Don Camillo’s Dilemma

by Giovanni Guareschi

  “Bunk!” said Neri. “Try taking out a man’s lungs and you’ll see what happens. If the soul were the breath of life, he ought to be able to get along without them.”

  “That’s blasphemy!”

  “No, I’m just using my reason. Anyone can see that life is linked to the internal organs. I’ve never seen a man die because they’ve taken his soul away. And if you say the soul’s the breath of life, then chickens must have souls just like the rest of us, and go to the same Heaven, Purgatory and Hell.”

  Old Molotti saw that it was no use to argue further and so he walked away. But he hadn’t given up the struggle and at noon, when Neri had stopped to eat his lunch, he came over to the shady spot where he was sitting.

  “Look here,” said Neri, “if you want to fight some more, you’re wasting your time, I can tell you.”

  “I have no intention of fighting,” said the old man. “I want to make you a strictly business proposition. You’re perfectly sure, are you, that you have no soul?”

  Neri’s face clouded over, but Molotti did not give him time to protest.

  “In that case, you may as well sell it to me,” he continued. “I’m offering you five hundred liras.”

  Neri looked at the banknote in the old man’s hand and burst out laughing.

  “That’s a good one! How can I sell you something I haven’t got?”

  “That’s not your worry,” Molotti insisted. “You’re selling me your soul. If you actually don’t possess such a thing, then I lose my money. But if you do have it, then it’s mine.”

  Neri began to enjoy himself thoroughly. He thought the old man must have softening of the brain.

  “Five hundred liras isn’t much,” he said gaily, “you might at least offer me a thousand.”

  “No,” said Molotti. “A soul like yours isn’t worth it.”

  “But I won’t take less!”

  “Very well, then, a thousand. Before you go home we’ll put it in writing.”

  Neri hammered away, more cheerfully, until evening. When it was time to knock off, the old man brought him a fountain pen and a sheet of legal paper.

  “Are you still willing?” he asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Then sit down and write: ‘I, Francesco Neri, hereby legally bind myself, in return for the sum of one thousand liras, to sell my soul to Giuseppe Molotti. Having paid me this sum, Molotti enters from this day forth into possession and can dispose of my soul as he sees fit. Signed: Francesco Neri.’”

  Molotti handed Neri a thousand-lira note, and Neri made his signature with an appropriate flourish.

  “Good!” said the old man. “The business is done, and that’s all there is to it.”

  Neri laughed as he went away. Yes, Molotti was in his dotage, that was the only explanation. He only wished he’d asked for more money. But this thousand-lira note was so much gravy.

  As he pedalled off on his broken-down bicycle, he couldn’t get the strange contract off his mind. “If Molotti isn’t in his dotage, as he seems to be, why would he give me a thousand liras?” he wondered. The rich old man was notoriously stingy, and he wouldn’t part with his money for no purpose. All of a sudden Neri saw the whole thing clearly. He let out a volley of oaths and pedalled back as fast as he could in order to make up for his stupidity. He found old Molotti in the yard and came out immediately with what was on his mind.

  “Look here,” he said gloomily. “I was a fool not to think of it before. But better late than never. I know your reactionary methods. You got that contract out of me for propaganda purposes. You’re going to publish it in order to ridicule my Party. ‘Here are the Communists,’ you’ll say, ‘people that go around selling their souls for a thousand liras!’”

  The old man shook his head.

  “This is a strictly private affair,” he answered. “But if you like, I’ll add a guarantee to the contract: ‘I swear never to show this document to anyone whatsoever.’ Does that suit you?”

  Molotti was an honourable man, and his solemn oath was to be respected. He went into his study, wrote down the codicil and signed it.

  “You’ve nothing to worry about,” he said. “But as far as that goes, you needn’t have worried before. I didn’t buy your soul for political purposes. I bought it for my own private use.”

  “That is, if you can lay your hands on it!” said Neri, who was restored to his good humour.

  “Naturally,” said Molotti. “And as far as I’m concerned it’s good business. I’m quite sure you have a soul, and besides, this would be the first time in my life I’d failed to strike a good bargain.”

  Neri went home feeling completely reassured. Molotti had softening of the brain. At his age, that wasn’t surprising. He wanted to tell his cronies the story, but he was afraid that if it got around, the reactionaries would use it to shock their public of churchgoing old ladies.

  The alterations of Molotti’s house lasted for over a week and Neri met the old man every day. But Molotti made no mention of the contract and entered into no political discussion. It seemed as if he had forgotten the whole thing. After the job was done Neri had no further occasion to see him, and a whole year went by before the matter returned to his mind.

  One evening Peppone called him to lend a hand in the workshop. He had forged the parts of a wrought-iron gate, and now it was a question of putting them together.

  “It’s an order from old man Molotti,” Peppone told him, “and he wants it finished by tomorrow morning. The gate’s for his family tomb. He says he wants to have it made before he dies, because none of the rest of them has enough sense to do the proper thing.”

  “Is he sick?” Neri asked.

  “He’s been in bed for a week with a bad cold that’s gone down into his lungs. And at ninety-three years of age, that’s no joke.”

  Neri began to work the bellows.

  “Then there’s one more reactionary swine gone,” he muttered. “Even the family ought to be glad, because he’s in his dotage.”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” put in Peppone. “Only a month ago he made a deal with the Trespiano farm which netted him at least fifteen million liras.”

  “Just disgusting good luck,” said Neri. “I happen to know that he’s been dotty for some time. Chief, shall I tell you a story?”

  And he proceeded to tell how he had sold his soul to Molotti. Peppone listened attentively.

  “Don’t you think a man must be soft in the head to buy another man’s soul for a thousand liras?” Neri concluded.

  “Yes I do, but the man that sells it is even softer.”

  “Well, of course I should have got much more money than that out of him,” said Neri, shrugging his shoulders.

  “I’m not speaking of the price,” said Peppone.

  Neri took his hands off the bellows.

  “Chief, are you joining the Children of Mary? What in the world do you mean? Never mind the attitude of the Party and the policy of not making a frontal attack upon organized religion, but just between ourselves, don’t you agree that the soul, Heaven, Hell, and all the rest of that stuff are just priestly inventions?”

  Peppone continued to hammer out the red-hot iron.

  “Neri,” he said, after a long pause, “that’s irrelevant. I say for a man to sell his soul for a thousand liras is non-productive and counter-revolutionary.”

  “Now, I understand, Chief,” said Neri with relief. “But you needn’t worry. In order to prevent him from turning the thing to political use, I had a codicil added, which stipulates that Molotti will never speak about it to anyone.”

  “Well, with that codicil, it’s different,” said Peppone. “That makes it your own private business, which is of no concern to the Party. As far as the Party goes, you’re in perfectly good standing.”

  Peppone proceeded to talk of other matters, and Neri went home at midnight in an excellent humour.

  “The main thing is to be in good standing with the Party,” he said to himself before fall
ing asleep. “Then everything else is in line too.”

  Molotti got worse and worse every day. One evening, when Don Camillo was coming back from his bedside, he ran into Neri.

  “Good evening,” said Neri, and Don Camillo was so bowled over that he was moved to get off his bicycle and go and look him in the face.

  “Extraordinary!” he exclaimed. “You’re Neri, sure enough, and you said good evening to me. Are you sure you weren’t making a mistake? Did you take me for a tax collector instead of the parish priest?”

  Neri shrugged his shoulders.

  “With you, it’s hard to know how to behave. If we don’t speak to you, you say we’re godless Reds, and if we do, then you think we’re crazy.”

  “You’ve got something there,” said Don Camillo, throwing out his arms. “But that’s not the whole story. Anyhow, good evening to you.”

  Neri stared for a minute at the handlebars of Don Camillo’s bicycle. Finally he said:

  “How’s old man Molotti?”

  “He’s dying by slow degrees.”

  “Has he lost consciousness?”

  “No, he’s perfectly clear-headed and has been all along.”

  “Has he said anything to you?” asked Neri aggressively.

  Don Camillo opened his eyes wide in astonishment.

  “I don’t understand. What should he say?”

  “Hasn’t he said anything about me and about a contract between us?”

  “No,” said Don Camillo, convincingly. “We’ve talked about practically everything, but not about you. And besides, I don’t go to talk to a dying man about business matters. My concern is with souls.”

  This last word caused Neri to start, and Don Camillo nodded and smiled.

  “Neri, I have no intention of preaching at you. I told you what it was my duty to tell when you were a little boy and came to hear. Now all I do is answer your questions. I’ve had no talk about any business contract with Molotti and I have no intention of bringing up any such subject. If you need help of that kind, consult a lawyer. But hurry, because Molotti has one foot in the next world, already.”

  “If I stopped you, it’s because I needed a priest’s help, not a lawyer’s,” Neri insisted. “It’s just a small matter but you must give Molotti a thousand liras and ask him to return a certain legal paper.”

  “A legal paper? A thousand liras? That sounds to me very much like a lawyer’s affair.”

  By this time they had come to the rectory, and after casting a suspicious eye about him, Neri followed Don Camillo in. The priest sat down at his desk and motioned Neri to a chair.

  “If you think I can really help you, go ahead and tell me what it’s all about.”

  Neri twisted his hat in his hands and finally said:

  “Father, the fact is this. A year ago, in return for a thousand liras, I sold Molotti my soul.”

  Don Camillo started. Then he said threateningly:

  “Listen, if you think that’s a good joke, you’ve come to the wrong place. Get out of here!”

  “It’s no joke,” Neri protested. “I was working in his house and we had a discussion about the soul. I said there was no such thing and he said: ‘If you don’t believe the soul exists, then you may as well sell yours to me for a thousand liras.’ I accepted his offer and signed a contract.”

  “A contract?”

  “Yes, an agreement written and signed by my hand, on legal paper.”

  He knew the terms of the contract by heart and recited them to Don Camillo. The priest could not help being persuaded of his sincerity.

  “I see,” he said, “but why do you want the paper? If you don’t believe you have a soul, then why do you care whether or not you sold it?”

  “It’s not on account of the soul,” Neri explained. “I don’t want his heirs to find that paper and make political capital out of it. That might damage the Party.”

  Don Camillo got up and stood in front of Neri with his hands on his hips and his legs far apart.

  “Listen to me,” he said between clenched teeth. “Am I supposed to help you for the sake of your party? You must take me for the stupidest priest that ever was! Get along with you.”

  Neri went slowly toward the door. But after a few steps he turned back.

  “Never mind about the Party!” he exclaimed. “I want my paper!”

  Don Camillo was standing with his hands on his hips, defiantly.

  “I want my paper!” Neri repeated. “For six months I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep.”

  Don Camillo looked at the man’s distraught face and eyes and the perspiration on his forehead.

  “My paper!” he panted. “If the swine insists upon making money, even on his deathbed, then I’ll pay something extra, whatever he asks. But I can’t go to his house. They wouldn’t let me in, and besides, I wouldn’t know how to put it.”

  “Take it easy!” interrupted Don Camillo. “If it’s not for the Party, what does it matter? The soul and the next world and all that sort of thing are priestly inventions—”

  “The reason’s not your affair,” Neri shouted. “I want my paper, I tell you!”

  “Very well, then,” said Don Camillo resignedly, “I’ll try to get it for you tomorrow morning.”

  “No, right now!” Neri insisted. “Tomorrow morning he may be dead. Take the thousand liras and go to him right away, while he’s still alive. I’ll wait for you outside. Hurry, Father, hurry!”

  Don Camillo understood, but he still couldn’t tolerate the miscreant’s peremptory way of speaking. And so he continued to stand there with his hands on his hips, looking into Neri’s distraught face.

  “Father, go ahead and do your duty!” Neri shouted in exasperation.

  All of a sudden Don Camillo was overtaken by the same impatience. He ran out, minus his hat, jumped on to his bicycle, and rode away in the darkness.

  * * *

  An hour later Don Camillo returned and Neri once more followed him into the rectory.

  “Here you are,” said the priest, handing him a large sealed envelope. Inside were another envelope, closed with sealing-wax, and a short letter. The letter ran as follows: “The undersigned, Giuseppe Molotti, hereby declares null and void the contract he made with Francesco Neri and restores it to him.” And there, in the smaller envelope, was the famous piece of legal paper.

  “He didn’t want the thousand liras,” said Don Camillo. “Take them. He said to do with them whatever you liked.”

  Neri did not say a word, but went out with all his belongings in his hands. He thought of tearing up the contract, but on further reflection decided to burn it. The side-door of the church was still open and he could see candles blazing. He went in and paused in front of the big candle behind the altar rail. Holding the paper in the flame, he watched it crumple, then squeezed it in his hand until it was reduced to ashes. Finally he opened his fingers and blew the ashes away. Just as he was about to leave, he remembered the thousand liras, took them out of the envelope and stuffed them in the poor-box. Then, quite unexpectedly, he took another thousand-lira note out of his pocket and put it in the same place. “For a blessing received,” he thought to himself as he went home. His eyes were drowsy and he knew that this night he would sleep.

  Shortly after this, Don Camillo went to lock up the church and bid goodnight to the Christ over the altar.

  “Lord,” he asked, “who can possibly understand these people?”

  “I can,” the Crucified Christ answered, smiling.

  Beauty and the Beast

  THEY had met dozens of times in the People’s Palace, marched side by side in parade, gone out as a team to collect signatures for the Peace Crusade and other devilries of the same kind, and so it was natural enough that things should come spontaneously to a head one summer evening.

  “It seems to me we two work pretty smoothly together,” Marco said to the girl as they came out of the People’s Palace.

  “I think so too,” Giulietta admitted.

&
nbsp; They didn’t say anything more, but the next evening Marco went over to Brusco’s house to call for Giulietta. Then they went to sit together on the bridge that spanned the Po River. That was how it all began, and everyone found it the most logical thing in the world. Marco and Brusco’s daughter did indeed seem to be made for one another. They were of the same age and had the same wild ideas, and if Giulietta was the prettiest girl in the village, Marco was certainly an up-and-coming young man. Both of them were so bitten by the political bug that they thought of practically nothing else.

  “Marco,” said Giulietta, “I like you because you’re different from other boys. You talk to me as if I weren’t just a mere woman.”

  “Giulietta,” he answered, “what difference does it make if we’re of opposite sexes, as long as our ideals are the same?”

  They continued way into the autumn to meet four evenings a week on the bridge. Finally, one time when it was pouring with rain, Giulietta’s mother met Marco at the door and said he and Giulietta might as well come on to the porch for shelter. And when winter came, she suggested that they’d better come into the house. Brusco’s wife was a truly old-fashioned woman. She was completely absorbed in her home and thought of everything beyond the bridge as a foreign land, whose goings-on were of no interest to her. As far as she knew, this foreign land was just the same as it had been twenty or thirty years before. And so, when Marco came into the kitchen she pointed to a chair near the cupboard and said:

  “Sit down.”

  After that she motioned her daughter into a matching chair on the other side of the cupboard and returned to the seat where she had been knitting, in front of the fire. Giulietta and Marco went quietly on with the conversation they had begun on the porch. Two hours later Marco went away and Giulietta took herself off to bed. Her mother didn’t say a word, but she thought plenty, and when Brusco came home, she let off steam.

  “That young man came to the house,” she told him.

  “Did he?” asked Brusco. “And what do you think of him?”

  “He’s a poor wretch, that’s what I think.”

  “He’s a good boy, a boy with his head on his shoulders,” said Brusco. “I know him well.”