The House of Scorta

by Laurent Gaudé

  When we left Montepuccio for Naples—accompanied by don Giorgio, who had wanted to escort us all the way to the pier—the earth seemed to groan under our feet, as though cursing these children who had the audacity to try to abandon her. We left the Gargano, went down into the vast, dreary plain of Foggia, and crossed the entire Italian peninsula before reaching Naples. That labyrinth of shouts, squalor, and heat left us wide-eyed. The big city smelled of herring and rotting fish. The streets of Spaccanapoli

  10 swarmed with children with bloated bellies and toothless mouths.

  Don Giorgio brought us to the port, and we boarded one of those ocean liners built to carry starvelings from one point of the globe to another amidst great sighs of petroleum. We took our places among people like us. The poor of Europe, with hunger in their eyes. Whole families and solitary urchins. Like everyone else, we held each other by the hand so as not to get lost in the crowd. Like everyone else, we couldn’t sleep the first night, fearing that treacherous hands might steal the blanket we shared. Like everyone else, we wept once the huge ship left the bay of Naples. “Life is beginning,” Domenico said in a low voice. Italy disappeared before our eyes. Like everyone else, we turned towards America, awaiting the day when her coastline would come into view, hoping, in strange dreams, that everything would be different there, the colors, the smells, the laws, the people. Everything. Bigger. Gentler. During the crossing, we spent hours on the deck, clinging to the railing, trying to conjure up this continent where even wretched folk like us were welcome. The days were long, but that didn’t matter, since the dreams we dreamt needed hours and hours to take shape in our minds. The days were long, but we let them flow by happily, since the world was beginning.

  At last we arrived at the port of New York. The ship headed slowly towards tiny Ellis Island. I shall never forget the joy of that day, don Salvatore. We danced and we cried. Awild excitement had taken hold on the deck. Everyone wanted to see the new world. We cheered every fishing trawler we passed. Everyone pointed at the buildings of Manhattan. Our eyes devoured every detail of the coastline.

  When the ship finally docked, we went ashore amidst aclamor of impatience and joy. The crowd filled the great hall of the little island. We heard languages spoken which at first we took for Milanese or Roman dialect, until we had to acknowledge that what was happening here was much vaster. The whole world surrounded us. We could have felt lost. We were foreigners. We understood nothing. But we were filled with a strange feeling, don Salvatore. We were sure that we were where we belonged. Amidst all those lost souls, in that confusion of voices and accents, we felt at home. The people around us were our brothers and sisters. By the filth they wore on their faces, and the fear that twisted their guts. Don Giorgio had been right. This was where we belonged, in this country that was like no other. We were in America, and we weren’t afraid anymore. Our life in Montepuccio seemed far away and ugly. We were in America, and our nights were filled with joyous, hungry dreams.

  Don Salvatore, pay no attention if my voice cracks and I lower my eyes; I am going to tell you something that nobody else knows. Nobody but the Scortas. Listen. The night is long and I’m going to tell you everything.

  Upon arrival we went ashore, excited to be leaving the ship. We were happy and impatient. We had to take our places and wait, but this didn’t matter to us. We waited in endless lines. We participated in strange procedures that we didn’t understand. Everything was slow. We were directed to one counter, then another. We kept very close together so as not to get lost. Hours passed and the crowd seemed to get smaller. People grew restless. Domenico kept moving forward, leading us on. At one point, he announced that we were going to be examined by some doctors, and that we had to stick out our tongues, take a couple of deep breaths, and not to be shy about opening our shirts if we were asked. We had to submit to everything, but it didn’t matter; we were ready to wait for days if necessary. The country was right there, within reach.

  When I went before the doctor, he gestured for me to stop. He looked into my eyes and, without saying a word, made a mark on my hand in chalk. I wanted to ask why, but I was signaled to proceed to another room. A second doctor listened to my chest a long time. He asked me some questions, but I didn’t understand him and didn’t know what to answer. I was a young girl, don Salvatore, a young girl whose knees quaked before these strangers leaning over me as if I were some farm animal. A little later, my brothers joined me. They’d had to fight to get through.

  After an interpreter arrived, we understood what was the matter. I had an infection. I had, in fact, been sick on the boat for several days. Fever, diarrhea, red eyes, but I thought it would pass. I was a young girl on my way to New York, and I didn’t think any illness could stop me. The man spoke for a long time, but all I understood was that, for me, the journey was over. The ground gave way beneath my feet. I’d been rejected, don Salvatore. It was all over. I was ashamed and hung my head to avoid my brothers’ eyes. They stood silently beside me. I stared at the long line of immigrants who continued to pass in front of us, and I could only think of one thing: “They let all those people in, even that sickly one over there, and even that old guy who might drop dead in two months’ time. They let them all in. Why not me?”

  Then the interpreter spoke again. “You’ll have to go back home. Don’t worry, there’s no charge for the journey. The boat is free. Free.” That’s all he could say, just that one word. That’s when Giuseppe suggested to Domenico that he continue on alone. “Mimì, you go on. I’ll stay with Miuccia.”

  I didn’t say a thing. Our lives were in the balance, for years to come, in this discussion between two rooms. But I didn’t say a thing. I couldn’t. I hadn’t the strength. I was ashamed. Simply ashamed. I could only listen and put my fate in my brothers’ hands. Our three lives were at stake here, and it was all my fault. Everything depended on their decision. Giuseppe repeated, “It’s better this way, Mimì. You go on, you go on alone. Me, I’ll stay with Miuccia. We’ll go home. We’ll try again later.”

  Time stood still. Believe me, don Salvatore, I aged several years during that one minute. Everything was suspended. I was waiting. Waiting for destiny to weigh our three lives and choose the fate it saw fit. Then Domenico spoke: “No. We came together and we’ll leave together.” Giuseppe wanted to insist, but Domenico cut him off. He’d made up his mind. He gritted his teeth and made a brusque gesture with his hand that I’ll never forget: “It’s all three of us or nothing. They don’t want us. They can go fuck themselves.”

  PART IV

  THE SILENT ONES’ TOBACCO SHOP

  The disinterment of the Mute’s body and her second burial sent a tremor through Montepuccio. There was now a mound of freshly turned earth outside the cemetery that couldn’t be ignored. It was an unacceptable wart on the face of the village. The people of Montepuccio were afraid that word would spread. That everyone in the region would know and point the finger at them. They were afraid that people would say that in Montepuccio they did not bury their dead properly, that in their cemeteries they turned the earth as in a field. This wild grave, apart from the rest, was like a permanent reproach. Don Carlo was still fuming. He went about casting aspersions. He spoke of grave-robbers. For him, the Scortas had crossed the line. To dig up the earth and extract a body from its final resting place was the work of heathens. He would never have imagined that such barbarians could exist in Italy.

  One night, unable to stand it any longer, he went so far as to pull up the wooden crucifix that the Scortas had planted in the mound of earth and broke it in a fit of rage. The grave remained in that state for a few days. Then the cross reappeared. The priest prepared a second punitive expedition, but every time he tore away the cross it reappeared. Don Carlo thought he was fighting the Scortas, but he was wrong. He was engaged in a contest of wills against the whole town. Every day, anonymous hands, repelled by that miserable, unmarked grave, would plant another wooden cross. After a few weeks of this game, a delegation of townsfol
k went to don Carlo to persuade him to change his mind. They asked him to hold a ceremony and allow the Mute to be reintegrated into the cemetery. They even suggested that, to avoid having to dig up the poor woman a second time, the cemetery wall be broken and rebuilt in such a way as to include the excommunicated woman. Don Carlo would hear none of it. The scorn he felt for the villagers only increased. He became sullen and prone to violent outbursts.

  From that moment on, all of Montepuccio began to hate Father Bozzoni. One after another, the villagers swore they wouldn’t set foot in the church so long as that “idiot priest from the North” presided there. In fact, what the Scortas had demanded of him was something the whole town had expected from the start. When they’d first heard of the Mute’s death, they immediately thought that the funeral would be as grand as Rocco’s. Don Carlo’s decision had revolted them. Who did this priest, who wasn’t even from these parts, think he was to come here and change the unalterable rules of the village? The decision of the “new guy,” as the women at the market called don Carlo, was seen as an insult to the memory of the beloved don Giorgio. And this was unforgivable. The “new guy” had no respect for tradition. He came from who-knows-where to impose his own law. The Scortas had been insulted. By extension, the whole town felt insulted. No one had ever witnessed such a burial before. This man, though a priest, had no respect for anything, and Montepuccio wanted no part of him. But there was another reason for this savage reprobation. Fear. The old terror of Rocco Scorta Mascalzone, never wholly forgotten. By thus burying the woman who had been his wife, don Carlo was condemning the village to Rocco’s wrath. They remembered the crimes he had committed during his lifetime, and trembled at the thought of what he might be capable of in death. There was no doubt about it, an evil fate awaited Montepuccio. An earthquake. Or a bad drought. Rocco Scorta Mascalzone’s breath was already in the air. You could feel it in the hot evening wind.

  The people of Montepuccio viewed the Scortas with an inextricable mixture of scorn, pride, and fear. In normal times, the village ignored Carmela, Domenico, and Giuseppe. They were merely three hungry souls, a brigand’s spawn. But the moment anyone wanted to touch a single hair on their heads or insult the memory of Rocco the Savage, a kind of maternal instinct awoke in the whole village, and it defended them like a shewolf defending her young. “The Scortas are good-fornothings, but they belong to us”—such was how most of the people in Montepuccio saw things. And, after all, the Scortas had gone to New York. This conferred something sacred on them, making them untouchable in the eyes of most of the townsfolk.

  In the space of a few days, the church was deserted. No one went to Mass anymore. No one greeted don Carlo in the streets. He had been given a new nickname, which signed his death warrant: “the Milanese.” Montepuccio sank into an ancestral paganism. People practiced all sorts of ceremonies in the shadow of the church. In the hills they danced the tarantella. The fishermen worshiped fish-headed idols, hybrids of patron saints and water spirits. In winter, old women spoke with the dead in the recesses of their homes. On several occasions, people practiced exorcisms on simpletons believed to be possessed by the devil. Dead animals were found outside the doors of certain houses. Revolt was brewing.

  A few months passed until the day when Montepuccio, late one morning, was gripped by an unwonted agitation. A rumor was circulating that made people’s jaws drop. They lowered their voices when they spoke of it. Old women crossed themselves. Something had happened that morning, and everyone was talking about it. Father Bozzoni was dead. And that wasn’t the worst of it. He had died in strange circumstances that common decency prevented one from describing. For many hours, nothing more was known. Then, as the day progressed and the sun warmed the fronts of the houses, more details began to emerge. Don Carlo had been found in the hills, a day’s walk from Montepuccio, naked as a worm, tongue hanging out like aslaughtered calf. How was this possible? What was don Carlo doing all alone in the hills so far from his parish? From one gathering to another, over Sunday coffee, the men and women of Montepuccio asked themselves these same questions. But there was more astounding news yet to come. Around eleven o’clock, people learned that don Carlo’s body had been scorched all over by the sun—even his face, though the corpse had been found face down. It was obvious; he had been naked before he died. And he had been walking about naked, under the sun, for hours on end, until his skin had blistered and his feet bled and he died of exhaustion and dehydration. The central mystery remained: Why had he set off like that, alone, into the hills, at the hottest time of day? This question would fuel many a conversation in Montepuccio for years to come. But on that day, in order to arrive at a consensus, at least temporarily, it was agreed that, to all appearances, his solitude had driven him insane. He must have woken up one morning in the grips of madness and decided to leave the village he so despised, by whatever means possible. The sun had got the better of him. That grotesque death, that nakedness—so obscene for a man of the Church—confirmed the villagers in their conviction. Clearly, this don Carlo was a worthless fool.

  Raffaele blanched when he heard the news. He had them repeat it to him, and stood as if rooted to the square, where speculations swirled about like wind in the streets. He had to know more, to hear all the details, to confirm that it was all true. He seemed afflicted by the news, which surprised those who knew him. He was a Scorta. He should have rejoiced at this passing. Raffaele lingered a long time, unable to tear himself away from the outdoor café. Then, when he had to face the facts, when there was no more doubt in his mind that the priest was dead, he spat on ground and muttered, “That rascal found a way to take me with him.”

  The previous day, the two men had crossed paths on one of the trails through the hills. Raffaele was coming up from the sea, and don Carlo was taking a solitary walk. Trudging along the paths in the countryside had become the priest’s only distraction. At first, the quarantine in which the townsfolk had placed him had enraged him; then, as the weeks went by, it plunged him deep into a hopeless solitude. His mind wandered. He lost his bearings amidst such isolation. Staying in the village became a heavy cross to bear. He found no respite except in these long walks.

  Raffaele was the first to speak. He thought perhaps he could use this opportunity to attempt a last negotiation.

  “Don Carlo,” he said, “you have offended us. It’s time to go back on your decision.”

  “You are a bunch of degenerates,” the priest shouted by way of an answer. “The Lord sees you, and He will punish you.”

  Anger rose up in Raffaele, but he tried to restrain himself and continued:

  “You hate us. So be it. But the one you’re punishing has nothing to do with this. The Mute has a right to be buried in the cemetery.”

  “She was in the cemetery before you dug her up. She got what she deserved, sinner that she was, for having spawned such a band of heathens.”

  Raffaele turned pale. It seemed to him as if the hills themselves commanded him to answer this insult. “You’re unworthy of the frock you are wearing, Bozzoni. Do you hear me? You’re a rat hiding behind a cassock. Give back that cassock, or I’ll kill you.”

  And he leapt at the priest like a snarling dog. He grabbed him by the neck and with one furious swipe of the hand ripped off his collar. The priest was beside himself, choking with helplessness. Raffaele wouldn’t release his grip. He yelled like a madman, “Strip, you son of a bitch, strip!” shredding the priest’s cassock with all his might and pummeling him all the while.

  He didn’t calm down until he had undressed Father Bozzoni completely. Don Carlo surrendered. He cried like a baby, covering his torso with his plump hands. He muttered prayers, as if he were up against a horde of heretics. Raffaele rejoiced with all the ferocity of vengeance, “That’s how you’ll go around from now on: naked as a worm. You have no right to wear this habit. If I find you wearing it again, I’ll kill you, understand?”

  Don Carlo did not answer. He walked away, weeping, and disappeared. H
e never came back. This episode had sent him over the edge once and for all. He wandered through the hills like a lost child, paying no mind to fatigue or the sun. He wandered about for a long time before collapsing, exhausted, on the southern ground he so detested.

  Raffaele remained a while at the spot where he had thrashed the priest. He couldn’t move. He was waiting for his anger to die down, trying to get a grip on himself so he could return to the village without having his expression betray him. The priest’s torn cassock lay at his feet. He couldn’t take his eyes off of it. A ray of sunshine made him blink. Something glinted in the light. He bent over without thinking and picked up a gold watch. Had he left at that moment, he probably would have thrown it away in disgust a bit further on, but he didn’t move. He felt that he hadn’t seen things through. Slowly, warily, he bent down again, gathered up the torn cassock and went through the pockets. He emptied don Bozzoni’s wallet and left it a little further up the path, open, like a deboned carcass. He squeezed the wad of bills and the gold watch in his fist, an ugly, demented grin on his face.

  “That rascal found a way to take me with him.” Raffaele had just realized that their altercation had led to a man’s death, and even though he kept repeating that he hadn’t killed anyone, he knew full well that this death would forever weigh on his conscience. He could still see the priest, naked, crying like a child, going off into the hills like a poor soul condemned to exile. “So I’m damned,” he said to himself, “damned by that jerk, who wasn’t worth the spit on my tongue.”

  Around midday, Father Bozzoni’s body was brought back to Montepuccio on the back of a donkey. The corpse had been covered with a sheet, not so much to keep the flies off as to make sure the priest’s nudity didn’t shock the women and children.