“Well, thanks to Divine Providence, here they are. Remember that when the elections come around, and don’t vote for God’s enemies.”
“Yes, of course, that was understood in my vow,” sighed the unhappy Thunderer.
Peppone waited for Don Camillo outside the door. “You’re a snake in the grass! You build up the reputation of Divine Providence with my money!”
“Comrade, infinite are the ways of Divine Providence,” sighed Don Camillo, raising his eyes to heaven.
The Best Medicine
PEOPLE couldn’t get over the fact that Don Camillo was in such a state over Thunder.
“After all,” they said, “a dog’s only a dog.”
But it’s the last straw that breaks the camel’s back. And at this time, that was Don Camillo’s situation.
The day before the official opening of the shooting season, Thunder went out of the house around noon and failed to return in the evening. He didn’t turn up the next day, either, and Don Camillo searched wildly for him until night. When he came home empty-handed he was too miserable to eat supper. “Somebody’s stolen him,” he thought to himself; “and by this time he’s probably in Piedmont or Tuscany.” Then all of a sudden he heard the door creak, and there was Thunder. It was obvious from his humble look that he was aware of having done something very bad. He didn’t have the nerve to come all the way in, but stood half outside with only his nose sticking around beyond the door.
“Come in!” shouted Don Camillo, but the dog did not budge. “Thunder, come here!” the priest shouted again.
The order was so definite that Thunder obeyed, coming forward very slowly, with his head hanging low. When he reached Don Camillo’s feet, he stopped and waited. This was the last straw. For it was then that Don Camillo discovered that someone had painted Thunder’s hindquarters bright red.
Love me, love my dog; if you insult my dog, I am insulted. This is especially true of a sportsman. And in this case, nothing could have been more cowardly. Don Camillo felt a grinding pain deep down inside and had to go and take a breath of fresh air at the open window. There his anger passed away, giving place to melancholy. He leaned over to touch the dog’s back and found the paint already dry. Evidently it had been applied the day before and Thunder had been afraid to come home.
“Poor fellow,” said Don Camillo. “You were caught just like an innocent puppy.”
Then he stopped to think that Thunder wasn’t the kind of dog to let strangers get too near him or to fall for the offer of a chunk of meat. Thunder was a thoroughbred, and didn’t take to all-comers. He trusted only two people, and one of these was Don Camillo.
This shed more light on the situation, and Don Camillo impulsively decided to clear it up completely. He went out, calling Thunder, and Thunder followed somewhat shamefully after. Peppone was still in his workshop when Don Camillo appeared, like a ghost, before him. He went right on hammering, while Don Camillo went to stand on the far side of the anvil to ask him a question.
“Peppone, have you any idea how Thunder got into this condition?”
Peppone looked over at the dog and shrugged his shoulders.
“How should I know?” he said. “Perhaps he sat down on some bench that was freshly painted.”
“That could be,” said Don Camillo calmly. “But I have a notion you’re mixed up in it, somehow. That’s why I came straight here.”
Peppone grinned at him.
“I’m a blacksmith and mechanic,” he said. “The dry cleaner is on the other side of the square.”
“But the fellow who asked me to lend him my dog to go hunting and then painted the dog red because I refused him is right here before me!”
Peppone dropped his hammer and stood up to Don Camillo with his hands on his hips, defiantly:
“Now, exactly what do you mean?”
“That your revenge was abject and unworthy!”
Don Camillo was panting with indignation. He heard Peppone shout something at him but could not catch the words. His head was whirling strangely and he groped for the anvil in order to keep his balance. Peppone eyed him coldly.
“If you’ve been drinking, you’d better go and sleep it off in the rectory, where it’s cooler.”
Don Camillo managed to grasp this last sentence and started reeling home, where he arrived without knowing how he had done so. Half an hour later Thunder’s incessant barking drew the attention of the sacristan. He noticed that the rectory door was open and an electric light burning inside. And a moment later he cried out in astonishment. Don Camillo lay stretched out on the floor and Thunder was howling beside him. The priest was bundled into an ambulance and taken to a hospital in the city. And the villagers did not go to bed before the ambulance came back and they had some news.
“Nobody knows what’s wrong,” said the driver. “It seems as if his heart and liver and nervous system were all involved. Then he must have given his head a nasty crack when he fell. All the way to the city he was delirious, raving about how someone had painted his dog red.”
“Poor Don Camillo!” the villagers murmured as they went to bed. The next day they found out that the dog really had been touched up and that Don Camillo’s raving was by no means as delirious as it had seemed. And although they were still just as sorry that he had been stricken, they found his concern over Thunder exaggerated. “A dog’s only a dog,” they were saying.
This was because they didn’t realize that the last straw can break the camel’s back.
Every evening someone brought back the latest news from the city. “He’s not at all well. They won’t allow anyone to see him.” And early every morning Thunder came to Peppone’s workshop, lay down in the doorway and fixed his melancholy eyes upon Peppone. He stayed there until eight o’clock, when the square began to fill up with people going about their daily occupations. Peppone paid him very little attention but after this performance had been repeated for twenty-five days in succession, he lost patience and shouted:
“Can’t you let me alone? Your master’s ill, that’s all. If you want to know more than that, you’ll have to go and see him.”
The dog did not budge an inch and Peppone still felt those melancholy eyes upon him. At seven o’clock he could not stand it any longer. He washed, put on his best suit, got on his motorcycle and rode away. After he had gone a mile he stopped to see how he was off for petrol. He found the tank full, and proceeded to check the oil and the pressure of the tyres. After this, he scribbled something in a notebook. A few seconds later Thunder caught up with him, his tongue hanging out with exhaustion, and jumped into the sidecar.
“Devil take you and your master!” grumbled Peppone as he started the engine.
At eight o’clock he arrived in front of the hospital and left Thunder to watch over the machine. But at the door they told him that it was entirely too early for a visit. And when they heard which patient he wanted to see, they told him it was no use waiting. Don Camillo’s case was so serious that no visitor could be admitted to his room. Peppone did not insist. He remounted his motorcycle and rode off to the Bishop’s Palace. Here, too, he was refused admittance, but finally his persistence and his big hands caused the secretary to relent.
The bishop, older and tinier and whiter-haired than ever, was walking about his garden, admiring the bright hues of the flowers.
“There’s some sort of ruffian outside who says he’s Your Grace’s personal friend,” the secretary explained breathlessly. “Shall I call the police?”
“What’s that?” said the bishop. “Do you hold your bishop in such low esteem as to think that his personal friends are wanted by the police? Let the fellow in.”
A few seconds later, Peppone torpedoed his way into the garden, and from behind a rose bush the old man held him off with the end of his cane.
“Forgive me, Your Grace,” stammered Peppone, “but it’s a serious matter.”
“Speak up, Mr Mayor. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong with me, You
r Grace. It’s Don Camillo. For over three weeks…”
“I know all about it,” the bishop interrupted. “I’ve been to see him already. Poor Don Camillo!” he sighed.
Peppone twisted his hat between his hands. “Something’s got to be done, Your Grace.”
“Only God Almighty can do it,” said the bishop, throwing out his arms in resignation.
But Peppone had an idea of his own.
“There’s something you can do, Your Grace. You can say a mass for his recovery, for instance.”
The bishop looked at Peppone incredulously.
“Your Grace, please try to understand. I’m the one that painted his dog red.”
The bishop did not answer, but walked down the garden path. Just then his secretary came to tell him that lunch was ready.
“No,” said the bishop. “Not just yet. Leave us here alone.”
At the far end of the path was the bishop’s private chapel.
“Go down there and ask them for an altar boy,” said the bishop.
Peppone shrugged his shoulders.
“I can serve at the altar. I did it often enough as a boy….”
“A very special mass, with a very special altar boy,” said the bishop. “Go in and lock the door behind us. This is something that must remain strictly between ourselves. Or rather, between ourselves and God.”
When Peppone left the Bishop’s Palace, he found Thunder on guard in the side-car. He jumped on to the saddle and rode back to the hospital. Again they were unwilling to let him in, but Peppone bullied his way through.
“We can’t be responsible for what happens,” the nurses told him. “If he takes a turn for the worse, then you’re to blame.”
They led him to the second floor of one of the pavilions and left him in front of a closed door.
“Remember, as far as our records are concerned, you made your way in by sheer force.”
The room was flooded with light, and as he opened the door, Peppone drew back in alarm at the sight of Don Camillo. Never had he imagined that twenty-five days of illness could lay a man so low. He tiptoed over to the bed. Don Camillo’s eyes were closed, and he seemed to be dead but when he opened them he was very much alive.
“Have you come to claim an inheritance?” he said in a thin voice. “I have nothing to leave you but Thunder…. Every time you see that red behind of his, you can think of me….”
“The red’s almost all gone now,” said Peppone, in a low voice with his head hanging. “I’ve scrubbed him with turpentine every day.”
“Well, then, you see I was right to bring him to you rather than to the dry cleaner,” said Don Camillo with a wan smile.
“Forget about that…. Thunder’s downstairs. He wanted to come and see you, but they won’t let him in.”
“Funny people they are,” sighed Don Camillo. “They let you in, and you’re much more of a dog than he.”
Peppone nodded assent.
“Sounds to me as if you were getting better. You’re in high spirits, that much is certain.”
“Soon they’ll be so high that they’ll carry me up into the blue beyond. I’m done for; my strength is all gone. I’m not even strong enough to be angry at you.”
Just then a nurse came in with a cup of tea.
“Thank you,” said Don Camillo, “but I’m not hungry.”
“This is something to drink.”
“I’m not thirsty, either.”
“You really must make an effort to get something down.” Don Camillo sipped at the cup of tea. Once the nurse was out of the room he made a face.
“Soups and slops, for twenty-five days, without interruption. I’m beginning to feel as if I were a bird….” And he looked down at his gaunt, white hands. “It’s no use me offering to match fists with you now.”
“Don’t let yourself worry,” said Peppone, lowering his head.
Don Camillo slowly closed his eyes and seemed to fall asleep. Peppone waited for a few seconds and then started to go away, but Don Camillo reached out a hand to touch his arm.
“Peppone,” he whispered, “are you a dastardly coward or an honest man?”
“I’m an honest man,” Peppone replied.
Don Camillo motioned to him to lower his head and whispered something into his ear. He must have said something very terrible, because Peppone drew himself up abruptly, exclaiming:
“Father! That would be a crime!”
Don Camillo looked into his eyes.
“Are you going to let me down?” he panted.
“I’m not letting anybody down,” said Peppone. “Is it a request or an order?”
“An order!” murmured Don Camillo.
“Let your will be done!” Peppone whispered as he left the room.
* * *
The maximum speed of Peppone’s motorcycle was fifty-five miles an hour, but on this occasion it made seventy. And on the way back it didn’t roll over the ground, it positively flew. At three o’clock in the afternoon, Peppone was back at the hospital. Smilzo was with him, and the attendants made an attempt to block the two of them at the door.
“It’s a serious matter,” explained Peppone. “It’s concerned with an inheritance. That’s why I brought a notary along.”
When they came to Don Camillo’s door, Peppone said, “You stay out here and don’t let anyone in. You can say that he’s making his confession.”
Don Camillo seemed to be asleep but he was only dozing and quickly opened his eyes.
“Well then?” he asked anxiously.
“Everything’s just as you wanted it,” answered Peppone, “but I still say it’s a crime.”
“Are you afraid?”
“No.”
Peppone proceeded to take a parcel out from under his jacket and unwrap it. He put the contents on the bedside table and then pulled Don Camillo into a sitting position, with the pillows at his back. He spread a napkin over the priest’s lap and moved the contents of the parcel on to it: a loaf of fresh bread and a plate of sliced salami. Then he uncorked the bottle of red Lambrusco wine. The sick man ate and drank deliberately, not in order to prolong any gluttonous enjoyment but simply to get the full savour of his native earth. For you must realize that Lambrusco is no ordinary wine but something unique and particular to that section of the river valley. Every mouthful made him homesick for the river and the misty sky above it, the mooing of the cattle in their stalls, the distant thumping of tractors and the wail of threshing machines in the poplar-bordered fields. All these seemed now to belong to another world, from which he had been taken away by a succession of malevolent medicines and insipid soups. When he had finished his meal he said to Peppone:
“Half a cigar!”
Peppone looked fearfully at Don Camillo, as if he might stiffen and die before him.
“No, not a cigar!”
Eventually he had to give in, but after a few puffs Don Camillo let the cigar drop to the floor and fell into a deep sleep.
* * *
Three days later Don Camillo left the hospital, but he did not return to the village for three months, because he wanted to be in perfect health for his arrival.
Thunder gave him a wildly enthusiastic welcome, turning around in circles and chasing his tail in order that Don Camillo might see that his hindquarters were in perfect condition. Peppone, who happened to be passing in front of the rectory, was attracted by Thunder’s barking and asked Don Camillo to note that there was not a trace of red left upon him.
“Quite so,” said Don Camillo. “He’s all right. Now to get the red off the rest of you dogs.”
“You’re yourself again, all right,” mumbled Peppone. “Almost too much so, in my opinion.”
One Meeting after Another
“LORD,” Don Camillo said to the Christ over the altar, “this is our great day!”
Christ was obviously surprised.
“What do you mean, Don Camillo?”
“Lord, it’s written in letters three inches high on posters plas
tered all over the countryside. The Honourable Betio is making a speech in the village square this afternoon.”
“And who might the Honourable Betio be?”
“Lord, he’s one of the big shots of our party.”
Christ seemed even more surprised than before. “Are we enrolled in a party? Since when, may I ask?”
Don Camillo smiled and shook his head.
“Lord, I didn’t express myself clearly. By ‘our party’, I meant the party which supports us.”
Christ sighed.
“It’s all very sad, Don Camillo. To think that we have a party to help us keep the universe in order, and we didn’t even know it! We’re not as omniscient as we used to be. God Almighty is slipping.”
Don Camillo lowered his head in humiliation.
“Lord, I failed utterly to put across what was in my mind. When I said ‘our party’ I meant the party of all those good Christians that rally around the Church and seek to defend it against the forces of the anti-Christ. Of course, these good Christians aren’t so presumptuous as to claim that they help God run the universe.”
Christ smiled.
“Don’t worry Don Camillo. I can read your heart like an open book, and I shan’t judge you merely by what you say. Just tell Me this: is this party of good Christians a large one? How many people belong?”
Don Camillo replied that the party was quite strong and gave the approximate number of its members.
“Ah!” Christ sighed. “Unfortunately there aren’t nearly as many good Christians as there are bad ones!”
Don Camillo told Him that beside the enrolled party members there were a lot of sympathizers. He mentioned more figures.
“But there aren’t so many of them, either,” Christ exclaimed. “Good honest people are a minority compared to the number of bad, dishonest people that belong to other parties or sympathize with them. Don Camillo, you’ve given Me very sad news! I thought there were a great many more good people than that. But lets make the best of it. The idea of gathering all good people into one group makes our job a comparatively simple one. Those who are actually enrolled in the good party will go straight to Heaven, the sympathizers to Purgatory and all the rest can be bundled off to Hell. Please oblige Me with the exact figures.”
Don Camillo’s Dilemma Page 21