The Little World of Don Camillo

OK here's the thing about Don Camillo stories. No one seems to have heard of them. Which is a pity. Because they are some of the most delightful little short stories ever. Don Camillo (the Catholic priest in a little village in the Po Valley in Italy) and his arch-nemesis, Communist Mayor Peppone are two of the most wonderful characters ever fashioned. And this is one of the few books in which God is a character as well. Don Camillo talks to Him. And He answers. And probably not how you would expect Him to.

Here's how I was led to these stories. I have a friend. She studied in India. One day, out of the blue she started talking about these books she used to read in college. About a priest. Who used to talk to the Lord. And how funny it these books were. She could never find them after that. Certainly not in Malaysia. And she felt sad. Just another part of you that breaks off and falls into the abyss, to be lost forever.

But nothing is ever lost.

Not really.

Just a month or two later I bought a comedy collection of stories. It wasn't even very expensive. And one of the stories in this impeccable collection was "On the Trail" by Giovanni Guareschi. And there he was. The Italian priest who talked to God. I laughed through it. And then I went on Amazon to see if I could buy the entire book. I found that they were only available on special order. It was a couple of months before Christmas. I thought, no problem, what a lovely Christmas surprise that would make for my friend, lamenting the days that were no more.

It arrived about two months after Christmas. So I thought, hmmm...only eight months more to her birthday. I stuffed it in one of my suitcases (after having read it, of course) and waited it out.

And then, on her birthday, I made her way to her office (same company, different sections) and presented it to her. She had been having a crappy day, birthday notwithstanding. When she tore off the wrapper and saw the little red volume (The Little World of Don Camillo) she let out a whoop of delight.

"How did you know? How did you know? I didn't even tell you the name?"

And I looked mysterious and tapped my nose significantly and cleared my throat.

Needless to say, one of the most effective gifts I have ever given. Over the years, my sister Jackie found more Don Camillo books (secondhand ones) and I steadily increased her collection. She told me later that she kept these books away from her bookshelf, in a little guitar case. They were too precious to lend out.

The story I have picked for you is one called The Ball Bounces Back. Peppone doesn't feature much in it. But it's one of my favourite Don Camillo stories. From the book, Don Camillo's Dilemma.

Enjoy!

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When women go in for politics they're worse than the most rabid of men. The men throw their weight around for the sake of "the cause", whereas the women direct all their whiles toward the discomfiture of the enemy. The same difference as there is between defending one's country and going to war in order to kill as many people as possible on the other side.

Jo del Magro was up to her ears in politics, and because of her fiery temperament she did not only her share but that of her husband as well. He died, poor fellow, leaving her with a three-year-old son, but her grief for his loss must have been to some degree compensated by the fact that she ignored the priest and carried him to the grave to the muted tones of the Red anthem.

Jo was good-looking enough, in her way, and could perfectly well have found a second husband to look after her. But she clung obstinately to her hard lot, feeding upon it the embitterment which held the place of faith in her heart. She supported herself by heavy farm work - sowing, reaping, threshing and wine-pressing - in the summer, and in the winter by making reed baskets which she peddled about the country. She worked fiercely, as if weariness were an end in itself and her only satisfaction. And even the boldest men took care not to bother her, because she was not only strong-armed, but had a vocabulary coarse enough to put theirs to shame.

The little boy grew like a weed. When he wasn't left alone in their isolated shack but was allowed to trail after his mother, she set him down in the farmyard where she was working and told him to shut up and "keep out of her hair". When he was five years old he could throw stones as well as a boy of ten and destroy a laden fruit-tree in less than half an hour. He nosed about like a hunting-dog among the chicken coops, leaving a mess of broken eggs behind him; he strewed bits of glass on the roads and perpetrated other tricks of the same kind. His only distinction lay in the fact that he was a lone wolf and preferred to operate on his own rather than to run with the pack. When two gangs of boys were engaged in battle he hid behind a bush or tree and threw stones indiscriminately at both factions. He was anti-social by nature and had an extraordinary ability to disappear from the scene of his misdemeanours. The evening of the grape gathering festival he let the air out of the tyres of some fifty bicycles and threw the valve caps away. No one could lay hands on him, but everyone was saying:

"It must be that confounded little Magrino!"

A few days later some well-meaning ladies went to call on his mother and tactfully intimated that instead of letting him run wild she should turn him over, during her working hours, to the day nursery. Jo grew red in the face and shouted that rather than give her son over to a priestly institution she'd leave him with certain women whose reputation they knew all too well.

"Tell Don Gumshoe Camillo to look after his own business!" she said, adding a volley of oaths which caused the well-meaning ladies to pull up their skirts and run. Their leader reported the upshot of their visit to Don Camillo, concluding:

"Father, I can't repeat the name that unfortunate creature fastened upon you!"

"I know it already," he answered gloomily.

The weather was fine and the children of Don Camillo's day nursery were out on the playing field most of the afternoon. The swings and see-saws had been restored to good order and even the grumpiest children were all smiles. Don Camillo lay in a deck chair, smoking his cigar and enjoying the warm sun, when he had a sudden feeling that something was wrong.

The playing field bordered, on the river side, on a field of alfalfa, from which it was separate by a galvanized wire fence. Now Don Camillo was struck by an unaccustomed ripple in the alfalfa, and his sportsman's instinct told him that it was neither a dog nor a chicken. He did not move, but half closed his eyes in order to observe without being detected. Slowly something rose out of the grass and Don Camillo felt Magrino's eyes converging upon him. He held his breath while Magrino, feeling sure that he he was not watched, transferred his gaze to another objective. He was following the children's game and such was his curiosity that at one point he forgot himself and raised his whole head above the alfalfa. No one noticed, and of this Don Camillo was glad. All of a sudden his head disappeared. A big ball, with which some of the bigger boys were playing, had been kicked over the fence and they called out to ask Don Camillo if they could go and get it. The priest pretended to wake up with a start.

"Is the ball out of bounds again?" he shouted. "I've told you to be more careful. That grass can't be trodden down. No more ball-playing today. You can go and get the ball tomorrow, and meanwhile let me sleep!"

The boys grumbled a bit; then they found another ball and played with that, while Don Camillo pretended to be sleeping. Actually, he was more alert than ever. Ten minutes later the alfalfa stirred again, but this time the line of rippling moved farther and farther away. Magrino was leaving, but he was following an odd course, which for the moment led him to the centre of the alfalfa field.

"He must be cutting across diagonally," thought Don Camillo, "in order to emerge along the hedge parallel to the canal."

Instead, Magrino stopped short and made an abrupt turn to the left. Obviously, he had found the ball, picked it up and now was carrying it away.

"Rascal!" muttered Don Camillo. "You pulled off the trick handsomely. But when you reach the row of trees at the end of the alfalfa you'll have to show yourself!"

But Magrino knew better. When he was out of the tall grass he slid on his stomach until he came to a ditch which ran at right angles to the trees and afforded him perfect cover.

"Lord," Don Camillo murmured, "how can a five-year-old boy have learned to be so tricky?"

"Don Camillo," the Lord answered. "how do fish learn to swim? By instinct, of course."

"Instinct?" Don Camillo exclaimed gloomily. "Are men instinctively evil?"

Don Camillo bought the boys another ball and made no mention of the escapade of Magrino. He hoped that the stolen ball would act like bait and bring Magrino back later. Every day he scanned the field of alfalfa, but there was no ripple. Then someone told him that Magrino had come down with a fever the night after he had taken the ball. The ditch was full of water, and in crawling through it he was chilled to the bone. Then, before going into the shack he had buried the ball in a hole. His mother came home late, and found him shivering all over. At first it seemed like nothing at all, at least nothing that couldn't be cured with a few pills and a hot-water bottle. Then things took a turn for the worse and one evening he came half delirious. He muttered something over and over, and finally Jo understood him to mention a big rubber ball.

"Don't worry," she said. "Hurry up and get well, and I'll buy a ball for you."

Magrino quieted down, but the next night, when his fever rose again, he resumed his insistence upon the ball.

"Take it easy!" said Jo. "I told you I'd get it as soon as you're well."

"No...no..."

"Do you want me to get one right away?"

"No...no...The ball..."

Evidently he couldn't take his mind off it. But the doctor said there was no use looking for a meaning in the ravings of a delirious child. And so, on the third night, Jo simply answered:

"All right...whatever you say..."

He raved until one o'clock when the fever went down sufficiently for him to sleep. Then, at last, the exhausted Jo was able to go to bed."

The next morning at five o'clock Don Camillo stood shaving in front of the mirror hanging from the sash bolt of his window. It was a clear, cool day, and he took his time, looking out over the fields to the row of poplars along the river bank and beyond to the gleaming river. Directly below him lay the playing field, empty and silent at this hour, but soon to be overrun by the day nursery. He smiled to himself at the thought of all the freshly washed little faces.

As his glance fell over the field of alfalfa and the wire fence, he murmured to himself: "The little rascal!..." Then he started as a moving white object caught his attention. Only when it was within a few yards of the fence did he recognize it. It was little Magrino, bundled up in a long white night-shirt, which his father had formerly worn by day, weaving in and out of the tall grass, like a drunkard or a sleepwalker. He stumbled and fell, but stood up again and again and went on, clutching all the while a big rubber ball. When he reached the fence he threw it up in the air, but the fence was too high and it fell back on the same side. He threw it again and it hit the wire. Don Camillo's forehead was covered with perspiration.

"Lord," he prayed, "give him the strength to throw it over!"

Magrino was tired out and the tiny arms sticking out of the shirtsleeves seemed to have lost all their former skill. He staggered in order to remain erect and paused for several minutes before making another try. Don Camillo shut his eyes, and when he opened them the ball was in the playing field, while Magrino lay motionless among the alfalfa. The priest went like an avalanche down the stairs. When he picked up the little boy the lightness of his burden struck terror into his heart. Magrino's eyes flickered open, and finding himself in the enemy's grasp he whispered:

"Don Gumshoe...the ball's inside..."

"Good fellow!" said Don Camillo.

The bell-ringer who went to tell Jo, found her beside herself over the disappearance of her son. When she saw him lying on a couch before the fire in Don Camillo's study her amazement knew no bounds.

"I found him in a dead faint among the alfalfa, just twenty minutes ago," Don Camillo told her.

"And what in the world was he doing there? My head is completely woozy."

"Always has been, hasn't it?" asked Don Camillo.

The doctor told Jo not to dream of taking the boy away but gave him an injection and left precise instructions for his care. Meanwhile, Don Camillo was in the sacristy, preparing for Mass.

"Lord," he said to the Crucified Christ as he stood before the altar, "how did it all happen? After the upbringing that boy's had, how could he know the difference between good and evil?"

"Don Camillo," said Christ, "how do fish learn to swim? By instinct. And conscience is instinctive in the same way; it's not something that can be transmitted from one person to another. It's not like taking a light into a dark room. The light is burning all the time, covered by a thick veil. When you take the veil away, the room is lit."

"Very well, Lord, but who unveiled the light in that boy's soul?"

"Don Camillo, when the darkness of death is impending, everyone instinctively searches within himself for a ray of light. And now, don't you bother your head about how it came about; just rejoice in it and thank God."

Magrino spent a fortnight in the rectory and Jo came morning and evening to see him; that is, she knocked at the window and when Don Camillo opened it, she said:

"I've come to see the prisoner."

Don Camillo made no reply but let the two of them talk together. After a fortnight had gone by he came home one day to find Magrino letting the air out of his bicycle tyres. He gathered together the boy's few clothes and took him to the door saying:

"You're cured. Go along home!"

That evening Jo came boldly to the door.

"How much do I owe you?" she asked.

"Nothing. The most that you can do for me is to stay out of my sight forever, per omnia saecula saeculorum."

"Amen," mumbled Jo.

But out of sheer spite she appeared at eleven o'clock Mass the following Sunday, sitting in the front pew, with Magrino beside her. Don Camillo shot her a terrifying glance, but from the bold way in which she stared back at him he knew perfectly well that she was saying to herself:

"Don Gumshoe, don't make those ferocious eyes at me. I'm not in the least bit afraid!"