Don Camillo and the Devil

by Giovanni Guareschi

  “The young people are getting away from me. It’s as if they were racing off on motorcycles and I were panting after them on foot. It’s not faith that’s lacking, but a motorcycle.”

  “That’s not good reasoning, Don Camillo; it’s a play on words.”

  “Nevertheless, Your Grace, it reflects the true situation. I don’t want to compete with the devil on his own ground; just because young people would rather dance than listen to my sermons, I shan’t hold wild parties in the rectory. But because they are so dead set on the films, I want to show some that are a cut above the average. That’s the point of what I’m trying to say.”

  “How can that be the point, Don Camillo?” said the Bishop, throwing out his arms in bewilderment. “Haven’t you been putting on educational pictures for the last five or six years? What’s so new about that?”

  “The practice isn’t new, Your Grace. And neither is the projector. It’s an obsolete model, practically falling to pieces, and…”

  “That’s quite enough, Don Camillo,” the Bishop interrupted. “If the Good Lord lets obsolete models—such as myself—endure so long, it must be because they’re still useful in one way or another. No, Don Camillo, you’re trying to trick me. It’s not true that you need a motorcycle, you just wish you had one!”

  But Don Camillo wasn’t really trying to trick him. His 16-mm. projector was no longer a machine, it was the ghost of a machine that might have been. And a motorcycle without a front wheel and saddle is a far less serviceable vehicle than shank’s pony. Even the best film, when it came out of Don Camillo’s projector, was a cinematographic omelette, and the sound-track was a cacophonic zigzag.

  “The only thing I can suggest doing,” said the big-city repair-man to whom Don Camillo had taken it, “is adding it to the rubbish, that is, if the Department of Sanitation will consent to take it.”

  When he went back to the village Don Camillo was strongly tempted to throw the thing in the river, but he could not give himself this satisfaction until he was sure of obtaining a replacement, or at least of obtaining the money with which to buy one.

  In spite of his remonstrances, the old Bishop did not send Don Camillo away empty-handed. He gave him all the money he could, and although it wasn’t very much, Don Camillo went home feeling happy. The first step was taken. There were thousands more steps to go before he reached his goal, but they did not weigh upon him. No landslide ever starts until the first pebble has fallen from the top of the mountain.

  And so, after due time, came the promised day, and the arrival of the projector, a brand-new model with a sound-track as smooth as velvet. Don Camillo whitewashed the walls of the room and varnished the chairs. He rented a superlative film and posted announcements at every street corner. The afternoon before the great event he ran up and down the streets so often that inevitably he ran into Peppone.

  “Is the mayor going to honour us with his presence tonight?” he asked. “It’s such a big occasion that our first citizen should really be on deck.”

  “What big occasion do you mean?” asked Peppone in astonishment.

  “The opening of the new picture palace.”

  “I’ve never heard of any picture palace, old or new,” answered Peppone. “All I know is that for some years past you’ve shown magic-lantern slides for the benefit of choir-boys.”

  Don Camillo let this sarcasm go by.

  “Let the dead bury their dead,” he suggested. “We have a real hall and a fabulous new projector.”

  “Fabulous as it may be, you’re probably coming in on the last guards van, as usual.”

  “After you’ve been to one of our new shows, you’ll see that this guards van is up at the head of the train and moving faster than even a diesel engine.”

  “Fast or slow, the film is a superannuated medium,” said Peppone. “It’s dead as a door-nail, and there’s no place for it outside a church hall.”

  “What medium is in step with the times, then?” asked Don Camillo. “The evening class in everyday revolution?”

  “Leave politics out of it,” said Peppone. “Progress has left the film behind. The coming thing is television.”

  Just then Smilzo arrived upon the scene and threw out the question:

  “Chief, what do you say? The expert is here and wants to know where to put the aerial.”

  “Wherever he thinks best. I deal in combustion-engines, and television’s not up my street.”

  Smilzo hurried away, and after swallowing a lump in his throat, Don Camillo asked:

  “Is our mayor a pioneer television owner?”

  “Not myself personally, but the workers’ Party, whose place is in the vanguard of progress. The TV set is for the People’s Palace, and tonight is the first showing. But we shan’t offer you any competition, Father. The set is a product of the State Radio Plant of Moscow, and only Party members are invited. I can’t ask you to come, Father, much as I regret it, that is, unless you take out a membership card.”

  “I admit that I’d like to see what this thing called television is all about,” said Don Camillo between clenched teeth, “but I can wait a little bit longer.”

  “Fate vobis,” said Peppone, throwing out his arms.

  Don Camillo went home with a queasy feeling in his stomach and took his troubles to the Christ on the main altar.

  “Lord,” he panted, “Peppone and his gang have a TV set!”

  “They’re not the only ones in the world, are they?” Christ answered. “And it’s not a death-dealing machine, is it?”

  “They’re not the only ones in the world, but they’re the only ones in the village.”

  “But why do you worry? Are you afraid that the appeal of something so new may lure some of your followers into the bears lair?”

  “No, only Party members can enjoy it. But I had hoped that my film hall would attract some of Peppone’s hangers-on, and I could save them from the bears embraces.”

  Christ sighed.

  “Are these your weapons, Don Camillo?” he asked. “I didn’t have any machines with which to seize men from the devil’s grasp and put them on the path of righteousness.”

  “Lord, forgive me,” said Don Camillo, humbly bowing his head. “But the devil didn’t have any machines then, either. If the devil rides a motorcycle, why should I pursue him on foot?”

  “Don Camillo, I can’t follow your cycling metaphor. But the vehicles that carry men to heaven or hell are just the same now as they were then.”

  The television set poisoned Don Camillo’s entire evening, and in spite of the success of the film show, he was unable to sleep. Something about the affair was not clear in his mind, and the thought of this elusive, shadowy zone would not let him rest. The next morning, when he looked out of the window that gave on to the church square and saw the television aerial rising above the People’s Palace, he was suddenly enlightened. That afternoon he managed to run into Peppone again and said to him brusquely:

  “In this television business, are you following a directive from the higher echelons, or did you think it up yourself?”

  “What do directives have to do with television?” asked Peppone. “I do what I please.”

  “Then you’re a jackass, Peppone. Only a jackass could imagine that anyone in this village would take out membership in the Communist Party for the sake of seeing the idiocies projected by your teletrap, ‘made in U.S.S.R.’. Who believes that they have television sets in Russia?”

  “Oh, I forgot that in Russia they don’t have either watches or bicycles!” said Peppone, throwing out his arms. “According to you, this set of ours, which has ‘made in U.S.S.R.’ on every single part, is really a ‘product of U.S.A.’ is that it? As you like! Those that have television can enjoy it, and the have-nots will just have to swallow their bile!”

  Don Camillo’s anger was plain to see, and he did well to go away without answering this last sally. When he reached the rectory he had to hear some first-hand reports on the village reaction to the new
TV.

  “It seems to be positively wonderful.”

  “And it was really made in Russia so they say.”

  “The Reds who went to the first showing are wild with joy. They say the Americans had better go and bury their heads in the sand.”

  That night Don Camillo turned over and over in his bed, and his long quest for sleep was thwarted by the chatter of several noise-makers who wagged their tongues immediately under his window, on the church square.

  “Too bad, though, that when they have colour TV we’ll need a new set.”

  “A new set? Not a bit of it! They haven’t got colour at all in America, but in Russia they’ve had it for the last two years. And the sets made for export are geared to both black-and-white and colour. Did you see that red lever on the right side? You just pull it down, and there’s the whole rainbow.”

  “If I were Peppone, I’d put it on display at the Party’s retail store, so that everybody could see. That way they’d stop saying that we keep it to ourselves because it’s either home-grown or made in America.”

  “Not on your life! They can say what they like, but if they want to see, they’ll have to join the Party!”

  Don Camillo was a captive audience. And when they stopped talking so loudly and began to laugh and whisper, he jumped out of bed and glued his ear to the aperture of the shutters.

  “… a hall just as dismal as the other…”

  “… films more idiotic than ever…”

  “… and they say the sound is ear-splitting…”

  “… but what should he know about machines? They saw him coming…”

  “… you know what it is, when a man has a wad of money, whether it’s a few liras more or less…”

  In order not to burst with rage, Don Camillo dived back into bed, where he didn’t shut an eye before morning. But by the time morning came he had swallowed his anger and his brain was functioning in a normal manner. “A canny player plays his cards close to the chest, and no one can guess what he has up his sleeve. If you’re not showing your Soviet TV set, it’s because the whole thing’s a big story. You’ll puncture your own balloon, if I give you time, Comrade Peppone!”

  And so Don Camillo inaugurated a policy of complete indifference. When anyone spoke of the famous Russian TV set, he answered with a smile:

  “If the Russians have the atomic bomb, why shouldn’t they have TV sets and send them to their friends abroad?”

  “What about the colour TV?”

  “They’ve always been colourful! Why shouldn’t they apply this quality to television?”

  And so one, two, three months went by. Every evening there was a change of the guard at the People’s Palace, and a different group went to see the show, gathering afterwards below Don Camillo’s window, on the church square, for an exchange of extravagantly laudatory impressions. Don Camillo was rudely awakened, and had to listen in grim silence. He held out for some time, but on perhaps the ninetieth occurrence it was too much for him to endure. “Enough is enough!” he muttered to himself. “I’ve taken all I can, God forgive me!”

  This was ten days after the snowstorm which had caused the collapse of the roof of the People’s Palace and the attic below. The roof and the attic ceiling had been promptly repaired, but the night watchman’s quarters were still uninhabitable, because the walls had been soaked with water and the cement was not yet dry enough to permit removal of the scaffolding. The watchman, Lungo, and his wife and child were temporarily quartered elsewhere, and from midnight to four o’clock in the morning the People’s Palace was empty.

  One foggy evening a man went through the open door leading to the courtyard and climbed resolutely to the attic, where he lay for several hours in ambush. At midnight Lungo let down the iron curtain at the front of the retail store, gathered up the day’s receipts and accounts, inspected the premises, locked the doors, and went to his mother-in-law’s house. The intruder had such self-control that he waited two hours more before going into action. Slowly he made his way to the ground floor and the assembly hall. All the shutters were closed, and he was assured of complete privacy. With the aid of a torch he surveyed the scene. What he was looking for seemed to be veiled by a piece of cloth at the opposite end of the room. He walked over, removed the cloth, and gazed upon a shiny, new TV set, surmounted by a metal plate bearing the inscription ‘Made in U.S.S.R.’. It wouldn’t have been very hard to nail a plate of this kind on to a case containing an American or British or Italian machine, and so the investigator detached the back cover. At this point his emotion was so great that he dropped the torch on to the floor.

  “Lord,” panted Don Camillo, throwing himself on to his knees before the altar, “something utterly astounding has happened. A fellow who accidentally got into the People’s Palace last night took a look at the famous Russian TV set. And what do you think was inside the case? Nothing! Did you hear me? N-o-t-h-i-n-g! The case was empty!” And after wiping the perspiration from his brow he went on: “Yes, Lord, empty! For ninety consecutive evenings those poor fools have taken turns going in groups to the People’s Palace and then coming out to tell of the miraculous things they’ve seen. What colossal nerve, Lord! For three months no one has let the cat out of the bag. Just imagine the fun there’ll be tomorrow, when the secret is known! The Russian TV! And yet I’ll wager that if the discoverer doesn’t tell his story they’re quite capable of keeping up the farce indefinitely. Isn’t it utterly ridiculous? Are they stark mad, to play a part like this, without ever giving themselves away? Self-discipline, they call it, but I have another name… Lord, you aren’t even listening….”

  “I was thinking of the sorrows of the world, Don Camillo, not of the tall tales you’ve been telling. What is it, then, that the visitor to the People’s Palace saw?”

  “Lord, a fellow accidentally got in there last night and saw the famous TV set,” said Don Camillo, hanging his head. “It’s authentically ‘made in U.S.S.R.’.”

  Don Camillo didn’t breathe a word to a soul, but a week later when he ran into Peppone he couldn’t resist remarking:

  “Comrade, when will your faithful give up the game of the empty box?”

  “When the time is ripe, Rev.!”

  “Isn’t it all very silly?”

  “Just try getting up something equally silly among your highly respectable people!”

  To this Don Camillo found no reply.

  The next morning the village was startled by an amazing piece of news. A short circuit had caused the famous TV set to go up in flames.

  “But the enemies of the People have no cause to rejoice,” said the poster which Peppone put up on the façade of the People’s Palace. “The working-class, no matter how ground down it may be will have another TV!”

  They took up a collection, and ten days later the People’s Palace no longer had an empty box; it had a box fill of TV.

  “It’s not nearly as good as the Russian set we had before,” proclaimed Peppone’s henchmen, “but it’s better than nothing.”

  And from their point of view, they weren’t so very wrong.

  Inflation in the Po Valley

  THE question of television continued to be a sore point with Don Camillo, and smart salesmen have a way of sensing such things. The young man with the handsome tan briefcase was all smiles when he came to the rectory, insisting that all he wanted was to make the acquaintance of the most famous priest of the lower Po valley. Don Camillo still had some hundred jars of ‘Atomic Floor Wax’ in the basement, and he wasn’t going to fall for sales talk, no matter how many blandishments went with it.

  “Thanks for your kind words, but I really don’t need a thing.”

  “Father, you misunderstand me,” the young man protested. “I’m no salesman, I work for Guardian…”

  “I see, it’s life insurance…”

  “No, Father, you must be thinking of some other organization. Guardian Purchases is an entirely different matter, as you can see for yourself.”

 
; These last words meant that he had managed to open his briefcase and put a dazzlingly illustrated catalogue into Don Camillo’s hands.

  “Motorcycles, bicycles, cameras, typewriters, refrigerators, radio and television sets… Guardian buys all these things direct from the makers at such a discount that it can make house-to-house sales on the instalment plan, with no increase over the list prices.”

  Don Camillo tried to give back the catalogue, but the young man would have none of it.

  “Don’t worry, Father, I’m not here to sell. I only mean to give you an idea of all the lines we carry. If ever you want to buy any of these things, I’m sure you’ll come to us. For instance, some day you’ll surely get a television set, and it’ll be worth your while to look over our large assortment….”

  The smiling salesman must have been Satan in disguise, or else how could he have known that Don Camillo was crazy to have a television set? But so far nothing serious had happened. Just to look at photographs of television sets didn’t mean promising to buy one. The young man made this very clear.

  “You have here an enormous range of models, from the cheapest to the most luxurious, all of them well-known makes. You can see for yourself that we charge the normal retail price, and the payments are extraordinarily easy. We call ourselves ‘Guardian Purchases’ because our system actually guards and protects you. The debt you contract with us practically pays itself.”

  Don Camillo was so taken with the television sets that he forgot about the store of useless wax in the basement. But he did not forget that his personal finances were disastrously low. And so, after feasting his eyes on the catalogue, he insisted on returning it.

  “I’ll keep what you told me in mind,” he said by way of farewell.

  “Thank you,” said the salesman, tucking it away in his briefcase. “Just let me repeat that you needn’t worry about the money. The day you decide to make your purchase just let me know and I’ll come to write out the contract and pick up the initial payment. Of course, if here and now you happen to have as little as five thousand liras, it would be even simpler….”