The House of Scorta

by Laurent Gaudé

  She was roused from her thoughts by the voice of Raffaele, who was shouting, “Everyone to the table! Everyone to the table!” So she got up and did what she had resolved to do. Look after her family. Laugh with them, embrace them, lavish attention on them. Be there for each in turn, gracefully, happily.

  There were fifteen of them at the table. They all looked at one another for a few seconds, surprised at how much the clan had grown. Raffaele glowed with happiness and gourmandise. He had long dreamed of this moment. Everyone he loved was there, at his place, on his trabucco. He kept running from one corner to the other, from the oven to the kitchen, the fishing nets to the table, without respite, making sure that everyone was served and wanted for nothing.

  This day remained etched in the Scortas’ memories. For every one of them, adults as well as children, it was the first time they had ever eaten this way. Uncle Faelucc’ had really done things right. For the antipasti, Raffaele and Giuseppina brought some ten different dishes to the table. There were mussels as big as your thumb, stuffed with a mixture of eggs, bread and cheese. Fried anchovies. Marinated anchovies whose flesh was firm and melted in your mouth. Octopus tentacles. A salad of tomato and chicory. A few thin slices of grilled eggplant. People passed the dishes from one end of the table to the other. Everyone dug in, happy not to have to choose, happy they could eat it all.

  Once the platters were empty, Raffaele brought two enormous, steaming bowls to the table. The first contained a traditional pasta dish typical of the region, troccoli in squid ink; the other, a seafood risotto. The dishes were greeted with a general hurrah that made Giuseppina, the cook, blush. It was one of those moments when one’s appetite seems endless and it’s as if one could keep eating for days. Raffaele also set down five bottles of local wine, a sharp red wine, dark as the blood of Christ. The heat was now at its zenith. The guests were protected from the sun by a straw mat over their heads, but they could tell, from the searing air, that the lizards themselves must be sweating.

  Conversations arose amidst a din of cutlery, interrupted at moments by a child’s question or a spilt glass of wine. They spoke of everything and nothing. Giuseppina recounted how she’d made the pasta and risotto, as if it were an even greater pleasure to talk about food as one was eating. People chatted. People laughed. Each looked after his neighbor, making sure his plate was never bare.

  When the big platters were empty, everybody felt sated. Their bellies were full, and they felt good. But Raffaele hadn’t made his final statement yet. Next, he brought out five huge platters filled with every manner of fish caught that same morning. Sea bass, bream, and more. A bowl full of fried calamari. Big pink shrimp grilled over a wood fire. Even a few langoustines. At the sight of these dishes, the women swore they wouldn’t have any. It was just too much. They would die. But they had to do justice to Raffaele and Giuseppina; and not only to them. They had to do justice to life, which was being offered them through this banquet, which they would never forget. In southern lands one eats with a kind of frenzy and piggish gluttony. For as long as one can. As if the worst was yet to come. As if it might be the last time one ate. One must eat as long as the food is there. It’s a kind of panic instinct. Too bad if one gets sick from it. One must eat with joy and to excess.

  The fish platters made the rounds and people partook with a passion. They no longer ate for their stomachs but for their palates. Yet no matter how hard they tried, they didn’t manage to finish the fried calamari. Which left Raffaele in a state of dizzy delight. As far as he was concerned, there must always be some food on the table, otherwise it meant the guests hadn’t had enough. At the end of the meal, Raffaele turned to Giuseppe and, patting his brother’s stomach, asked, “Pancia piena?” Everyone laughed, unbuckling their belts or pulling out fans. The heat had subsided, but their sated bodies were beginning to sweat from all the food they’d wolfed down, all that joyous mastication. Raffaele then brought out coffee for the men and three bottles of digestivi: one of grappa, one of limoncello, and one of laurel liqueur. When all had been served, he said to them:

  “You all know that the townsfolk call us ‘the silent ones.’ Because we’re the Mute’s children, they say that our mouths are only good for eating, never for speaking. All right, then. Let’s be proud of it. If that’s what keeps the busybodies and bumpkins away, then let’s hear it for silence. But let’s have the silence be for them, not for us. I haven’t lived through all that you’ve lived through. I’ll probably die in Montepuccio without ever seeing any of the world except for the dry hills around here, but here is where you are. You. And you know a lot more things than I do. Promise me you’ll talk to my children. That you’ll tell them what you’ve seen, so that what you gained from your trip to New York won’t die with you. Promise me that each of you will tell my children one thing, something you’ve learned, a memory, a bit of knowledge. Let’s all do that for each other, uncles to nephews, aunts to nieces. Tell a secret you’ve kept to yourself that you’ll never tell anyone else. Otherwise our children will become like all the other Montepuccians, knowing nothing about the world, knowing only silence and the heat of the sun.”

  The Scortas concurred. Yes, let it be so. Let each of us speak, at least once in his life, to a niece or a nephew. Tell them what we know before we die. Speak for once to give advice, to pass on knowledge. To be something more than mere beasts, living and dying under this silent sun.

  The meal was over. Four hours after they had sat down to eat, the men were leaning back in their chairs, the children had gone off to play among the cables, and the women started clearing the table.

  They were all exhausted now, as after a battle. Exhausted and happy. For the battle, that day, had been won. They had taken pleasure in a bit of life, together. They had escaped the harshness of their days. The meal lived on in everyone’s memory as the great banquet of the Scortas. It was the only time the whole clan was gathered in full. If the Scortas had had a camera, they would have immortalized that afternoon of sharing. They were all there. Parents and children. It was the family’s apogee. It should all have remained that way.

  Yet it wouldn’t be long before things fell apart, before the ground beneath their feet began to crack and the women’s pastel dresses darkened with the grim shade of mourning. Antonio Manuzio would go off to Spain and die there from a bad wound—without glory or fanfare— leaving Carmela a widow with her two sons. This would be the first pall cast over the family’s happiness. Domenico, Giuseppe, and Raffaele would decide to leave the tobacco shop to their sister—since it was all she had, with two other mouths to feed—so that Elia and Donato wouldn’t start out with nothing, and so they wouldn’t know the kind of poverty their uncles had known.

  Misfortune would soon undermine the busy lives of these men and women. For the moment, however, nobody gave it a thought. Antonio Manuzio poured himself another glass of grappa. They basked in their happiness under the generous gaze of Raffaele, who wept for joy to see his brothers savoring the fish he had grilled himself.

  At the end of the meal, they all had full bellies, dirty fingers, stains on their shirts and sweat on their brows. But they were blissful. They left the trabucco with regret and went back to their everyday lives.

  For a long time, the warm and powerful scent of grilled laurel remained, for them, the scent of happiness.

  Now you know why I shuddered when I realized, yesterday, that I had forgotten Korni’s name. If I forget this man, even for a second, it’s because everything is falling apart. I haven’t finished my story yet, don Salvatore. I need a little more time. Just relax and smoke.

  When we got to Montepuccio, I made my brothers swear never to talk about our failure in New York. We let Raffaele in on our secret the night we buried the Mute because he’d asked us to tell him about our trip and none of us wanted to lie. He was one of us. He also swore not to tell. They have all kept their word. I didn’t want anyone to know. As far as Montepuccio is concerned, we went to New York and we lived there for a fe
w months. Long enough to make a little money. When people asked us why we came back so soon, we answered that it wasn’t right to leave our mother here alone. We had no way of knowing she was dead. That was enough. People didn’t ask any more than that. I didn’t want them to know that the Scortas hadn’t been allowed into the country. What counts is what people say, the stories they tell about you. I wanted New York to be part of the Scortas’ story. For us to stop being a family of degenerates and paupers. I know the people here. They would have said that bad luck dogs our steps. They would have brought up Rocco’s curse. There’s no shaking off that sort of thing. We came back richer than when we set out. That’s all that matters. I’ve never said anything about this to my sons. None of the children know. I made my brothers swear to it, and they have kept their word. Everyone had to believe in New York. And we did even better than that. We talked about the city and our life there. In detail. We could do this because old Korni had done the same for us. On the return trip, he found a man who spoke Italian and asked him to translate his brother’s letters for us. We listened to him for nights on end. I still remember some of them.

  Korni’s brother talked about his life and the neighborhood he lived in. He described the streets, the people in his building. Korni had these letters read to us, and it was not another torment like the rest. He opened the doors of the city to us. We walked around. We settled there in our minds. I told my sons about New York, and this was thanks to old Korni’s letters. Giuseppe and Domenico did the same. That’s why I brought you the “Naples-New York exvoto,” don Salvatore. I want you to hang it in the nave. A one-way ticket to New York. I want it to hang in the church of Montepuccio. I want candles to be lit for old Korni. It’s a lie. But you do understand, don’t you, that it’s really not? You’ll do as I ask. I want Montepuccio to keep believing that we were there. When Anna is old enough, you can take it down and give it to her. She’ll ask you questions and you’ll answer them. In the meantime, I want the Scortas’ eyes to shine with the sparkle of the great city of glass.

  PART VI

  THE SUN-EATERS

  One morning in August 1946, a man entered Montepuccio on a donkey’s back. He had a long, straight nose and small, dark eyes. A face not without nobility. He was young, perhaps twentyfive, but his long, gaunt face gave him a severity that made him look older. The oldest folks in town thought of Luciano Mascalzone. The stranger walked with the same slow pace of destiny. Maybe he was some descendant. He went straight to the church, however, and, before even emptying his bags, feeding his mount, or washing himself, before even drinking a little water or stretching his limbs, to the whole town’s amazement he pealed all the bells at full force. Montepuccio had her new priest: don Salvatore, whom the people did not take long to dub “the Calabrian.”

  The very day of his arrival, don Salvatore celebrated Mass before three old women who had entered the church out of curiosity. They wanted to see what the newcomer was like. They were stunned and immediately spread the rumor that the young man had delivered a ferocious sermon. This intrigued the Montepuccians. The following day, five more people came, and so on until the first Sunday, when the church was full. Whole families showed up. They all wanted to see if the new priest was the right man for the job, or if he would suffer a similar fate as his predecessor. Don Salvatore did not seem the least bit intimidated. When it came time for the sermon, he began speaking with authority:

  “You call yourselves Christians, and you come seeking comfort from our Lord because you know He is good and just in all things. But you enter His house with dirty feet and foul breath. And I’m not talking about your souls, which are black as ink. Sinners, you are. Born sinners, as we all are, yet you wallow in this state, the way a pig wallows in mud. There was a thick layer of dust on the benches in this church when I entered a few days ago. What kind of village is this, that lets dust cover the house of Our Lord? And I don’t want to hear about your poverty. I don’t want to hear about the fact that you have to work day and night in the fields, which leaves you so little time. I come from a land where your fields would be considered the Garden of Eden. I come from a land where the poorest man among you would be considered a prince. No. Admit it, you have lost your way. I know about your peasant ceremonies. I can tell just by looking at your ugly faces. Your exorcisms. Your wooden idols. I know about your outrages against the Almighty, your profane rites. Admit it, and repent, you band of brutes. The Church can offer you forgiveness and make you into something you’ve never been before: good and honest Christians. The Church can do this, because she is good to her own. But you’re going to have to do it through me, and I’ve come here to make your life impossible. If you persist in your disgraceful ways, if you shun the Church and scorn her priest, if you keep on indulging in your primitive rites, just listen what will happen to you, and do not doubt it for an instant: the heavens shall cloud over and it shall rain for thirty days and thirty nights. The fish will shun your nets. The olive trees will grow from the roots down. Your donkeys will give birth to blind cats. And before long there will be nothing left of Montepuccio. For this shall be the will of God. Pray for His mercy. Amen.”

  The congregation was dumbfounded. At first some grumbling could be heard. People quietly protested. Then, little by little, silence returned—a rapt, admiring silence. Outside the church, the verdict was unanimous: “He’s got guts, this guy. Not like that candy-ass from Milan.”

  Don Salvatore was adopted. They’d liked his solemnity. He had the harshness of the Southern lands and the dark gaze of men who know no fear.

  A few months after his arrival, don Salvatore had to face his first baptism of fire: preparing the feast of Sant’Elia, the town’s patron saint. For a whole week, he couldn’t sleep. The day before the festivities, he was still running from one place to the next, brows knit. The streets were decked out for the celebration. Paper lanterns and garlands had been hung. The next morning, at the crack of dawn, several cannonblasts shook the walls of the houses. Everything was ready. The excitement increased. Children grew restless. The women were already preparing the menu for the feast days. They were frying, one by one, in the sweat of their kitchens, slices of eggplant for the parmigiana. The church had been decorated. The wooden statues of the saints had been brought out and displayed for the parishoners: Sant’Elia, San Rocco, and San Michele. They were covered with jewelry, as tradition demanded: gold medals and chains, offerings that sparkled in the glow of the candles.

  At eleven o’clock in the evening, while all of Montepuccio was out on the Corso, peacefully sampling the cool drinks and ice cream, a wild yell rang out and don Salvatore appeared, livid, eyes rolling back as if he’d just seen the devil, lips pale, on the verge of fainting. With a voice that sounded like the wail of a wounded animal, he cried, “Somebody has stolen the medals of San Michele!” All at once, the whole town fell silent. The silence lasted long enough for each of them to grasp in full what the priest had said. The medals of San Michele. Stolen. Here. In Montepuccio. It wasn’t possible.

  Then, all of a sudden, the silence turned into a dull rumble of anger, and the men all stood up. Who? Who could have committed such a crime? It was an insult to the whole town. Nobody could remember such a thing ever happening. To rob San Michele! On the eve of the celebration! It would bring bad luck to everyone in Montepuccio. A group of men went into the church. They questioned those who had come to pray. Had they seen any strangers prowling about the place? Or anything out of the ordinary? They looked everywhere. They checked to make sure the medals hadn’t fallen at the foot of the statue. Nothing. Nobody found anything. Don Salvatore kept repeating, “Damn! Damn! This town is a pack of criminals!” He wanted to cancel everything. The procession, the Mass, everything.

  At Carmela’s house, the consternation was as great as everywhere else. Giuseppe had come over for dinner. All during the meal, Elia never stopped squirming in his chair. When, at last, his mother removed his plate, he exclaimed:

  “Ha! Did you see the lo
ok on don Salvatore’s face!”

  And he broke into a strange laughter that made his mother turn pale. She understood at once.

  “Was it you? Elia? Was it you?” she asked, her voice cracking.

  The boy started laughing even harder, with that mad laughter the Scortas knew so well. Yes, it was him. Quite a prank, one had to admit. What a look on don Salvatore’s face! What panic, all over town!

  Carmela was ashen. She turned to her brother and said in a weak voice, as though she were dying:

  “I’m going out. Kill him.”

  She got up and slammed the door. She went straight to Domenico and told him everything. Giuseppe, for his part, let his anger well up inside him. He thought of what the townsfolk would say. He thought of the shame that would be heaped on the family. When he finally felt his blood boiling, he stood up and gave his nephew a thrashing such as no uncle had ever done before. He opened a gash in the boy’s eyebrow and split his lip. Then he sat down beside him. His wrath had subsided but he felt no relief. A tremendous gloom filled his heart. He’d beaten the child, but in the end the result was the same. There was no way out. Then, turning towards his nephew’s swollen face, he said:

  “That was an uncle’s rage. Now I leave you to the town’s rage.”

  He was about to go out, leaving the boy to his fate, when he remembered something.

  “Where’d you put the medals?” he asked.