The House of Scorta

by Laurent Gaudé

  “You burned down the tobacco shop?”

  “Yes.”

  Maria fell silent a moment. Then she spoke again, softly:

  “And what are the Scortas made for?”

  “For sweat,” replied Elia.

  There was a long pause. Maria was contemplating what this all meant. It was as though she could see the future flash before her eyes. With her gaze, and in her mind, she embraced the life that Elia was offering her. Then she smiled gently and, in a proud, haughty tone, she replied:

  “Then let’s hear it for sweat.”

  Elia was solemn. As if to assure himself that his woman understood, he continued, “We won’t ask anyone for anything, and we won’t accept anything. We’ll be alone, you and me. I have nothing to offer. I’m a heathen.”

  “The first thing we must do,” she replied, “is clear out the tobacco shop so we can at least store the crates of cigarettes there.”

  “No,” Elia said calmly, smiling. “The first thing we must do is get married.”

  The wedding took place a few weeks later. Don Salvatore blessed their union. Elia invited all the guests to a great feast at the trabucco. Michele, Raffaele’s son, had set up a long table amidst the nets and pulleys. The whole family came. The celebration was simple and joyous, the food abundant. At the end of the meal, Donato stood up, relaxed and smiling, asked for silence, and began to speak.

  “Today, my brother, you got married,” he said. “I see you there in your suit, leaning over your wife’s neck to whisper something in her ear. I see you raise your glass to the health of all present, and you look beautiful to me. It’s the simple beauty of joy. I wish I could ask life to leave you exactly the way you are now, young and unspoiled, full of desire and strength. To let you pass through the years without changing. Show you none of the ugly faces that life has. I see you here today, and it makes me feel hungry. When times get hard, when I’m bemoaning my fate, when I’m cursing this dog’s life of ours, I’ll think back on these moments, on your faces glowing with joy, and I will tell myself: Don’t curse life, don’t bemoan fate. Remember Elia and Maria, who were happy, at least for one day in their lives, and that on this day, you were beside them.”

  Elia embraced his brother with feeling. At that moment, their two cousins, Lucrezia and Nicoletta, sang an Apulian song, with all the women singing the refrain in chorus: “Aïe, aïe, aïe / Domani non mi importa per niente / Questa notte devi morire con me.” 19 The guests all laughed. The Scortas let these happy hours permeate their souls, and the evening went on in this fashion, in the joy of the cool summer wine.

  In the months that followed, a strange thing happened in Montepuccio. Since the late 1950s, the town had two tobacco shops—the Scortas’ and another. The two families were fond of each other. There was enough business for everyone, and the spirit of competition never set them against one another. This, however, was not the case with the countless retail outlets that various camping sites, hotels, apartment complexes, and night clubs had opened up. Officially, they were only selling a few packs to bail out their customers, but in certain cases, they actually engaged in illegal sales.

  At first, Elia and Maria didn’t have the money to do the work required to reopen the shop, and so, in the early going, they sold their cigarettes like street-peddlers.

  The strangest thing was that the villagers refused to buy their cigarettes anywhere else. On Sundays, the tourists would watch in astonishment as a long queue of people waited outside the dirtiest, dustiest shop on the Corso. A shop without a sign, counter, or cash register. Just four walls, two chairs, and crates of cigarettes on the floor, into which Elia would thrust his arms to extract packs and cartons. On summer evenings, he would sell them on the sidewalk while Maria, inside, washed the walls. Yet the Montepuccians kept queuing up. Even when Elia would tell them he didn’t have their brand of cigarette (since he couldn’t buy much, he concentrated on only a few brands), they would actually laugh and say, “I’ll take whatever you’ve got!” and pull out their wallets.

  The hand of don Salvatore was behind this surge of solidarity. Day after day, at Mass, he would exhort his flock to help one another. The result far exceeded his hopes.

  He was ecstatic to learn that his calls for brotherhood had been taken to heart. Then, one day, passing in front of the tobacco shop and seeing a new sign hanging impressively over the entrance, he let fly:

  “I guess maybe these renegades aren’t all fit to be cast into Hell.”

  In fact, the bright new sign had arrived from Foggia that very day. It read: Tabaccheria Scorta Mascalzone Rivendita no. 1. To anyone who didn’t look closely, the sign might have looked exactly like the one that was there before. The one that Carmela, Domenico, Giuseppe and Raffaele had proudly hung there in their youth. But Elia knew that this one was different. He and the shop had come to a new understanding. The Montepuccians also realized this and now looked at the display window with pride, knowing that they too had played a part in this unexpected rebirth.

  Elia’s spirit had undergone a profound transformation. For the first time, he was working happily. Never before had circumstances been so harsh. Everything had to be redone. But something had changed. He was no longer inheriting; he was building. He wasn’t managing a property handed down to him by his mother; he was struggling with all his might to grant his wife a little comfort and happiness. He was rediscovering, in the tobacco shop, the same happiness his mother had experienced working there. He now understood the obsessiveness and madness with which she spoke of her business. Everything had to be redone. And in order to do this, he had to make an effort. Yes, never before had life seemed so full and precious.

  I think often about my life, don Salvatore. What does it all mean? It took me years to build the tobacco shop. Day and night. And when it was finally there, when at last I could pass it on to my sons without worry, it got swept away. Do you remember the fire? Everything burned down. I wept in rage. All my efforts, all my accumulated nights of toil. A simple accident, and it all went up in smoke. I didn’t think I could survive it. I know that’s what the townsfolk thought as well. Old Carmela won’t survive the death of her tobacco shop. I hung on, though. Yes, I stuck it out. Elia set about rebuilding everything from scratch, patiently. It was good. It wasn’t entirely my tobacco shop anymore, but it was good. Ah, my sons, I clung to them tight, but here too everything fell apart. Donato disappeared. I curse the sea every day for taking him away from me. Donato. What does it all mean? These lives, built so slowly and patiently, with willpower and self-sacrifice, these lives swept away in one fell swoop by the winds of misfortune—these promises of joy that we dream about, torn apart. Do you know what’s most astonishing in all this, don Salvatore? Let me tell you. It’s that neither the fire nor Donato’s disappearance did me in. Any other mother would have gone mad. Or let herself die. I don’t know what I’m made of. I’m hard. I hung on. Without wanting to. Without thinking about it. I can’t help it. There’s something inside me that keeps going and won’t give in. Yes, I’m hard.

  It was after Giuseppe’s funeral that I first stopped talking. I would keep silent for whole hours at a time, then days. You know all this, since you were already here by then. At first, the townsfolk were curious about my new silence. They wondered about it. Then they got used to it. Very soon, for all of you, it was as though Carmela Scorta had never spoken. I felt far away from the world. I had no more strength. Everything seemed useless to me. The town thought Carmela was nothing without the Scortas. They thought she would rather cut herself off from life than go on living without her brothers. They were wrong, don Salvatore. They always are. There was something else that kept me silent all these years. Something I’ve never told anyone.

  A few days after Giuseppe’s funeral, Raffaele came to see me. It was a mild day. I immediately noticed that his gaze was clear, as though he’d washed his eyes in pure water. His smile glowed with calm determination. I heard him out. He spoke for a long time, never once lowering his
eyes, and I remember every one of his words. He said he was a Scorta, and was proud to have taken this name. But he also said he cursed himself at night. I didn’t understand what he meant, but I sensed that my world was about to be turned upside down. I didn’t move. I listened. He took a deep breath, then spoke without interruption. He said that the day he buried the Mute, he had wept twice. The first time was in the cemetery, in front of us. He said he wept because we had honored him by asking him to become our brother. The second time was that evening, in bed. He wept, biting his pillow to avoid making noise. He was crying because by saying yes to us, by becoming our brother, he had also become my brother. And that was not what he had hoped. He paused a moment after saying this. And I remember praying that he would say no more. I didn’t want to hear any more. I wanted to get up and leave. But he went on, “I’ve always loved you.” That’s what he said, looking me calmly in the eye. But he’d become my brother that day, and he’d sworn to behave like one. He said that because of this, he’d had the pleasure of spending his whole life close to me. I didn’t know what to say. Everything was spinning inside me. He went on talking. He said that on certain days he would curse himself like a dog for not having said “no” in the cemetery. “No” to this brother business, and for not having asked for my hand instead, over my mother’s grave. But he didn’t dare. He said “yes.” He took the shovel we handed to him, and he became our brother. “It felt so good to say yes to you,” he said. And he added: “I’m a Scorta, Carmela, and I could never say whether I regret it or not.”

  He didn’t take his eyes off me the whole time he was talking. And when he’d finished, I felt that he was waiting for me to speak in turn. But I remained silent. I felt surrounded by his expectation. I wasn’t trembling. I was empty. I couldn’t say anything. Not a word. There was nothing inside me. I looked at him. Time had passed. We were face to face. He understood that I wasn’t going to respond. He waited a little longer. He was hoping. Then he quietly stood up, and we parted. I didn’t say a word. I just let him leave.

  From that day on, I remained silent. When we saw each other the next day, we acted as though nothing had happened. Life went on, but I spoke no more. Something had broken. What could I say to him, don Salvatore? Life was already over. We were old. What could I say to him? We should start all over again, don Salvatore. I was a coward. We should start all over, but so many years have gone by.

  PART VIII

  THE SINKING SUN

  When he felt death approaching, Raffaele summoned his nephew. Donato came, and they both remained silent a long time. The old man couldn’t bring himself to begin the conversation. He watched Donato quietly drink the glass of Campari he’d handed him. He almost gave up, but finally, despite his fear that he might encounter a look of disgust or anger in his nephew’s eyes, he broke in:

  “Donato, do you know why I’m your uncle?” “Yes, zio,” Donato replied.

  “You were told how we decided to become brothers

  and sister the day I helped your uncles Mimì and Peppe bury the Mute.”

  “Yes, zio,” Donato repeated.

  “And how I, in turn, gave up my original family name, which was worthless, so I could carry the name of Scorta.”

  “Yes, zio. That’s what I was told.”

  Raffaele paused briefly. The moment had come. He was no longer afraid. He was anxious to unburden his heart.

  “There’s a crime I want to confess.”

  “A crime?” asked the young man.

  “Quite a few years ago, I killed a man of the Church. Don Carlo Bozzoni, the priest of Montepuccio. He was a nasty man, but I damned myself by killing him.” “Why did you do it?” asked Donato, stunned by this confession from the man he’d always considered the gentlest of his uncles.

  “I don’t know,” Raffaele muttered. “It just rose up in me all at once. I had this enormous anger inside me,

  waiting, and it got the better me.”

  “Why were you angry?”

  “I’m a coward, Donato. Don’t look at me that way. Believe me, I’m a coward. I didn’t have the courage to ask for what I wanted. That’s why the anger built up inside me. That’s why it exploded in front of that stupid,

  good-for-nothing priest.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Your mother.”

  “My mother?”

  “I didn’t have the courage to ask her to marry me.” Donato sat there open-mouthed.

  “Why are you telling me this, zio?” he asked. “Because I’m going to die and it will all be buried with me. I want at least one person to know what I’ve been carrying in the pit of my stomach all my life.” Raffaele fell silent. Donato didn’t know what to say.

  He wondered, for a moment, whether he should reassure his uncle or show some sort of disapproval instead.

  He felt empty, stunned. There was nothing more to add.

  His uncle was not waiting for him to respond. He’d spoken to get things out in the open, not to have someone else’s opinion. Donato had the feeling this conversation would change him more than he could ever foresee. He stood up, a little embarrassed. His uncle looked at him a long time, and Donato sensed that the old man almost wanted to apologize for having confided in him. As if he would rather have taken these old stories to the grave with him. They embraced warmly and parted.

  Raffaele died a few days later, in his nets, on his trabucco, with the sound of the sea beneath him, his heart unburdened. At the funeral, his coffin was carried by his son Michele and his three nephews, Vittorio, Elia, and Donato. Carmela was there. Her face was expressionless. She didn’t cry. She stood up straight. When the coffin was presented to her, she brought her hand to her mouth and placed a kiss on the wood, and Raffaele smiled in death.

  Seeing the coffin pass, everyone in town had the feeling that it was the end of an era. It wasn’t Raffaele they were burying, but the whole Scorta Mascalzone family. They were burying the old world. The one that had known malaria and the two wars. The one that had known emigration and poverty. They were burying old memories. People are nothing. They leave no trace. Raffaele was leaving Montepuccio, and as he passed, all the men took off their hats and bowed their heads, knowing that they too, in turn, would soon be gone, and that the olive trees would not weep for them.

  His uncle’s revelation made Donato’s universe totter. Henceforth, he looked at life around him with a kind of weariness in his eyes. Everything seemed false to him. His family history now seemed like a paltry succession of frustrated existences. These men and women had not led the lives they’d wanted. His uncle had never dared declare his love. How many other secret frustrations lay buried in the family’s history? An immense sadness came over him. The company of others became unbearable to him. All he had left was the smuggling. He threw himself into it body and soul. He lived on his boat. That was all he could ever be, a smuggler. He attached no importance to the cigarettes; it could just as easily have been jewelry, alcohol, or bags full of worthless paper. The important thing was those nocturnal journeys, those moments of vast silence as he wandered over the sea.

  At dusk, he would cast off the moorings, and the night would begin. He would go as far as the island of Montefusco, a tiny islet off the Italian coast that was the hub of all the illegal traffic. That was where the Albanians unloaded their stolen cargoes and exchanges were made. On the return journey, his boat laden with crates of cigarettes, he would play hide-and-seek in the night with the customs boats, and this made him smile, for he knew he was the best at this game, and that no one would ever catch him.

  Sometimes he would go all the way to Albania. In those cases, he would take a larger boat. But, deep down, he didn’t like these long voyages. No, what he liked was to take his fishing boat and hug the coastline the way a cat hugs a wall, drifting from inlet to inlet in the sweet darkness of illegality.

  He would glide over the waves in silence. Lying at the bottom of his boat, he navigated only by the stars. At those moments, he was not
hing. He forgot himself. Nobody knew him anymore. Nobody spoke. He was a lost speck on the sea. A tiny wooden boat, swaying on the waves. He was nothing. Having learned to understand the language of the sea, the wind’s commands, the whisper of the surf, he let the world enter him.

  Smuggling was all there was. He needed the whole sky, full of wet stars, to vent his melancholy. He asked for nothing else. Only to glide with the current, leaving the world’s torments behind him.

  Something wasn’t right. It was one o’clock in the morning and Donato had berthed in the small inlet of the island of Montefusco. There was nobody under the fig tree, the spot where Raminuccio usually waited for him with the crates of cigarettes. Raminuccio’s voice rang out in the night, halfshouting, half-whispering, “Donato, over here!”

  Something wasn’t right. He climbed up the slope amid pebbles and prickly pears and came to the entrance of a small grotto. Raminuccio was standing there, a flashlight in hand. Behind him, two silhouettes sat on a rock, motionless and silent.

  Donato gave his friend a questioning glance, and Raminuccio hastily explained.

  “Don’t worry. Everything’s all right. I don’t have any cigarettes today, but I’ve got something better. You’ll see. For you, it makes no difference. Just drop them off at the usual place. Matteo will come pick them up. It’s already arranged. Okay?”

  Donato nodded. Raminuccio then stuck a fat wad of bills in his hand, whispering to him with a smile, “You’ll see, it pays a lot better than cigarettes.” Donato didn’t count the bills, but he knew from the weight that there was at least three or four times the usual sum.

  The passengers took their places in silence. Donato didn’t greet them. He began rowing away from the inlet. There was a woman of about twenty-five accompanied by her son, who must have been between eight and ten. At first Donato was entirely absorbed in his maneuver and hadn’t the time to notice them, but soon the island’s shore disappeared. They were out on the open sea. Donato set the motor running and had nothing better to do than to rest his eyes on his two passengers. The child was leaning his head back over his mother’s knees, contemplating the night sky. The woman sat up very straight. She carried herself well. One could see from her clothing and her strong, callused hands that she was poor, but her whole face expressed an austere dignity. Donato could barely muster up the courage to speak. This feminine presence on his boat imposed a kind of new timidity on him.