Comrade Don Camillo

by Giovanni Guareschi

  “What money are you talking about?”

  “My own! The money you went to get for me in Rome.”

  “You must be crazy, Peppone. I never got any of your money.”

  “The ticket’s in my name,” shouted Peppone. “I’m Pepito Sbezzeguti.”

  “It’s plastered all over the walls that you’re not Pepito Sbezzeguti. You signed the statement yourself.”

  “I am, though! Pepito Sbezzeguti is an anagram of Giuseppe Bottazzi.”

  “No it isn’t. It’s an anagram of Giuseppe Bottezzi. I have an uncle of that name and it’s for him that I cashed in the ticket.”

  With a trembling hand Peppone wrote Pepito Sbezzeguti on the margin of the newspaper lying on the table, and after it his real name.

  “Damnation!” he exclaimed. “I put an e for an a. But the money’s mine.”

  Don Camillo started up the stairs to his bedroom, with Peppone following after.

  “Don’t take it so hard, Comrade,” he called out as he climbed into bed. “I won’t steal your money. I’ll use it for your own cause, for the cause of the downtrodden people.”

  “Devil take the people!” Peppone shouted.

  “You benighted reactionary!” said Don Camillo, pulling the sheet up over his head. “Go away and let me sleep!”

  “Give me my money, or I’ll kill you like a dog!”

  “Take the filthy stuff and go away!”

  The suitcase was on the chest of drawers. Peppone seized it, hid it under his coat and ran down the stairs.

  When Don Camillo heard the front door slam he gave a deep sigh.

  “Lord,” he said sternly, “why did you let him ruin his life by winning that money? He doesn’t deserve such punishment.”

  “First you scold me because he didn’t deserve such a prize and now you call it a punishment! I can’t seem to please you, Don Camillo!”

  “I wasn’t talking to you, Lord; I was talking to the sweepstake operators,” Don Camillo murmured as he finally fell asleep.

  Don Camillo’s Revenge

  “Lord,” said Don Camillo, “he’s gone a bit too far, and I shall destroy him!”

  “Don Camillo,” said the crucified Christ over the altar, “they went a bit too far when they hung me up on this Cross, but I managed to forgive them.”

  “But they didn’t know what they were doing! Peppone had his eyes wide open and deserves no pity.”

  “Look here, Don Camillo,” Christ retorted; “ever since Peppone became a senator haven’t you been particularly hard on him?”

  These words hit home, and Don Camillo resented them. “You wouldn’t say that, Lord,” he protested, “if you knew me a little better.”

  “Oh, I know you well enough,” Christ sighed in reply. Don Camillo knew when to stop. He hastily bent one knee, crossed himself and glided away. But outside the church his resentment was reawakened. Just beside the rectory door some unfortunate fellow had just pasted up a copy of the poster which had aroused his original anger. It was a story that dated back to two years before.

  One gloomy winter evening, when Don Camillo was just about to go to bed, someone had knocked at the rectory door. Don Camillo saw that of course it was Peppone. He motioned him to a chair and handed him a grass of wine, which Peppone drained with a single gulp. It took two more glasses to loosen his tongue, and then he came out with:

  “I can’t stand it!”

  From under his heavy black cape he pulled out a bundle.

  “Ever since I’ve had this in the house I haven’t been able to sleep.”

  It was the famous ten million liras, of course, and Don Camillo replied:

  “Then put it in the bank.”

  Peppone gave a wry laugh.

  “That’s a very poor joke! How can a Communist mayor deposit ten million liras in the bank without saying where he got them?”

  “Convert them into gold and bury it in the ground!”

  “That way I wouldn’t get any interest on my capital.”

  Don Camillo was sleepy, but his patience was not yet exhausted.

  “Come along, Comrade,” he said pacifically; “let’s get to the point.”

  “Well then, Father, you know that businessman who takes such good care of other people’s money…”

  “No, I don’t know him.”

  “Surely you do. He belongs to your camp. A fellow that gets a lot of business from Church people and then eases his conscience with big donations to religious charities…”

  “Oh yes, I have an idea whom you mean. But I’ve never had any dealings with him.”

  “But you can get in touch with him very easily. The priest at Torricella is one of his agents.”

  Don Camillo wearily shook his head.

  “Comrade,” he said, “just because God gave you an inch, do you have to take a mile?”

  “God has nothing to do with it, Father. I had a stroke of good luck and now I want to take advantage of it.”

  “Then it’s perfectly simple. Go to the priest at Torricella and ask him for an introduction.”

  “No, I can’t do that. People know my face too well, if they were to see me hanging around the rectory at Torricella or the businessman’s office, I’d lose my reputation. Imagine a Communist getting mixed up with the Church and high finance! If I can keep my name out of it, then it’s strictly a matter of money. I can’t let it become a political football.”

  Don Camillo had always taken a dim view of the businessman who earned sky-high interest rates for his clients and then contributed to the building of new churches. But the Torricella priest was a thoroughly decent fellow and, if he had acquired a sports field, a swimming pool, a moving-picture projector and other attractions to compete with those offered by the Reds, it was all thanks to the generosity of this wealthy parishioner. And so Don Camillo suspended his judgement.

  “I don’t want to get myself involved in any more complications,” he said. “Tomorrow evening at this time, I’ll arrange to have the priest come over from Torricella. I’ll go to bed and leave you to talk with him.”

  Twenty-four hours later Peppone and the other priest met in Don Camillo’s study. They seemed to have reached some agreement, for Don Camillo heard no more of the affair. A year later Peppone was elected to the Senate, and from then on Don Camillo was besieged by some devil.

  “Peppone is an ingrate,” the devil whispered in his ear. “You were a good friend to him when you went to collect the sweepstakes money, and what has he done for you in return? No sooner was he elected than he made an inflammatory speech in the public square.”

  Portions of the inflammatory speech had been brought to Don Camillo’s attention. In boasting of his electoral triumph Peppone had made scathing references to “a certain priest who used all sorts of pious platitudes to prevent a victory of the people, a priest who would better be employed as a bellringer if only he knew how to ring a bell.” Quite obviously Don Camillo was tempted to retaliate by telling the story of Peppone’s clandestine Sweepstakes winnings.

  For two whole years the priest staved off this temptation.

  He had just about banished it from his mind when he saw the new Communist poster. Just at that time the famous businessman had got his name into the headlines as the central figure of a financial scandal. When the scandal was at its height, Peppone launched this attack against him, in which he included “certain conniving priests who, for love of money, did not hesitate to join hands with a notorious swindler in order to rob the faithful of their hard-earned savings.”

  This shameless accusation was more than Don Camillo could take, and he made up his mind to explode a little bomb of his own.

  Peppone came back quite often to the village. He was now a very different man, carrying a briefcase full of state papers and wearing a self-important and preoccupied air, as if the affairs of the whole world weighed upon his shoulders. He greeted the local people distractedly and inspired fear among even his Party comrades. Whenever anyone brought him a problem h
e said solemnly: “I’ll take it up in Rome.” He went in for dark, double-breasted suits and conventional felt hats and never appeared without a tie. The poster contained glaring grammatical errors, but since his personality was quite strong enough to overshadow his style, no one dared make fun of them. Don Camillo laid his plans and accosted him at eleven o’clock one night at the door of his house.

  “Excuse me,” he said, while Peppone was turning the key in the lock, “but do you happen to be one of the poor innocents fleeced by conniving priests who joined hands with a notorious swindler?”

  Peppone had succeeded in opening the door and now he had no choice but to let Don Camillo in. At once Don Camillo drove his point home.

  “Comrade Senator,” he went on, “the next trick is mine. When I tell the whole truth, you’ll be the laughing-stock of the whole country. Just wait until your electors find out that you cheated both the tax collector and the Communist Party of your sweepstakes winnings! And how you cheated them again by turning over your ten million liras to a criminal speculator one of those whom you define as the Enemies of the People!”

  Peppone threw out his chest defiantly.

  “I’ll sue you for libel,” he retorted. “You can’t prove a thing.”

  “I’ll prove the whole story. Your name is in that man’s files. He sent your interest payments by cheque, and I have the cheque numbers.”

  Peppone wiped a sudden access of perspiration from his brow.

  “You’d never play me a dirty trick like that!”

  Don Camillo sat down and lighted his cigar butt.

  “It’s no dirty trick,” he said. “It’s just a reply to your poster.”

  Peppone let himself go. He tore off his jacket and threw it on to a sofa and loosened his tie. Then he sat down directly across from Don Camillo.

  “You don’t need to take revenge,” he groaned. “I lost every penny.”

  “But you’d been getting such exorbitant interest for the past two years that you pretty nearly came out even.”

  Peppone felt trapped, and in desperation he blurted out:

  “Father, will you settle for three million?”

  “Comrade, you have no right to insult me with such an offer. That will cost you something extra.”

  He pulled out a newspaper, unfolded it and pointed out an article on one of the back pages.

  “You see, Senator, we know what’s going on. We see that you have been given the important job of picking ten deserving comrades whom you’re to escort on a free tour of Soviet Russia. We shan’t interfere with this project. But as soon as you’ve left the country we’ll let the cat out of the bag. The embarrassment of your Party leaders will add to the fun.”

  Peppone was speechless. Knowing Don Camillo as he did, he realized that there was no chance of stopping him. His crumpled air moved the priest to compassion.

  “Comrade,” he said, “you can consider yourself liquidated. That is, unless…”

  “Unless what?” groaned Peppone, raising his head.

  Quite calmly Don Camillo set forth the only means of escaping disgrace. Peppone listened with his jaw sagging.

  “Father, you’re joking,” he said when the priest had finished.

  “It’s no joke. It’s do or die.”

  “You’re mad, Father,” said Peppone, leaping to his feet. “Stark raving mad!”

  “Exactly, Comrade. That’s why you’d better think twice before you say no. Madmen can be dangerous. I give you until tomorrow night.”

  Two days later Don Camillo went to the old Bishop, who heard him out patiently to the end of his story.

  “Is that all?” he inquired. “I think that with a rest cure in the mountains you may get over it.”

  Don Camillo shook his head.

  “I meant every word,” he insisted. “It’s the opportunity of a lifetime. Two whole weeks of direct contact with a group of our most ardent Communists and also with the Russians!…”

  The Bishop looked at him with dismay.

  “My son, who put this idea into your head?”

  “Nobody. It just came upon me. Who knows? Perhaps it was inspired by the Lord.”

  “I can’t believe it,” muttered the Bishop. “Anyhow, you’re dead set upon it, and you expect me to let you go without breathing a word to a soul. What if they discover who you are?”

  “They won’t discover that, I promise you. I’ll take pains to disguise myself. I don’t mean so much by the clothes I wear as by my frame of mind. That’s what really counts. A normal mind has to take on Communist processes of thought, if facial expression and tone of voice are to fit in with the Communist pattern.”

  The Bishop tapped his cane against the stool where he was resting his feet.

  “It’s sheer madness, my son,” he concluded.

  “Yes, Your Grace,” agreed Don Camillo.

  “But you may go,” the Bishop added.

  Don Camillo knelt down, and the Bishop laid a wasted hand on his bowed head.

  “God be with you, Comrade Don Camillo,” he said, raising his eyes to heaven.

  He spoke in such a low voice that Don Camillo barely heard what he was saying. But God had no difficulty hearing.

  Don Camillo in Disguise

  “Good morning, Senator,” said the sharp-tongued cleaning woman who was scrubbing the boarding-house floor.

  “Good morning, Comrade,” cautiously murmured the milkman, who was just making his morning delivery.

  “Good morning, you poor fool,” said a stout-bodied man who was standing square in the middle of the pavement, waiting for him to come by.

  Peppone did not deign to answer; he pushed him aside and went on his way. The scene was Rome, at nine o’clock in the morning. The vast machinery of the capital was slowly getting under way and a remnant of sleepiness still dulled the crisp freshness of the autumn air.

  “Good morning, you poor fool,” repeated the stout-bodied man, this time in a cordial, almost affectionate manner. Up in the country this is the beginning of a wonderful day. Mist is rolling off the ploughed fields, the clover is shiny with dew and the vines are heavy with clusters of ripe, honey-sweet grapes, half-hidden by russet leaves.

  Peppone grunted in reply. Did his enemy have to lie in ambush every morning in front of the boarding-house and then buzz about him with the latest village news? To quiet his nerves he lit a cigarette.

  “Of course,” the other jeered. “A cigar would never do. City people don’t like strong smells, and if your landlady were to see you with a cigar butt hanging out of one corner of your mouth senators would go down in her esteem. A very nice old lady she is, by the way, and you did well to tell her you were an ‘independent’. It would be quite a shock to her to find out that you’re a Communist.”

  Peppone threw away his cigarette and loosened his tie.

  “Yes, I know that you used to feel more comfortable with your shirt open and a handkerchief knotted around your neck. But a senator can’t go around looking like a hayseed. You’re a big shot now, with a telephone on your desk and marble tiles on your office floor.”

  Peppone glanced at his watch.

  “Don’t worry,” said the voice beside him. “You’re doing a very good job. You displayed excellent judgement in the choice of candidates for your Russian tour. Only one name is missing from the list.”

  Peppone took off his hat and wiped the perspiration from his forehead.

  “It’s all the fault of that speculator! I wish I’d never met him.”

  “Look here, my boy,” said his interlocutor with genuine feeling, “you don’t have to let yourself in for any of this. Why go looking for trouble? You can kick off the traces and come on home.”

  “No, I can’t,” groaned Peppone.

  “Then good-bye until tomorrow and God help you!”

  They had come to the bus stop, and Peppone watched his friendly enemy walk away and lose himself in the crowd. Did the fellow have to haunt him every morning with memories of the past, of days when
he had been a simpler but happier man, to tease him with the siren call of “Home, Sweet Home”?

  On the bus Peppone sat down across from a man who was reading the Communist daily La Unità del Popolo, which he held wide open before him, as stiffly as if it were mounted on a wooden frame. Peppone could not see his fellow passenger’s face, but this dramatically provocative pose convinced him that he must be a jackass. “Every Party member should wear a Party emblem in his buttonhole, but to display it ostentatiously is contrary to common sense.” So Peppone himself had decreed in the good old days, when someone had played a miserable, low-down trick on his dog, Thunder. Don Camillo had scolded Peppone for failing to take off his hat when the Blessed Sacrament went by, and Peppone had answered with insulting remarks. Shortly after this, Thunder had come home with all his hair shaved off, except on his rump, where it had been trimmed in the pattern of a hammer and sickle. And every time that Don Camillo met the dog, he tipped his hat in mock respect for the Party emblem.

  “Those were the days,” Peppone thought to himself, “before people were really bitten by the political bug and a good laugh straightened out their relationship better than any amount of bitter discussion.”

  The conventionally dressed man across the way lowered his paper and Peppone had to admit that he didn’t look like a jackass. His eyes were expressionless, but this was doubtless because the thick lenses of his glasses concealed them from view. He was wearing a commonplace light suit and an even more commonplace grey hat. Somehow or other he was unpleasant, and Peppone was annoyed to see him get off at the same bus stop as himself.

  “Sir,” the man asked him, “can you show me the way to…?”

  Peppone lost all control.

  “I can show you the way to go to hell,” he shouted.

  “Exactly what I wanted to know,” said the man calmly.

  Peppone strode rapidly away, and the other followed after. Five minutes later he sat down at the same isolated table in a small, empty café. After Peppone had cooled himself off with a heaping dish of ice cream he regained sufficient self-control to speak.