The House of Scorta

by Laurent Gaudé

  8 And eagerly ask his brother, “Remember, Mimì?” Then came the endless description of the pasta in question—the texture, the flavor, the sauce—and he would persist, “Do you remember that sugo,

  9 Mimì, how red it was? You could taste the meat that had simmered in it. Remember?” And Mimì, exasperated by the raving of his lunatic brother, would inevitably let fly, “Ma vaffanculo, you and your pasta!” This meant there was still a long road ahead, his legs hurt, and in fact there was no telling exactly when they might eat such good pasta again.

  Carmela, whom her brothers affectionately called Miuccia, was still a child, and still had a child’s body and voice. But these last few months had transformed her more than her brothers. She had been the source of the greatest misfortunes and the greatest joys their little group had known during their travels. No one ever reproached her for it, but she did understand one thing: It had all been her fault. Yet it was also thanks to her that all had been saved in extremis, and this had kindled in her a sense of responsibility and intelligence well beyond her years. In everyday life she remained a little girl, laughing at her brothers’ jokes, but when fate turned against them, she gave out orders and gritted her teeth. It was she who, on the road back home, held the donkey’s reins. Her two brothers had put everything they owned—the donkey and the jumble of sundry objects it was carrying—in her hands. There were suitcases, a teapot, some Dutch porcelain dishes, a wicker chair, an entire set of copper pots and pans, and blankets. The donkey bore its burden conscientiously. None of these objects, taken by itself, was worth very much, but all together they constituted the accumulation of a lifetime. Carmela also carried the purse in which they’d put the savings amassed during their journey. She watched over this treasure with the avidity of the poor.

  “Do you think they’ve lit the paper lanterns?”

  Giuseppe’s voice had broken the silence of the hills. Three days earlier, a horseman had passed them. After a bit of discussion, the Scortas explained that they were going back home to Montepuccio. The horseman had promised he would announce their return, and Giuseppe wondered if they would be welcomed by the lighting of paper lanterns on the Corso Garibaldi, the way it was done in the past when emigrants came back. To celebrate the return of the “Americans.”

  “Of course not,” said Domenico. “Paper lanterns…,” he added with a shrug, and silence enveloped them anew.

  Of course not. They could never expect paper lanterns for the Scortas. Giuseppe looked sad for a moment. Domenico had spoken in a tone that seemed to allow no challenge, yet he too had wondered the same thing. Now he thought about it again. Yes, paper lanterns, just for them. The whole town would be there. Even little Carmela thought about it. Stepping onto the Corso Garibaldi and recognizing the teary, smiling faces. All three of them were dreaming of this. Why not, after all? Paper lanterns. It would be wonderful.

  The wind had picked up, sweeping away the scent of the hills. The last glow of daylight faded softly. Then, without a word, in a single movement, they set out again, drawn towards the village as if by a magnet, at once impatient and fearful.

  They entered Montepuccio at night. Corso Garibaldi lay there before them, just as they had left it ten months before. But it was empty. The wind swept down the thoroughfare and whistled over the heads of cats that high-tailed away with backs arched. There wasn’t a living soul about. The village was asleep, and the donkey’s hooves resonated in the street with the very sound of solitude.

  Domenico, Giuseppe, and Carmela walked on, teeth clenched. They didn’t have the heart to look at one another. They didn’t have the heart to speak. They were angry at themselves for falling prey to that stupid hope— paper lanterns… What goddamned paper lanterns?— and now they clenched their fists in silence.

  They passed in front of what was still, at the time of their departure, Luigi Zacalonia’s haberdashery. Clearly something had happened; the sign was on the ground, the windows shattered. Nothing was sold or bought there anymore. This upset them. Not that they’d been faithful customers, but any change at all in Montepuccio seemed like a bad omen. They wanted everything to be the way they’d left it, for time not to have damaged anything during their absence. If Luigi Zacalonia no longer had his haberdashery, God only knew what other disappointments they should expect.

  When they’d gone a little further down the Corso, they noticed the silhouette of a man curled up against a wall and sleeping right there, in the wind. They thought at first that he must be a drunkard, but when they were only a few steps away, Giuseppe started shouting, “Raffaele! It’s Raffaele!” This made the boy give a start. He leapt to his feet. The Scortas were yelling with joy. Raffaele’s eyes glistened with happiness, but he was also cursing himself. He felt mortified for having so foolishly missed the moment of his friends’ arrival. He had prepared himself for it, vowing to stay up all night if necessary; but finally, little by little, his strength had abandoned him and he had drifted off to sleep.

  “You’re here,” he said with tears in his eyes. “Mimì, Peppe, you’re here. My friends, let me look at you! Miuccia! And to think I was asleep. What a jerk! I wanted to see you arrive from far away.”

  They kissed, embraced, patted one another on the back. One thing, at least, had not changed in Montepuccio. Raffaele was still here. But the young man didn’t know which way to turn. He hadn’t even noticed the donkey and the mass of objects it was carrying. He’d been immediately struck by Carmela’s beauty, but this only added to his confusion and stammering.

  Raffaele finally managed to articulate a few words. He begged his friends to come and stay with him. It was late. The village was asleep. The Scortas’ reunion with Montepuccio could certainly wait till tomorrow. The Scortas accepted his invitation and had to fight to prevent their friend from carrying all their bags and suitcases on his back. He now lived in a small, low house near the port. A miserable house, cut out of the rock and whitewashed. Raffaele had prepared a surprise for his friends. The moment he’d learned of the Scortas’ imminent arrival, he’d set to work at once and hadn’t stopped. He’d bought some big round loaves of white bread, put a meat sauce on the stove to simmer, and prepared some pasta. He wanted to have a feast to welcome his friends home.

  When they were all settled in around the small wooden table and Raffaele brought out a great platter of hand-made orecchiette swimming in a thick tomato sauce, Giuseppe started crying. He’d been reunited with the flavors of his native village. Reunited with his old friend. He didn’t need anything else. All the paper lanterns in Corso Garibaldi could not have satisfied him any more than the dish of steaming orecchiette he was about to devour.

  They ate. They crunched the big slices of toasted white bread that Raffaele had rubbed with tomatoes, olive oil, and salt. They let the pasta, dripping with sauce, melt in their mouths. They ate without realizing that Raffaele was watching them with a sad look on his face. After a little while, Carmela noticed their friend’s silence.

  “What’s wrong, Raffaele?” she asked.

  The young man smiled. He didn’t want to speak before his friends had finished eating. What he had to say could easily wait a few more minutes. He wanted to see them finish their meal. For Giuseppe to savor it in full and have the time and leisure to lick his plate to his satisfaction.

  “Raffaele?” Carmela persisted.

  “So, tell me. New York, what was it like?” He’d thrown out the question with a feigned enthusiasm. Carmela wasn’t fooled.

  “You first, Raffaele. Tell us what you have to say.”

  The two brothers looked up from their plates. Their sister’s tone had alerted them that some surprise was in the air. Everyone stared at Raffaele. His face was pale.

  “What I have to say…” he muttered, unable to finish his sentence. The Scortas froze. “Your mother…the Mute…” he continued, “well, two months ago she passed away.”

  He hung his head. The Scortas said nothing. They were waiting. Raffaele realized he should say more. He
had to tell them everything. So he looked back up, and his grief-stricken voice filled the room with sadness.

  The Mute had been suffering from malaria. During the first weeks following her children’s departure, she had managed to cope, but then her strength began to decline rapidly. She tried to buy time, hoping to hold on until her family returned or at least until she had some news of them. But she didn’t make it, succumbing to a violent episode.

  “Did don Giorgio bury her with dignity?” asked Domenico.

  His question remained a long time unanswered. Raffaele was in agony. What he had to say was wrenching his guts. But he had to drink the cup down to the dregs and leave nothing out.

  “Don Giorgio died long before she did. He died like an old man, with a smile on his lips and his hands folded on his chest.”

  “How was our mother buried?” asked Carmela, who felt that Raffaele had not answered the question, and that his silence masked a further torment.

  “I couldn’t do anything about it,” Raffaele muttered. “I got there too late. I was out at sea for two whole days. By the time I got back, she was already buried. It was the new priest who took care of it. They buried her in the common grave. I couldn’t do anything about it.”

  The Scortas’ faces now hardened with rage. Jaws clenched tight, eyes dark. Those words, “common grave,” echoed in their heads like a slap.

  “What’s the new priest’s name?” asked Domenico.

  “Don Carlo Bozzoni,” replied Raffaele.

  “We’ll go see him tomorrow,” asserted Domenico, and they all gathered from his voice that he already knew what he would demand, but that he didn’t want to talk about it tonight.

  They went to bed without finishing the meal. Nobody could say anything more. It was best to remain silent and let the sorrow of mourning sweep over them.

  The following day, Carmela, Giuseppe, Domenico and Raffaele got up for matins. They met the new village priest in the cold morning air.

  “Father,” Domenico cried out.

  “Yes, my children, what can I do for you?” he replied in a honied voice.

  “We’re the children of the Mute.”

  “Whose children?”

  “The Mute’s.”

  “That’s not a name,” said don Carlo, with a smile on his lips.

  “That was hers,” Carmela cut in, dryly.

  “Tell me what her Christian name was,” the priest resumed.

  “She had no other name.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “She died a few months ago,” said Domenico. “You buried her in the common grave.”

  “I remember. Yes. My most heartfelt condolences, my children. But don’t be sad. Your mother is now at the side of Our Lord.”

  “We’ve come to see you about the burial,” Carmela cut in again.

  “You said it yourselves. She was buried with dignity.”

  “She’s a Scorta.”

  “Yes, a Scorta. So be it. Fine. You see, she did have a name after all.”

  “She must be buried like a Scorta,” Carmela resumed.

  “We buried her like a Christian,” don Bozzoni corrected her.

  Domenico was white with rage. He said sharply:

  “No, Father. Like a Scorta. It’s written here.”

  He handed don Bozzoni the paper on which Rocco and don Giorgio had signed their pact. The priest read in silence. Anger rose to his cheeks and he burst out:

  “What’s this nonsense supposed to mean? This is unbelievable! It’s superstition, that’s what it is. Magic, I don’t know what. By what authority did this don Giorgio sign in the Church’s name? It’s heresy. A Scorta! Imagine that. And you call yourselves Christians. Pagans full of secret ceremonies, that’s what the people here are. A Scorta! She was cast into the earth like everyone else. That was all she could expect.”

  “Father,” Giuseppe tried, “the Church made a pact with our family.”

  But the priest would not let him speak. He was already shouting:

  “This is madness! A pact with the Scortas. You are out of your mind.”

  With an abrupt gesture, he pushed his way to the church’s entrance and disappeared inside.

  The Scortas’ absence had prevented them from performing a sacred duty: digging their mother’s grave themselves. Filial piety demands this final gesture of sons. Now that they were back, they were determined to honor their mother’s mortal remains. The loneliness, the common grave, the flouted pact: these were too many affronts to bear. They decided that they would arm themselves with shovels and go dig up the Mute that very night. So that she could rest in a pit all her own, dug by her own sons. Too bad if it was outside the wall of the cemetery. Better that than the nameless earth of a common grave for eternity.

  At nightfall, they met as agreed. Raffaele brought the shovels. It was cold. Like thieves they slipped inside the cemetery walls.

  “Mimì?” asked Giuseppe.

  “What is it?”

  “Are you sure we’re not committing a crime?” Before Domenico could even answer his brother,

  Carmela’s voice rang out:

  “It’s this common grave that’s a sacrilege.” Giuseppe then grabbed his shovel with determination and concluded:

  “You’re right, Miuccia. Let’s get going.”

  They dug into the cold earth of the common grave without a word. The farther they dug, the harder it was to lift each new shovelful. They felt as if they risked waking the great mass of the dead at any moment. They tried not to tremble. Not to stagger in the face of the nauseating stench rising up from the earth.

  At last their shovels struck the wood of a coffin. It took great strength and perseverance to extract it. On the pine lid, the name “Scorta” had been carved with a knife. This was where their mother lay. Inside this ugly box. Buried like a pauper. No marble, no ceremony. They hoisted her up onto their shoulders like thieves and headed out of the cemetery. They walked a bit along the enclosure wall until they reached a small embankment where they could no longer be seen by anyone. Here they set her down. Now they needed only to dig a hole. So that the Mute could feel the breath of her sons in the night. When they were about to begin, Giuseppe turned to Raffaele and asked:

  “You going to dig with us?”

  Raffaele looked stunned. It wasn’t only help that Giuseppe was asking of him; it wasn’t only to share the toil and sweat. No, what he was asking of him was to bury the Mute exactly as if he’d been one of her own sons. Raffaele was white as a sheet. Giuseppe and Domenico looked at him, awaiting his answer. Clearly Giuseppe had asked him on behalf of all three Scortas. Nobody had shown any surprise. They waited for Raffaele to decide. In front of the Mute’s grave, Raffaele grabbed a shovel, tears in his eyes. “Of course,” he said.

  It was like becoming, in turn, a Scorta himself. As if the corpse of the poor woman were giving him her maternal blessing. From now on he would be their brother. As if the same blood flowed in their veins. Their brother. He clutched the shovel tight to keep from sobbing. The moment he began shoveling, he raised his head and his eyes fell upon Carmela. There she was beside them, still and silent, watching them work. He felt a twinge in his heart. A sense of deep regret welled up in his eyes. Miuccia. How beautiful she was. From now on he would have to look at her with a brother’s eyes. He smothered this regret in the deepest part of himself, put his head down, and turned the earth with all his might.

  When they had completed their task and the coffin was again covered with earth, they sat for a while in silence. They didn’t want to leave without a last moment to collect themselves. A long time went by, then Domenico spoke. “We have no relations. We are the Scortas, all four of us. That’s what we’ve decided. That name will have to keep us warm from now on. Begging the Mute’s pardon, today is the real day of our birth.”

  It was cold. They kept their heads down a long time, looking at the turned earth, huddling close together. And indeed, that name, Scorta, was enough to keep them warm. Raffaele
was weeping quietly. He’d been given a family, two brothers and a sister, for whom he was ready to give his life. Yes, from this moment on, he would be the fourth Scorta. He swore it over the freshly turned earth of the Mute’s grave. He would carry their name. Raffaele Scorta. And the scorn of the Montepuccians would only make him laugh. He would fight, body and soul, alongside those he loved, those he thought he had lost when they went to America and left him as alone as a madman. Raffaele Scorta. Yes. He vowed he would be equal to his new name.

  I’ve come to tell you about the trip to New York, don Salvatore. If it wasn’t night, I wouldn’t dare speak. But there is darkness all around, you are quietly smoking, and I must have my say. After my father’s funeral, don Giorgio called us together and told us his plan. He had found a small house in the old town, where our mother, the Mute, could live. It would be poor, but dignified. She could move in as soon as possible. For us, on the other hand, another solution had to be found. Life here in Montepuccio had nothing to offer us. We would drag our poverty around the village streets with the rage of people whom destiny had stripped of their rank. Nothing good could come of this. Don Giorgio did not want to condemn us to a life of misery and squalor. He had abetter idea. He would arrange to get three tickets aboard aship going from Naples to New York. The church would pay. We would leave for the land where the poor build buildings as tall as the sky, and fortune sometimes lines the pockets of the downtrodden.

  We said yes right away. That same night, I remember, crazy visions of imaginary cities filled my head, and I repeated over and over, like a prayer, the name that made my eyes glisten: New York. . . New York. . .