“Good morning, Comrade Pepito!”
Peppone stopped hammering and stared at the priest in dismay.
“What do you mean, Father?”
“Nothing at all. Pepito’s a diminutive of Peppone, after all, and by some strange chance Sbezzeguti is an imperfect anagram of Giuseppe Bottazzi.”
Peppone resumed his hammering.
Don Camillo shook his head.
“What a shame that you’re not the Pepito who won the ten millions.”
“A shame, yes. In that case I’d be able to offer you two or three millions to go back home.”
“Don’t worry, Peppone. I do favours for nothing,” said Don Camillo, going away.
Two hours later the whole village knew what is meant by an anagram, and in every house Pepito Sbezzeguti was vivisected to find out if Comrade Giuseppe Bottazzi was lurking inside. That same evening the Reds’ general staff held a special meeting at the People’s Palace.
“Chief,” said Smilzo, “the reactionaries have gone back to their old tactics of smearing a good name. The whole village is in an uproar. They say you won the ten millions. There’s no time to be lost; you must nail down their slander.”
Peppone threw out his arms.
“To say a fellow has won ten millions in the soccer sweepstake isn’t slander. Slander means accusing someone of having done something dishonest, and the sweepstakes are quite on the level.”
“Chief, in politics to accuse someone of a good deed is a smear. And an accusation that hurts the Party is definitely slanderous.”
“People are laughing behind our backs,” put in Brusco. “We’ve got to shut them up.”
“We must print a poster!” Bigio exclaimed. “We must come up with a statement that makes everything clear.”
Peppone shrugged his shoulders.
“We’ll put our minds to it tomorrow,” he said.
Whereupon Smilzo pulled a sheet of paper out of his pocket. “We’ve something ready, Chief, in order to save you the trouble. If you approve we’ll print it right away and paste up the posters tomorrow morning.”
And he proceeded to read aloud:
The undersigned, Giuseppe Bottazzi, declares that he has no connexion with the Pepito Sbezzeguti who won ten million liras in the soccer sweepstakes. It is useless for the reactionaries to accuse him of being a millionaire. All it proves is that they are a gang of neo-Fascists.
Giuseppe Bottazzi.
Peppone shook his head.
“It’s all right,” he said, “but until I see something in print I’m not going to rush into print myself with an answer.”
But Smilzo stuck to his argument.
“Why wait to shoot until someone has shot at you? Good strategy calls for beating the opponent to the draw.”
“Good strategy calls for a kick in the pants to anyone who sticks his nose into my private affairs. I can defend myself without help.”
Smilzo shrugged his shoulders.
“If you take it like that, there’s nothing more to say.”
“That’s how I do take it!” shouted Peppone, bringing his fist down on the table. “Every man for himself, and the Party for the lot of us!”
The general staff went away grumbling.
“To let himself be accused of having won ten million is a sign of weakness,” observed Smilzo. “And besides, there’s the complication of the anagram.”
“Let’s hope for the best,” sighed Bigio.
Soon enough the rumour appeared in print. The landowner’s paper published an insert that said: “Scratch a Peppone and you’ll find a Pepito,” and everyone in the village found this exceedingly clever and funny. The general staff held another meeting in the People’s Palace and declared unanimously that something had to be done.
“Very good,” said Peppone. “Go ahead and print the poster and paste it up.”
Smilzo made a bee-line for the printer’s. Little more than an hour later the printer, Barchini, brought Don Camillo a copy of the proofs.
“This is bad business for the newspaper,” said Don Camillo sadly. “If Peppone really did win the money I don’t think he would put out such a statement. That is, unless he’s already gone to the city to collect it or sent someone else to collect it for him.”
“He hasn’t made a move,” Barchini assured him. “Everyone in the village is on the alert.”
It was late and Don Camillo went to bed. But at three o’clock in the morning he was awakened by the news of a visit from Peppone. Peppone sneaked in from the garden, and when he was in the hall he peered out anxiously through the half-closed door.
“Here’s hoping no one has seen me,” he said. “I feel as if I were being followed.”
Don Camillo glanced at him anxiously.
“You haven’t gone crazy, have you?” he asked.
“No, no fear of that.”
Peppone sat down and wiped the perspiration from his brow.
“Am I talking to the parish priest or to the village gossip?”
“That depends on what you came to say.”
“I came to see the priest.”
“The priest is listening,” said Don Camillo gravely.
Peppone twirled his hat between his fingers and then confessed:
“Father, I told a big lie. I am Pepito Sbezzeguti.”
For a moment Don Camillo was speechless.
“So you did win the millions, did you?” he said when he had recovered his aplomb. “Why didn’t you say so?”
“I’m not saying so. I was speaking to you as a priest, and you should have no concern with anything but the fact that I told a lie.”
But Don Camillo was concerned with the ten millions. He shot a withering look at Peppone and moved to the attack.
“Shame on you! A proletarian, a Party member winning ten million liras in a soccer sweepstake! Leave such shenanigans to the bourgeoisie! Communists earn their living by the sweat of their brow.”
“I’m in no mood for joking,” gasped Peppone. “Is it a crime to place a bet in the soccer sweepstake?”
“It’s no joke,” said Don Camillo. “I didn’t say it was a crime. I said that a good Communist wouldn’t do it.”
“Nonsense! Everyone does.”
“That’s very bad. And all the worse for you because you’re a leader of the class struggle. The soccer sweepstake is a diabolical capitalist weapon turned against the People. Very effective, and it costs the capitalists nothing. In fact, they stand to make money. No good Communist can fail to combat it.”
Peppone shrugged his shoulders in annoyance.
“Don’t get excited, Comrade! It’s all part of a vast conspiracy to persuade the proletariat to seek riches by other means than revolution. Of course that’s pure fraud, and by abetting it you’re betraying the cause of the People!”
Peppone waved his arms wildly.
“Father, let’s leave politics out of it!”
“What’s that, Comrade? Are you forgetful of the Revolution?”
Peppone stamped his feet, and Don Camillo smiled indulgently.
“I understand, Comrade,” he said, “and I don’t blame you. Better ten million liras today than the Revolution tomorrow!”
He went to poke up the fire and then turned around to look at Peppone.
“Did you come here just to tell me you’d won the money?”
Peppone was in a cold sweat.
“How can I get the cash without anyone’s knowing?” he asked.
“Go for it, that’s all.”
“I can’t. They’re watching me like hawks. And besides my denial is coming out tomorrow.”
“Then send a trusted comrade.”
“There’s no one I can trust.”
“I don’t know what to say,” said Don Camillo, shaking his head.
Peppone held out an envelope.
“You go for me, Father.”
He got up and went away, leaving Don Camillo to stare at the envelope.
The next morning Don Camillo set
out for the city. Three days later he made his return. He arrived late in the evening, and before going to the rectory went to talk to the Christ over the altar. Opening up his suitcase he said sternly:
“Jesus, here are ten bundles, each one of them containing a hundred ten-thousand-lira notes. In other words, the ten million liras that belong to Peppone. All I have to say is this: he doesn’t deserve them.”
“Tell that to the sweepstake operators,” Christ replied.
Don Camillo took the suitcase away. When he reached the second floor of the rectory he switched the light on and off three times in succession as a signal to Peppone. Peppone replied by means of the light in his bedroom. Two hours later he arrived at the rectory, with his coat collar turned up to hide his face. He came in from the garden, through the door with the heavy padlock hanging from it.
“Well, then?” he said to Don Camillo, who was waiting in the pantry.
Don Camillo pointed at the suitcase, which was lying on the table, and Peppone approached it with trembling hands. When he saw the bundles of banknotes he broke into perspiration.
“Ten million?” he whispered questioningly.
“Ten million cold. Count them for yourself.”
“Oh no,” demurred Peppone, staring fascinatedly at the money.
“A pretty pile,” commented Don Camillo, “at least for today. Who knows what it may be worth tomorrow? A single piece of bad news is enough to bring an inflation and turn it into worthless paper.”
“I ought to invest it right away,” said Peppone. “With ten millions I could buy a farm, and land always has value.”
“It’s the peasants that have a right to the land,” said Don Camillo. “At least that’s what the Communists say. They don’t mention blacksmiths. They’ll take it away from you, you’ll see. Communism is the wave of the future, Comrade…”
Peppone was still staring at the banknotes.
“I have it!” he exclaimed. “Gold! I’ll buy gold and hide it away.”
“What good will it do you? If the Communists take over, everything will come under the control of the State and your gold will lose its purchasing power.”
“I could always deposit it abroad.”
“Tut, tut! Like a regular capitalist! You’d deposit it in America, I suppose, because Europe is going Communist for sure. But when America is left out on a limb it will have to surrender to the Soviet Union.”
“America’s got real power,” said Peppone. “The Soviet will never take it over.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure, Comrade.”
Peppone took a deep breath and sat down.
“My head’s whirling, Father. Ten million liras.”
“Please oblige me by taking them home. But don’t forget to send back my suitcase. That’s my private property.”
“No, Father,” said Peppone. “Keep the money for me, will you? I’d rather talk about it when I can think straight, perhaps tomorrow.”
After Peppone had gone away Don Camillo carried the suitcase up to his bedroom and went to bed. He was dead tired, but his sleep was interrupted at two o’clock in the morning by the reappearance of Peppone, together with his wife, both of them swathed in heavy coats.
“Forgive me, Father,” said Peppone. “My wife just had to take a squint at the money.”
Don Camillo brought down the suitcase and deposited it on the pantry table. At the sight of the banknotes Peppone’s wife turned deathly pale. Don Camillo waited patiently, then he closed the suitcase and escorted the two of them to the door.
“Try to get some sleep,” he said as they went away.
He tried to do the same thing himself, but an hour later he was once more awakened by Peppone.
“What’s this?” he protested. “Isn’t the pilgrimage over?”
“I came to take the suitcase,” explained Peppone.
“Nothing doing! I’ve stowed it away in the attic and I have no intention of bringing it down. You can come back tomorrow. I’m cold and tired and entitled to my rest. Don’t you trust me?”
“It’s not a question of trust. What if something were to happen to you during the night? How could I prove that the money is mine?”
“Don’t worry about that. The suitcase is locked and there’s a tag with your name on it. I’ve thought of every contingency.”
“I appreciate that, Father. But the money’s safer in my house.”
Don Camillo didn’t like his tone of voice. And he changed his own to match it.
“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.
The Whistle
AS usual, whenever he went shooting, Don Camillo started out from the orchard, and this time in the farther field, behind the church, he saw a boy sitting on the stump of a tree and apparently waiting for him.
“Can I go over with you?” the boy asked, as he got up and started to walk over.
Don Camillo looked hard and saw at a glance who the boy was.
“Go along with you,” he answered brusquely. “You don’t think I want one of you little devils for company, do you?”
The boy stood stock-still and watched the priest and his dog Thunder go on their way. Pino dei Bassi was not even thirteen years old, but he had already been enlisted by the Reds. They had signed him up in their youth organization and sent him out to distribute propaganda leaflets or to dirty the walls with diatribes against this, that and the other. He was the most active of the lot, because while the other boys had chores to do at home, he hung about the streets all day long. His mother, the widow of Cino dei Bassi, carried on her husband’s trade. Every morning she hitched the horse to the wagon and went around the countryside selling pots and pans and cotton goods of every description. The boy had weak lungs and could not help her, so he was left in charge of his grandmother, who had a mere glimpse of him at noon, when he came home for something to eat. One day Don Camillo stopped the widow and told her she’d better keep an eye on the boy or else the company he was keeping would get him into trouble. But she answered tartly:
“If he goes w
ith them, it’s because it’s more fun than going to church.”
Don Camillo saw that there wasn’t any use insisting. And he knew it was useless to preach at a good woman who wore herself out with hard work every day in order to keep body and soul together. Every time he saw the horse and wagon go by he thought of Cino dei Bassi, one of his very best friends, whom he had seen die before his eyes. And he thought of Cino again whenever he went shooting. If Cino had known Thunder, he would have been wild about him. Cino had shooting in his blood and was one of the best shots in the countryside. He had an unerring nose for game and an unerring eye for shooting, and his expeditions carried him to places no one had visited before. Whenever Cino went to a duck shoot or target competition, half the village tagged along behind, as if he were a one-man football team. He was Don Camillo’s boon companion, and it was while they were out shooting together that Cino had stumbled into a ditch and by some mischance fallen on the trigger of his shotgun. He had sent a volley into his own chest and died in Don Camillo’s arms.
This kind of death seemed to be written into the fate of the Bassi family. Cino’s grandfather, who was a mighty nimrod in his time, had accidentally killed himself with a gun, and Cino’s father had been shot in the course of a shoot. Then death came to Cino the same way. And he had left his gun to Don Camillo.
“You keep it,” were his dying words, “and put it to good use.”
Now the sight of Cino’s son sharpened Don Camillo’s memory of his old friend, and when the boy asked if he could come along, he wished violently that he could knock some sense into his head and wipe out the disgrace he was bringing upon his father’s good name.
“Thunder,” he said, relieving himself of his feelings to his dog, “the next time we meet the little rascal, we’ll practically shave the hair off him. It’s plain as day that they’re training him to make trouble and sent him to pester me.”
Don Camillo’s Dilemma Page 9