The ancient bishops' palace is gloomy and ogival, saltpetre dripping from the walls, staying there is torture on winter nights. And the adjacent cathedral is immense, a lifetime is not enough to go around it all, and there is such a tangle of chapels and sacristies that, after centuries of abandonment, some are still almost unexplored. What will the gaunt archbishop do on Christmas Eve - one wonders - all alone, while the city is celebrating? How can he overcome his melancholy? Everyone has a consolation: the child has the train and Pinocchio, the little sister has the doll, the mother has her children around her, the sick man has a new hope, the old bachelor his companion in dissipation, the prisoner the voice of another from the neighboring cell. What will the archbishop do? The zealous Don Valentino, secretary of his excellency, smiled when he heard people talk like this. The archbishop has God, on Christmas Eve. Kneeling all alone in the middle of the freezing and deserted cathedral, at first sight it could almost be pitiful, but if only one knew! He is not all alone, he is not even cold, nor does he feel abandoned. On Christmas Eve God overflows in the temple, for the archbishop, the naves literally overflow with him, to the point that the doors struggle to close; and, even though there are no stoves, it is so hot that the old white snakes awaken in the tombs of the historic abbots and rise from the vents of the basements, gently sticking their heads out from the balustrades of the confessionals. Thus, that evening the Cathedral; overflowing with God. And although he knew it was not his place, Don Valentino even too willingly lingered to arrange the prelate's kneeler. Forget trees, turkeys and sparkling wine. This is a Christmas evening! Except that in the midst of these thoughts, he heard a knock on a door. 
“Who is knocking at the doors of the Cathedral,” Don Valentino asked himself, “on Christmas Eve? Haven’t they prayed enough yet? What frenzy has taken hold of them?” Even though he was saying this, he went to open the door and with a gust of wind a poor man in rags entered. “What a quantity of God!” - the man exclaimed, smiling, looking around - “How beautiful! You can even smell it from outside. Monsignor, couldn’t you leave me a little bit? Imagine, it’s Christmas Eve.” “It belongs to His Excellency the Archbishop,” replied the priest. “He needs it, in a couple of hours. His Excellency is already living the life of a saint, you don’t expect him to renounce God too! And besides, I’ve never been a monsignor.” “Not even a little bit, Reverend? There’s so much! His Excellency wouldn’t even notice!” “I told you no... You can go... The Cathedral is closed to the public,” and he dismissed the poor man with a five-lire note. But as the unfortunate man left the church, at the same moment God disappeared. Don Valentino looked around in dismay, scrutinizing the dark vaults: God was not even up there. The spectacular display of columns, statues, canopies, altars, catafalques, candelabra, draperies, usually so mysterious and powerful, had suddenly become inhospitable and sinister. And in a couple of hours the archbishop would come down. With orgasm Don Valentino half-opened one of the outside doors, looked out into the square. Nothing. Even outside, although it was Christmas, there was no sign of God. From the thousand lit windows came echoes of laughter, broken glasses, music and even blasphemies. No bells, no songs. Don Valentino went out into the night, went through the profane streets, amid the din of wild banquets. But he knew the right address. When he entered the house, the friendly family was sitting down at the table. Everyone looked kindly at each other and there was a little bit of God around them. “Merry Christmas, Reverend,” said the head of the family. “Would you like to?” “I’m in a hurry, friends,” he replied. “Because of my carelessness, God has abandoned the Cathedral and His Excellency is going to pray soon. Can’t you give me yours? After all, you are in company, you don’t have any absolute need for it.” “My dear Don Valentino,” said the head of the family. “I would say you forget that today is Christmas. Today of all days should my children do without God? I am surprised, Don Valentino.” And at the very moment the man said this, God slipped out of the room, the cheerful smiles faded and the roast capon felt like sand between his teeth. Off again then, into the night, along the deserted streets. Walk and walk, Don Valentino finally saw him again. He had reached the gates of the city and before him the great countryside stretched out in the darkness, whitened a little by the snow. Above the meadows and rows of mulberry trees, God wavered, as if waiting. Don Valentino fell to his knees. “What are you doing, Reverend?” a peasant asked him. “Do you want get sick with this cold?” “Look over there, son. Don’t you see?” The peasant looked without surprise. “It’s ours,” he said. “Every Christmas he comes to bless our fields.” “Listen,” said the priest. “Couldn’t you give me a little? We’ve run out in the city, even the churches are empty. Leave me a little so that the archbishop can at least have a decent Christmas.” “Not at all, my dear Reverend! Who knows what disgusting sins you’ve committed in your city. It’s your fault. Sort it out yourselves.” “Yes, there has been a sin, of course. And who doesn’t sin? But you can save many souls, son, if only you say yes.” “I’ve had enough of saving my own!” the farmer chuckled, and the moment he said it, God rose from his fields and disappeared into the darkness. He went even further away, searching. God seemed to be becoming rarer and rarer, and those who possessed a little of Him did not want to give Him up (but in the very act that he said no, God disappeared, moving progressively farther away). So here was Don Valentino at the edge of a vast land, and in the distance, right on the horizon, God shone softly like an oblong cloud. The little priest threw himself on his knees in the snow. “Wait for me, O Lord,” he begged, “it’s my fault the archbishop is left alone, and tonight is Christmas!” His feet were frozen, he walked through the fog, sank up to his knees, every now and then he fell flat on his face. How long could he hold out? Until he heard a calm, pathetic choir, the voices of angels, a ray of light filtering through the fog. He opened a small wooden door: it was a very large church and in the middle, among a few candles, a priest was praying. And the church was full of paradise. “Brother,” groaned Don Valentino, at the end of his strength, bristling with icicles, “have mercy on me. My archbishop is left alone because of me and needs God. Give me a little, please.” Slowly the one who was praying turned around. And Don Valentino, recognizing him, became, if possible, even paler. “Merry Christmas to you, Don Valentino,” exclaimed the archbishop, coming towards him, all surrounded by God. “Blessed boy, where have you gone? May I know what you went looking for outside on this wolfish night?”