, if we let you chop off our hair, what a mess we’d be in now if they found us!”

  The next day, a stolen car was found on the outskirts of town, and inside it were the documents that the thieves had taken from the post office safe in their rush to filch the money. During the get-away, the car had to be refuelled and the garage man at Castelletto remembered the occupants of the car very well. They were three well-known professional crooks from the city. They were hunted down and made to confess. The story appeared in minute detail on the front page of the newspapers.

  “Now then,” Don Camillo said to the two longhairs, who by then had been allowed to come downstairs, “you can go over to the police station and clear things up with them in peace and quiet.”

  Ringo shook his head. “Let the cops clear up their own filthy messes. We have an account to settle with the crooks who pulled that dirty trick on us. We know who they are now, but they don’t know Ringo and Lucky. They’ll find out soon enough.”

  “What are you going to do, break into gaol and beat them up?” Don Camillo asked.

  “It’s only a matter of a few months’ patience,” Ringo said. “When the next amnesty comes round, we’ll be waiting to do them up good and proper when they come out.”

  But there was Don Chichi, who stepped in righteously. “Boys, you must not do this! Remember that those three unfortunates are victims of social injustice and their act was a justifiable demonstration of rebellion against the selfishness of the rich!”

  “What’s this, the Eleventh Commandment?” Ringo sneered. “In any case, don’t you worry. We’ll use a nice gentle stick to break their bones with.”

  “It’s a kind thought,” Don Camillo admitted. “It would be an even sweeter thought if, before you left, you’d step into the church to give thanks to God for helping you out.”

  “That’s not necessary,” Ringo answered. “We’ll take care of that when we get back to the base. There’s a God in the city too, you know.”

  That was a comforting bit of news and it cheered Don Camillo up considerably.

  Epilogue

  Peppone was so infuriated that at a poke of the finger he would have given off sparks. Up until a certain time, Peppone and his high command had ruled the town uncontested because the Communists and Socialists combined amounted to double plus one the number of Social-Democrats and clergy. Then the comrades of the La Rocca faction set up their autonomous Maoist cell headed by the young fanatic Doctor Bognoni, who as a town councilor disagreed with Peppone’s group right down the line.

  After the flood, the socialists regrouped into a party which also included the clergy, leaving Peppone and his comrades isolated, with a block of votes exactly equal to that of the Socialist-Clergy unit. That left Bognoni’s wife, the pharmacist, as the arbiter of the situation, since her single vote could sway the balance of power one way or the other.

  And since the sins of the children are always visited on their fathers, the young Mrs. Bognoni, who had once been mortified when Venom had forced her to drink half a bottle of cod-liver oil, now got a great deal of pleasure from standing in the way of any project Peppone suggested.

  Peppone put up a good fight for quite a while, then decided to let Socialists, clergy and pharmacists pave the road to hell for themselves. The world doesn’t come to an end if a mayor resigns; but Peppone was a special kind of Mayor. He had taken the tiller of the rocky township during the stormy post-war period, and while flying the red flag, had managed to keep the little boat on a straight course. For that reason, when election time came round, even those who saw Communism as the path to perdition voted unhesitatingly for Peppone.

  When people heard via the grapevine that Peppone wanted to resign, they began to worry. Two industrialists from the outside had decided to build a plywood mill and a plastics factory; they had already begun to excavate foundations for the buildings on the property allotted them by the community, but they stopped construction and went home. The owner of an agricultural equipment business immediately began to move his establishment to a less explosive community.

  So Don Camillo buttonholed Peppone and tried to persuade him to change his mind. “Comrade, it wasn’t the Party who gave you your job, it was the majority of the voters.”

  “The majority may propose, but the Party disposes,” Peppone replied. “I can’t put myself at the mercy of a silly young woman.”

  Peppone, when he made up his mind, went ahead like a tank
, and any fool knows how hard it is to argue with a tank.

  Don Camillo visited the pharmacy to try and persuade the Red Guard pharmacist to end her revolution and come back into the fold. The lady Maoist’s lip curled. “The mere fact that a priest was sent here to talk to me proves that Peppone has betrayed the Leninist ideal and the working class. Why don’t you hire him as a sexton?”

  When they dabble in politics, women are even harder to reason with than tanks, and Don Camillo didn’t waste his time arguing with her. He went straight to Belicchi, a socialist who up until very recently had been an ally of Peppone’s. Belicchi heard Don Camillo out, then replied with thinly disguised disgust: “It’s absolutely shameful, a priest trying to help out the Communists.”

  “I’m trying to help us have a good town administration,” Don Camillo answered.

  “The hell with the town administration,” Belicchi declared. “The only thing that matters is the Party.”

  “Too bad the sewage system doesn’t know anything about politics. Otherwise the sewage would be able to make its way out of town without complicated piping. What about the two factories? And the farm equipment manufacturer? That’s work for two thousand labourers right there.”

  Belicchi just laughed. “Better to have two thousand unemployed workers than pander to three filthy industrialists. When we come to power, we’ll set everything right with industrial planning.”

  Socialists are very hard-headed, so Don Camillo crossed his arms and said, “Can I ask just one question?”

  “Certainly.”

  “What would you say if one of these nights somebody stepped out of the shadows and belted you over the head?”

  Belicchi burst out laughing. “Father, Peppone doesn’t scare anybody any more. The communists have all gone bourgeois.”