Chapter Eleven - The Avenger
SMILZO RODE up on his racing bicycle and braked it in the American manner, which consists of letting the backside slip off the seat backwards and sit astride the wheel.
Don Camillo was reading the newspaper, seated upon the bench in front of the presbytery. He raised his head. "Does Stalin hand you down his trousers?" he inquired placidly.
Smilzo handed him a letter, touched his cap with a forefinger, leaped on to his bicycle and was just about to disappear round the corner of the presbytery when he slowed down for an instant. "No, the Pope does that," he bawled, then stood on his pedals and was gone in a flash.
Don Camillo had been expecting the letter. It contained an invitation to the inauguration ceremony of the People's Palace with a program of the festivities enclosed. Speeches, reports, a band and refreshments. Then, in the afternoon: "Great Boxing Match between the Heavyweight Champion of the Local Section, Comrade Bagotti Mirco, and the Heavyweight Champion of the Provincial Federation, Comrade Gorlini Anteo."
Don Camillo went off to discuss the event with the Lord above the altar. "Lord!" he exclaimed when he had read the program aloud. "If this isn't vile! If Peppone hadn't been an utter boor, he would have staged the return match between the Galliards and the Dynamos instead of this pummeling bout! And so I shall ..."
''And so you will not even dream of going to tell him one word of what you would like to say; and in any case you're entirely wrong," the Lord interrupted him. "It was perfectly logical of Peppone to try to do something different. Secondly, it was also logical that Peppone should not expose himself to inaugurating his venture with a defeat. Even if we suppose that his champion may lose, he would be none the worse; one comrade fights another; it all remains in the family. But a defeat of his team by yours would be detrimental to the prestige of his party. Don Camillo, you must admit that Peppone couldn't possibly have staged a return match against your team."
"And yet," exclaimed Don Camillo, "I did stage a match against his team, and what's more, I lost it!"
"But Don Camillo," put in the Lord gently, "you don't represent a party. Your lads were not defending the colors of the Church. They were merely defending the prestige of a sporting team, of a pleasant combination that had been organized under the patronage of the parish church. Or do you perhaps think that that Sunday afternoon defeat was a defeat for the Catholic faith?"
Don Camillo began laughing. "Lord," he protested, "You wrong me if you accuse me of any such idea. I was only saying, as a sportsman, that Peppone is a boor. And so You will forgive me if I can't help laughing when his famous champion gets such a drubbing that by the third round he won't know his own name."
"Yes, I shall forgive you, Don Camillo. But I shall find it less easy to forgive your taking pleasure in the spectacle of two men belaboring each other with their fists."
Don Camillo raised his arms. "I have never done anything of the kind and would never lend my presence to countenance such manifestations of brutality as serve only to foster that cult of violence which is already too deeply rooted in the minds of the masses. I am in full agreement with You in condemning any sport in which skill is subordinated to brute force."
"Bravo, Don Camillo," said the Lord. "If a man feels the need to limber his muscles, it is not necessary to fight with his neighbor. It suffices if, having put on a pair of well-padded gloves, he takes it out on a sack of sawdust or a ball suspended somewhere."
"Exactly," agreed Don Camillo, crossing himself hastily and hurrying away.
"Will you satisfy my curiosity, Don Camillo?" exclaimed the Lord. "What is the name of that leather ball which you have had fixed with elastic to the ceiling and the floor of your attic?"
"I believe it is called a 'punching bag,' " muttered Don Camillo, halting for a moment.
"And what does that mean?"
"I don't know any English," replied Don Camillo, making good his escape.
Don Camillo attended the inaugural ceremony of the People's Palace and Peppone accompanied him personally upon a tour of the entire concern; it was all obviously thoroughly up-to-date.
"What do you think of it?" asked Peppone, who was burbling with joy.
"Charming!" replied Don Camillo, smiling cordially. "To tell you the truth, I should never have thought that it could have been designed by a simple builder such as Brusco."
"True enough!" muttered Peppone, who had spent God only knew how much in order to have his project realized by the best architect in the town.
"Quite a good idea to make the windows horizontal instead of perpendicular," observed Don Camillo. "The rooms can be less lofty without its being too obvious. Excellent. And this I suppose is the warehouse."
"It is the assembly room," Peppone explained.
"Ah! And have you put the armory and the cells for dangerous adversaries in the basement?"
"No," replied Peppone. "We haven't any dangerous adversaries; they are all harmless little folk that can remain in circulation. As for an armory, we thought that in case of need we could make use of yours."
"An admirable idea," agreed Don Camillo politely. "You have been able to see for yourself how well I look after the tommy-gun which you entrusted to my care, Mr. Mayor."
They had pulled up in front of a huge picture representing a man with a heavy walrus moustache, small eyes and a pipe. "Is that one of your dead leaders?" inquired Don Camillo respectfully.
"That is someone who is among the living and who, when he comes, will drive you to sit on the lightning conductor of your own church," explained Peppone, who had reached the end of his tether.
"Too high a position for a humble parish priest. The highest position in a small community always pertains to the mayor, and from now onwards I put it at your complete disposal."
"Are we to have the honor of your presence among us at the boxing match to-day, reverend sir?" asked Peppone, thinking it best to change the subject.
"Thank you, but you had better give my seat to someone who is better qualified than I am to appreciate the innate beauty and deeply educational significance of the perfor¬mance. But I shall at any rate be available at the presbytery in the event of your champion requiring the Holy Oils. You have only to send Smilzo, and I can be with you within a couple of minutes."
During the afternoon Don Camillo chatted for an hour with the Lord and then asked to be excused: "I am sleepy and I shall take a nap. And I thank You for making it rain cats and dogs. The crops need it."
"And, moreover, according to your hopes, it will prevent many people coming from any distance to see Peppone's celebrations," added the Lord. "Am I right?"
Don Camillo shook his head.
The rain, heavy though it was, had done no harm at all to Peppone's festivities: people had flocked from every section of the countryside and from all the nearer communes, and the gymnasium of the People's Palace was as full as an egg. "Champion of the Federation" was a fine title, and Bagotti was undeniably popular in the region. And then it was also in some sense a match between town and country and that aroused interest.
Peppone, in the front row close under the ring, surveyed the crowd triumphantly. Moreover, he was convinced that, at the worst, Bagotti could only lose on points, which, in such circumstances, would be almost as good as a victory.
On the stroke of four o'clock, after an outburst of applause and yelling sufficient to bring down the roof, the gong was sounded and the audience began to get restless and excitable.
It became immediately apparent that the provincial champion surpassed Bagotti in style, but on the other hand Bagotti was quicker, and the first round left the audience breathless. Peppone was pouring with sweat and appeared to have swallowed dynamite.
The second round began well for Bagotti, who took the offensive, but quite suddenly he went down in a heap and the referee began the count.
"No," bawled Peppone leaping to his feet. "It was below the belt!"
The federal champion smiled sarcastically at Peppone. He shook his head and touched his chin with his glove.
"No!" bellowed Peppone in exasperation, drowning the uproar of the audience. "You all saw it! First he hit him low and when the pain made him double up he gave him the left on the jaw! It was a foul!"
The federal champion shrugged his shoulders and sniggered, and meanwhile the referee, having counted up to ten, was raising the victor's hand to show that he had won when the tragedy occurred.
Peppone flung away his hat and in one bound was in the ring and advancing with clenched fists upon the federal champion: "I'll show you," he howled.
"Give it to him, Peppone," yelled the infuriated audience.
The boxer put up his fists and Peppone fell upon him like a Panzer and struck hard. But Peppone was too furious to retain his judgment, and his adversary dodged him easily and landed him one directly on the point of the jaw. Nor did he hesitate to put all his weight into it, as Peppone stood there motionless and completely uncovered: it was like hitting a sack of sawdust.
Peppone slumped to the ground and a wave of dismay struck the audience and smote them to a frozen silence. But just as the champion was smiling compassionately at the giant lying prone on the mat, there was a terrific yell from the crowd as a man entered the ring. Without even troubling to remove a drenched raincoat or his cap, he seized a pair of gloves lying on a stool in the corner, pulled them on without bothering to secure them and, standing on guard squarely before the champion, aimed a terrific blow at him. The champion dodged it, naturally, but failed to get in a return, as his opponent was ready for him. The champion danced round the man, who did no more than revolve slowly, and at a given moment the champion launched a formidable blow. The other seemed barely to move, but with his left he parried while his right shot forward like a thunderbolt. The champion was already unconscious as he fell and lay as if asleep in the middle of the ring.
The audience went crazy.
It was the bell-ringer who brought the news to the presbytery and Don Camillo had to leave his bed in order to open the door because the sacristan appeared to be insane and, had he not been allowed to pour out the whole story from A to Z, there seemed every reason for fearing that he might blow up. Don Camillo went downstairs to report to the Lord.
"Well?" the Lord inquired. "And how did it go off?"
"A very disgraceful brawl; such a spectacle of disorder and immorality as can hardly be imagined!"
"Anything like that business when they wanted to lynch your referee?" asked the Lord indifferently.
Don Camillo laughed. "Referee, my foot! At the second round Peppone's champion slumped like a sack of potatoes. Then Peppone himself jumped into the ring and went for the victor. Naturally, since, although he is strong as an ox, he is such a dunderhead that he pitches in without judgment, like a Zulu or a Russian, the champion gave him one on the jaw that laid him out like a ninepin."
"And so this is the second defeat his section has suffered,"
"Two for the section and one for the federation," chuckled Don Camillo. "Because that was not the end! No sooner had Peppone gone down than another man jumped into the ring and fell upon the victor. Must have been somebody from one of the neighboring communes, I imagine, a fellow with a beard and a moustache who put up his fists and struck out at the federal champion."
"And I suppose the champion dodged and struck back and the bearded man went down also and added to the brutal exhibition," the Lord remarked.
"No! The man was as impregnable as an iron safe. So the champion began dodging round trying to catch him off-guard, and finally, wham! he put in a straight one with his right. Then I feinted with the left and caught him square with the right and left the ring!"
"And what had you to do with it?"
"I don't understand."
"You said: 'I feinted with the left and caught him square with the right.' "
"I can't imagine how I came to say such a thing."
The Lord shook His head. "Could it possibly be because you yourself were the man who struck down the champion?"
"It would not seem so," said Don Camillo gravely. "I have neither beard nor moustache."
"But those, of course, could be assumed so that the crowd should not suspect that the parish priest is interested in the spectacle of two men fighting in public with their fists!"
Don Camillo shrugged. "All things are possible, Lord, and we must also bear in mind that even parish priests are made of flesh and blood."
The Lord sighed.
"We are not forgetting it, but we should also remember that if parish priests are made of flesh and blood they themselves should never forget that they are also made of brains. Because if the flesh-and-blood parish priest wishes to disguise himself in order to attend a boxing match, the priest that is made of brains prevents him from giving an exhibition of violence."
Don Camillo shook his head. "Very true. But You should also bear in mind that parish priests, in addition to flesh and blood and brains, are also made of yet another thing. And so, when that other thing sees a mayor sent flat on the mat before all his own people by a swine from the town who has won by striking below the belt (which is a sin that cries to heaven for vengeance), that other thing takes the priest of flesh and blood and the priest of brains by the throat and sends the lot of them into the ring."
The Lord nodded. "You mean to say that I should bear in mind that parish priests are also made of heart?"
"For the love of heaven," exclaimed Don Camillo. "I should never presume to advise You. But I would venture to point out that none of those present is aware of the identity of the man with the beard."
"Nor am I aware of it," replied the Lord with a sigh; "but I should like to know whether you have any idea of the meaning of those words 'punching bag'?"
"My knowledge of the English language has not improved, Lord," replied Don Camillo.
"Well, then we must be content without knowing even that," said the Lord, smiling. "After all, culture in the long run often seems to do more harm than good. Sleep well, federal champion."
Go on to chapter twelve, Nocturne with Bells on this website.
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