A Clock for Fiumicino

At Fiumicino, the muddy waters of the Tiber merge with the blue Mediterranean. The town's life seems as sluggish as the river, but beneath the apparent calm there is a deep, turbulent rift which sometimes whirls up like an assault of wind-whipped breakers. That rift is symbolized by the tablet in the city hall commemorating Garibaldi's visit in 1849 (after the Republicans had driven the Pope from Rome), and by the blue & white statue of the Virgin Mary in the church.

Those who reverently place wreaths beneath Garibaldi's memorial and those who kneel before the Virgin--many citizens do both--have long lived together in drowsy tolerance. But now, the heirs of Garibaldi are tainted with Marxism, the

Catholics are accused of Fascism. The bitter struggle that rends all Italy recently broke out, in miniature, at Fiumicino. It was known as the "Clock Fight."

The Ravens & the Foxes. Fiumicino's clock had been shattered in the war. Since most townsmen had no watches of their own, and since even a fishing village must move according to the relentless schedule of modern time, repairing the clock was an urgent matter. So everyone agreed when strapping, round-faced Father Bernardoni called together all parties for a raffle. The united effort yielded 70,000 lire. Then dissension began. Father Bernardoni insisted that 6,000 lire be used for parish charity which could not be delayed "because we can't let people die of hunger to have a clock a few days sooner."

Screamed tough, wiry Communist Leader Otello Barbi: "You cornacchiacce, you dirty black ravens, you always turn everything into an instrument of propaganda in your favor. You just want all poor to be forced to sign on to the parish list." Salvatore Gallo, a stocky Christian Democrat, rose from his cafe table in the square: "You volponaccio rosso, you sly red fox, you know very well that the parish helps all the poor. It's only that you want the poor to be forced to come to you Communists." Barbi rushed up: "You lying cornacchia, we think only of the people." Gallo: "You miserable red fox, yes, you think of the people--you think of their blood--you want to drink their blood if they don't happen to think like you. You want our clock to strike the hour for you alone."

Soon two angry factions faced each other in the square. The coffee-house owners hastily cleared the tables. This gave watching Mayor Cavaliere Giovanni Marcovaldi, who is stone deaf, an inkling of what was going on. His paunch protruding majestically, he carried himself to the middle of the square like a ship in full sail and shouted: "Children, children, don't let's be children. You are citizens. If you have a disagreement, appoint a committee. Don't make Fiumicino the laughing stock of the countryside."

So the "Committee for the Distribution of Urgent Charity from the Clock Funds" was born.

"Helper of Virgins." In the whitewashed committee room, whose unpainted, rickety shutters open on to the rusty municipal balcony, Marcovaldi declared: "I suggest that the differences be met halfway. Let 3,000 lire be given to church funds and 3,000 to municipal charity."

So it came about that three couples, each made up of a burly ex-partisan (representing the town council) and a prim, Catholic spinster (representing the church) made the rounds. Barbi muttered darkly: "Why, those partisans haven't any sense. They will let those monstrous females do all the talking and convince the poor that it's the priest and not the municipality giving them the money." Meanwhile, Father Bernardoni knelt before the Virgin Mary with a group of demure, dark-eyed members of the Catholic Girls' Association, and prayed loudly: "Helper of Virgins, please help Miss Bianca, Miss Filomena, Miss Agata, who walk the streets for your sake in the company of sinners."

Time & Eternity. A new committee was formed for the administration of the remaining funds. It was called "The Clock Committee." It discovered that there was only one man who could fix the clock at a reasonable price--a Fiumicinian who worked wonders with all machinery, by the name of Giordano Bruno Rocchi. But he was a violent anticlerical who would not do any work for the "priest-ridden Clock Committee." So the leftists formed their own "Citizens' Committee" for repairing the clock, and one dark stormy night, they spirited the clock's works to Rocchi's tiny hole of a shop near the waterfront. Gaunt, sallow Rocchi peered at the clock with his black-rimmed eyes, and began work immediately.

The time came when Rocchi needed money to buy vital parts. The Citizens' Committee sent a letter. "Most Reverend Father, it is with regret that we notice that you have accomplished nothing with regard to the clock. . . . Please hand over the funds. . . ."

A meeting took place in the small hours of the morning. Communist Barbi began with elaborate politeness: "Priests are all right in a church, but their concern is with eternity, not with time measurement." Then suddenly he lost his temper: "Hand over that money!" Nello Checchi, a rotund, jolly Communist butcher, came to Barbi's assistance: "I am the only Communist member of your Clock Committee. I know that it has done nothing because," and he pointed a swollen, accusing finger at the priest, "you, Father Bernardoni, wanted it to do nothing." Cried Christian Democrat Gallo: "Why did you sit on the Clock Committee watching it do nothing?" Checchi jumped over the table, shouted: "I wasn't going to do propaganda for Father Bernardoni." The priest interrupted: "At least, have respect for the habit I wear."

Marcovaldi had of course not heard a word, but could see that there was trouble. He proposed the formation of the "Clock Dispute Settling Committee." Its decision was that the priest would get the bills, approved by the Clock Committee, then would pay the amount of the bill over to the Clock Dispute Settling Committee, which would hand it over to the Citizens' Committee, which would hand it over to Rocchi.

The Only Honest Man. But there was more trouble ahead. The Citizens' Committee unanimously agreed that the clock's old position--facing the square--was unthinkable because that would amount to a return of Fascism. Father Bernardoni favored the old position, so that all could see it, and no one would be late for Mass. But the Socialists wanted it turned toward the sea for the fishermen; the Communists wanted it turned toward the harbor for the dockhands: "Deckhands are poor-salaried workers, while fishermen are small proprietors who should buy their own watches." A showdown came again in the municipal committee room.

Barbi addressed the priest: "Up to your political tricks again! You want the clock to be in the old Fascist position. No wonder. Black is the color of Fascism, and you are always dressed in black." Cried Gallo: "Red is the color of blood!" According to the minutes of the leftist recording secretary: "The priest was glib as usual." Asked he: "Was Garibaldi a Communist?" There was a general leftist cry: "Respect the color of Garibaldi's red shirts. . . ."

Then Gallo delivered a memorable line: "Speaking as perhaps the only honest man here. . . ." The rest of his speech was drowned in angry shouts. Only deaf Marcovaldi was unmoved by the uproar. The Great Compromiser proposed that a Comitato per la Posizione dell' Orologio--Committee for Determining the Clock's Position--be formed.

"Tu Es Virgo Maria." It was finally proved that, without additional expense, the clock simply could not be put anywhere but in its old place. The leftists had a small triumph, however; the Communist workers of a nearby glass factory supplied a clockface free of charge. "After all," said the leftists, "it is the face of the clock that people will see, and then they will think of us."

The clock was finally in place on Aug. 15, the Feast of the Assumption. The inauguration was divided into two parts: a civil ceremony on land, and a religious one at sea. At the first, Rocchi was to unveil the clock, which was wrapped in sackcloth. At the second, the statue of the Virgin Mary would be taken out to sea in a fishing vessel and Father Bernardoni would throw a wreath upon the waves.

On a hot afternoon, most people in Fiumicino like to go for a boat ride. Left-wingers were disgusted with the crowds (including many trippers from Rome), who overfilled every available craft. The sun was setting in a fresh westerly breeze as the boats, hung with bunting, sailed out between the piers. On the leading boat stood the statue of the Virgin, one foot holding down the head of a sea serpent, above the inscription: "Tu es Virgo Maria, portus sahitis, marls stella" (Thou art the Virgin Mary, haven of safety, star of the sea). Catholic fishermen sailed their craft daringly, crashing the gunwales under the foam to prove to the leftist onlookers that with the Madonna in the leading boat nothing could happen to them.

The priest prepared to throw the wreath into the sea. Then an undignified and unforeseeable incident occurred. The visiting Romans--stout gentlemen in immaculate white suits, ladies in flimsy summer apparel--stumbled with green faces to the sides of the boats. The priest's arm dropped. The procession sailed farther out. Then suddenly, the priest threw the wreath over the bow, and himself rushed to the side.

There was ribald laughter from the Garibaldians on the pier. Then the laughter gave way to loud cheering; the priest forgot his illness and almost danced; smiles lit up all the wan faces. Over the water, clear as a silver bell, came the ringing of the clock, striking the hour for the first time since war came to Fiumicino.

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