businessmen the heavy conflicts of interest are placated and give way to a new rivalry: to see who can present the most conspicuous and original gift in the most attractive way.
At Sbav and Co. that year the Public Relations Office suggested that the Christmas presents for the most important persons should be delivered at home by a man dressed as Santa Claus.
The idea won the unanimous approval of the top executives. A complete Santa Claus outfit was bought: white beard, red cap and tunic edged in white fur, big boots. They had the various delivery men try it on, to see whom it fitted best, but one man was too short and the beard touched the ground; another was too stout and couldn't get into the tunic; another was too young; yet another was too old and it wasn't worth wasting make-up on him.
While the head of the Personnel Office was sending for other possible Santas from the various departments, the assembled executives sought to develop the idea: the Human Relations Office wanted the employees' Christmas packages also to be distributed by Santa Claus, at a collective ceremony; the Sales Office wanted Santa to make a round of the shops as well; the Advertising Office was worried about the prominence of the firm's name, suggesting that perhaps they should tie four balloons to a string with the letters S.B.A.V.
All were caught up in the lively and cordial atmosphere spreading through the festive, productive city; nothing is more beautiful than the sensation of material goods flowing on all sides and, with it, the good will each feels towards the others; for this, this above all, as the skirling sound of the pipes reminds us, is what really counts.
In the shipping department, goods-material and spiritual-passed through Marcovaldo's hands, since it represented merchandise to load and unload. And it was not only through loading and unloading that he shared in the general festivity, but also by thinking that at the end of that labyrinth of hundreds of thousands of packages there waited a package belonging to him alone, prepared by the Human Relations Office; and even more, by figuring how much was due him at the end of the month, counting the Christmas bonus and his overtime hours. With that money, he too would be able to rush to the shops and buy, buy, buy, to give presents, presents, presents, as his most sincere feelings and the general interests of industry and commerce decreed.
The head of the Personnel Office came into the shipping department with a fake beard in his hand. 'Hey, you!' he said to Marcovaldo. 'See how this beard looks on you. Perfect! You're Santa then. Come upstairs. Get moving. You'll be given a special bonus if you make fifty home deliveries per day.'
Got up as Santa Claus, Marcovaldo rode through the city, on the saddle of the motorbike-truck laden with packages wrapped in vari-colored paper, tied with pretty ribbons, and decorated with twigs of mistletoe and holly. The white cotton beard tickled him a little but it protected his throat from the cold air.
His first trip was to his own home, because he couldn't resist the temptation of giving his children a surprise. At first, he thought, they won't recognize me. Then I bet they'll laugh!
The children were playing on the stairs. They barely looked up. 'Hi, Papa.'
Marcovaldo was let down. 'Hmph… Don't you see how I'm dressed?'
'How are you supposed to be dressed?' Pietruccio said. 'Like Santa Claus, right?'
'And you recognized me first thing?'
'Easy! We recognized Signor Sigismondo, too; and he was disguised better than you!'
'And the janitor's brother-in-law!'
''And the father of the twins across the street!''
'And the uncle of Ernestina-the girl with the braids!'
'All dressed like Santa Claus?' Marcovaldo asked, and the disappointment in his voice wasn't due only to the failure of the family surprise, but also because he felt that the company's prestige had somehow been impaired.
'Of course. Just like you,' the children answered. 'Like Santa Claus. With a fake beard, as usual.' And turning their backs on him, the children became absorbed again in their games.
It so happened that the Public Relations Offices of many firms had had the same idea at the same time; and they had recruited a great number of people, jobless for the most part, pensioners, street-vendors, and had dressed them in the red tunic, with the cotton-wool beard. The children, the first few times, had been amused, recognizing acquaintances under that disguise, neighborhood figures, but after a while they were jaded and paid no further attention.
The game they were involved in seemed to absorb them entirely. They had gathered on a landing and were seated in a circle. 'May I ask what you're plotting?' Marcovaldo inquired.
'Leave us alone, Papa; we have to fix our presents.'
'Presents for who?'
'For a poor child. We have to find a poor child and give him presents.'
'Who said so?'
'It's in our school reader.'
Marcovaldo was about to say: 'You're poor children yourselves!' But during this past week he had become so convinced that he was an inhabitant of the Land of Plenty, where all purchased and enjoyed themselves and exchanged presents, that it seemed bad manners to mention poverty; and he preferred to declare: 'Poor children don't exist anymore!'
Michelino stood up and asked: 'Is that why you don't bring us presents, Papa?'
Marcovaldo felt a pang at his heart. 'I have to earn some overtime now,' he said hastily, 'and then I'll bring you some.'
'How do you earn it?'
'Delivering presents,' Marcovaldo said. 'To us?'
'No, to other people.'
'Why not to us? It'd be quicker.'
Marcovaldo tried to explain. 'Because I'm not the Human Relations Santa Claus, after all; I'm the Public Relations Santa Claus. You understand?'
'No.'
'Never mind.' But since he wanted somehow to apologize for coming home empty-handed, he thought he might take Michelino with him, on his round of deliveries. 'If you're good, you can come and watch your Papa taking presents to people,' he said, straddling the seat of the little delivery wagon.
'Let's go. Maybe I'll find a poor child,' Michelino said and jumped on, clinging to his father's shoulders.
In the streets of the city Marcovaldo encountered only other red-and-white Santas, absolutely identical with him, who were driving panel-trucks or delivery carts or opening the doors of shops for customers laden with packages or helping carry their purchases to the car. And all these Santas seemed concentrated, busy, as if they were responsible for the operation of the enormous machine of the Holiday Season.
And exactly like them, Marcovaldo ran from one address to another, following his list, dismounted from his seat, sorted the packages in the wagon, selected one, presented it to the person opening the door, pronouncing the words: 'Sbav and Company wish a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year', and pocketed the tip.
This tip could be substantial and Marcovaldo might have been considered content, but something was missing. Every time, before ringing at a door, followed by Michelino, he anticipated the wonder of the person who, on opening the door, would see Santa Claus himself standing there before him; he expected some fuss, curiosity, gratitude. And every time he was received like the postman, who brings the newspaper day after day.
He rang at the door of a luxurious house. A governess answered the door. 'Oh, another package. Who's this one from?'
'Sbav and Company wish a…'
'Well, bring it in,' and she led Santa Claus down a corridor filled with tapestries, carpets, and majolica vases. Michelino, all eyes, followed his father.
The governess opened a glass door. They entered a room with a high ceiling, so high that a great fir tree could fit beneath it. It was a Christmas tree lighted by glass bubbles of every color, and from its branches hung presents and sweets of every description. From the ceiling hung heavy crystal chandeliers, and the highest branches of the fir caught some of the glistening drops. Over a large table were arrayed glass, silver, boxes of candied fruit and cases of bottles. The toys, scattered over a great rug, were as numerous as in a toyshop, mostly complicated electronic devices and model space-ships. On that rug, in an empty corner, there was a little boy about nine years old, lying prone, with a bored, sullen look. He was leafing through an illustrated volume, as if everything around him were no concern of his.
'Gianfranco, look. Gianfranco,' the governess said. 'You see? Santa Claus has come back with another
