The House of Scorta (2 page)

Luciano Mascalzone rode down the narrow streets of the old, sleeping village. “It took a while, but I came back. I’m here. None of you know it yet, because you’re sleeping. I’m riding past your houses, under your windows. You suspect nothing. I’m here, and I’ve come to get my due.” He ambled along until his donkey came to a sudden stop—as if the old beast had always known that this was where it was supposed to go, where its struggle against the sun’s fire would end. It stopped right in front of the Biscotti house and didn’t move. The man hopped to the ground with a strange agility and knocked on the door. “Here I am again,” he thought. “Fifteen years, gone just like that.” An infinity seemed to pass. Luciano was about to knock a second time when the door slowly opened. A woman of about forty stood before him. In her dressing gown. She stared at him a long time, saying nothing. Her face bore no expression. No fear, no joy, no surprise. She looked straight into his eyes as if to gauge what was about to happen. Luciano didn’t move. He seemed to be waiting for a sign from the woman, a gesture, a wrinkling of the brow. He waited and waited, his body stiffening. “If she moves to shut the door,” he thought, “if she recoils even a little, I’m going to pounce, kick in the door, and rape her.” He didn’t take his eyes off her. He was looking for the slightest sign to break the silence. “She’s even more beautiful than I’d imagined. I won’t die for nothing today.” He could make out her body under the dressing gown, and this aroused a violent hunger in him. She said nothing. She’d recognized the man standing before her, but his presence here, on her doorstep, was an enigma she didn’t even try to comprehend. She simply let the past resurface in her memory. Luciano Mascalzone. It was certainly him. After fifteen years. She studied him, feeling neither hatred nor love. She already belonged to him. There was no fighting it. She belonged to him. Because, after fifteen years, he’d come back and knocked at her door. It didn’t matter what he asked of her. She would give. She would consent right there on her doorstep. She would consent to anything.

To break the silence and stillness around them, she took her hand off the doorknob. This simple gesture was enough for Luciano. He could now read in her face that she was not afraid, and he could do with her what he wished. He went inside with a light step, as if not wanting to leave any scent in the air.

A dusty, dirty man stepped into the Biscotti household, at an hour when lizards dream they are fish, and the stones have nothing to say about it.

Luciano entered the Biscotti home. It would cost him his life. He knew this. He knew that when he came back out, people would be in the streets again, life would be back in full swing with its laws and its battles, and he would have to pay. He knew they would recognize him. And kill him. Coming back to this village, entering this house, meant death. He’d thought about all this. He’d chosen to come at the crushing hour when the sun blinds even the cats, for he knew that if the streets had not been deserted, he would never have made it as far as the main square. He knew all this, but did not flinch at his certain demise. He entered the house.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the shadows. She had her back to him. He followed her down a corridor that seemed endless. They entered a small room. There wasn’t a sound. The coolness of the walls felt like a caress to him. He took her in his arms. She said nothing as he undressed her. When he saw her naked before him, he could not help but whisper, “Filomena…” A shudder ran through her whole body. He paid no mind. He had all he wanted. He was doing what he had vowed to do. He was living out a scene he’d imagined a thousand times. Fifteen years in prison, thinking only of this. He had always believed that when he finally undressed this woman, he would experience a thrill greater than any physical joy. The thrill of vengeance. But he’d been wrong. There was no vengeance. There were only the two heavy breasts he held in the palms of his hands. There was only the scent of a woman, heady and warm, enveloping him whole. He had so wished for this moment that he now plunged into it headlong, losing himself, forgetting the rest of the world. Forgetting the sun, the revenge, the dark gaze of the village.

When he took her between the cool sheets of the great bed, she sighed like a virgin, a smile of astonishment and pleasure on her lips, and surrendered herself without a struggle.

A
ll his life, Luciano Mascalzone had been what the people of the region, spitting on the ground, called “a bandit.” He lived on poaching, plunder, and highway robbery. He may have even killed a few poor souls along the roads of the Gargano, but this was not known for certain. People told many stories that could not be confirmed. One thing, however, was certain: He had embraced la mala vita,
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and was a man to keep away from.

At the height of his glory — the peak of his career as a scoundrel — Luciano Mascalzone came often to Montepuccio. He was not a native, but he liked the town and spent the better part of his time there. It was here that he first saw Filomena Biscotti. The girl, from a modest but respectable family, became a veritable obsession, but he knew that his reputation prevented him from entertaining any hope of ever making her his own. So he began desiring her the way scoundrels desire women. To possess her, if only for one night. The idea made his eyes sparkle in the late-afternoon light. Yet fate denied him this brutal pleasure. One ignominious morning, five carabinieri
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nabbed him at the inn where he was staying and hauled him away. He was sentenced to fifteen years in prison. Montepuccio forgot him, happy to be rid of this good-for-nothing who ogled their daughters.

In prison, Luciano Mascalzone had all the time he needed to think about his life. He had devoted himself to petty thievery. What had he accomplished? Nothing. What memories of his past exploits were worth reliving in his prison cell? None. A life had gone by, empty, with nothing at stake. He’d aspired to nothing, and also failed at nothing, since he’d undertaken nothing. Little by little, in the vast expanse of boredom that had been his existence, his desire for Filomena Biscotti began to seem like the only island, the only thing that redeemed the rest. When he had followed her in the streets, trembling, he’d felt so alive he could suffocate. It made up for everything else. And so he had vowed that when he got out, he would sate this brutal lust, the only one he’d ever known. Whatever the price. He would possess Filomena Biscotti and die. Nothing else mattered. Nothing.

L
uciano Mascalzone came out of Filomena Biscotti’s house without having exchanged a single word with her. They had fallen asleep side by side, fatigued by lovemaking. He slept better than he had for a long time. An untroubled sleep. A deep slaking of the flesh, a rich man’s siesta, free of care.

He found his donkey outside the door, still coated with the dust of the journey. At that moment, he knew that the countdown had begun. He was heading to his death without hesitation. The heat had abated. The town had come back to life. Outside the doors of the neighboring houses, little old women dressed in black sat in rickety chairs, chatting in low voices, commenting on the incongruous presence of that donkey, trying to guess who its owner might be. Luciano’s sudden appearance stunned the old women into silence. He smiled to himself. Everything was as he’d imagined it. “These fools of Montepuccio haven’t changed,” he thought. “What do they think? That I’m afraid of them? That I’m going to try and get away from them? I no longer fear anyone. They will kill me today, but that’s not enough to frighten me. I’ve come too far for that. I’m untouchable. Can’t they understand that? I’m far out of reach of the blows they will surely deal me. I have known pleasure. In that woman’s arms. And it’s better that it all end right here, because from now on life will be as dull and sad as an empty bottle.” At this point he thought of a final provocation to defy the prying stares of the neighborhood women and show them he feared nothing. He ostentatiously buttoned his fly in front of the door. Then he remounted his donkey and headed back the way he’d come. Behind him he heard the old women pipe up again, louder than before. Word was out and beginning to spread, from house to house, terrace to balcony, broadcast by those old, toothless mouths. The buzz grew behind him. He passed through the central square of Montepuccio again. The café tables were out. Men here and there were conversing. They all fell silent as he passed. But the voices behind him only grew louder. Who was he? Where’d he come from? Then a few of them recognized him. Luciano Mascalzone. “Yes, that’s me all right,” he thought to himself as he passed before their incredulous faces. “Don’t waste your energy staring at me like that. It’s me, you can be sure of it. Do what you’re burning to do, or let me pass, but don’t keep looking at me like cows. I’m walking among you. I’m not trying to flee. You are flies. Big, ugly flies. I brush you away with the back of my hand.” Luciano rode down the Via Nuova, a silent crowd following behind him. The men of Montepuccio had left their outdoor café tables while the women stationed themselves on their balconies and called down to him, “Luciano Mascalzone! Is that really you? You son of a bitch, you’ve got balls to come back here.” “Luciano! Lift up your head, you swine, so I can see if it’s really you.” He didn’t answer. He stared at the horizon, sullen, without quickening his pace. “The women will shout,” he thought, “and the men will strike. I know all this.” The mob grew more insistent, some twenty men now hard on his heels. And all along the Via Nuova, the women continued to cry out at Luciano, clutching their children between their legs, crossing themselves as he passed. In front of the church, where don Giorgio had spotted him a few hours earlier, a voice louder than the rest rang out: “Today’s the day you die, Mascalzone!” Only then did he turn his head, allowing the whole village to see the horrific smile of defiance on his lips. It chilled them all. That smile told them that he knew, and that he despised them more than anything. That he’d gotten what he’d come for and would take his pleasure to the grave. A few children, frightened by the wayfarer’s grimace, started crying. And all at once, in a single voice, the mothers let fly their pious injunction, “He’s the devil!”

Finally he reached the edge of town. A few yards away stood the last house. Beyond it lay only the long road of stones and olive trees disappearing into the hills.

A group of men who had appeared from nowhere blocked his path, armed with shovels and pickaxes, their faces hard. Luciano Mascalzone halted his donkey. A long silence ensued. Nobody moved. “So this is where I’m going to die. In front of the last house in Montepuccio. Who among them will be the first to come at me?” He felt a long sigh run down his donkey’s flanks and, in response, patted the animal’s shoulder. “Are these hicks going to remember at least to give my mount some water after they’ve finished with me?” He resumed his position, staring at the group of men. The women in the distance had fallen silent. Nobody dared make a move. An acrid odor reached his nostrils, the last he would ever smell. The powerful scent of dried tomatoes. Across all the balconies, the women had laid out broad planks of wood, on which the quartered tomatoes were drying. Burnt by the sun, they shriveled like insects as the hours passed, emitting a sour, nauseating smell. “The tomatoes drying on the balconies will live longer than I.”

Suddenly, a stone struck the back of his head. He hadn’t the strength to turn around. He struggled to stay upright in the saddle. “So,” he had time to think, “that’s how they’re going to kill me. Stoned to death like an excommunicate.” A second stone caught him in the temple, and this time the force of the blow made him reel. He fell into the dust, feet tangling in the stirrup. Blood poured into his eyes. He heard shouting. The men were heating up, each one picking up a stone. They all wanted to strike him. A dense hail of rocks pummeled his body. He felt the hot stones of the countryside bruise his flesh, each blow burning with sun and spreading the dry smell of the hills. His shirt was soaked with warm, thick blood. “I’m down. I won’t resist. Go on, strike me. You won’t kill anything inside me that isn’t already dead. Strike me. I have no strength left. The blood is flowing out of me. Who will throw the last stone?” Strangely, the last stone never came. He thought for a moment that the men, in their cruelty, wanted to prolong his agony. But he was wrong. The village priest had come running and now stood between the men and their prey. He called them monsters and commanded them to desist. Luciano then felt him kneeling at his side. The man’s breath blew in his ear. “Here I am, my son, here I am. Hang on. Don Giorgio will look after you.” The stoning did not resume. Luciano Mascalzone wanted to push the priest away so the Montepuccians could finish what they’d started, but he hadn’t the strength. Didn’t the priest know intervention was useless? That it only dragged out his dying moments? Let them stone him with rage and savagery. Let them trample him and be done with him. This is what he wanted to say to don Giorgio, but no sound came out of his throat.

Had the priest of Montepuccio not come between the mob and their victim, Luciano Mascalzone would have died a happy man. With a smile on his lips. Like a conqueror flush with victory, cut down in combat. But he lived a little too long — his life bled out of him too slowly, giving him time to hear what he should never have heard.

The villagers had gathered round his body and, unable to complete their slaughter, began insulting him. Luciano could still hear their voices; they sounded like the last cries of the world. “I guess you won’t be wanting to come round here anymore.” “We told you, Luciano, today’s the day you die.” Then came the final injunction: “Immacolata is the last woman you’ll ever rape, you son of a whore.” The earth shook under Luciano’s depleted body. His mind reeled behind his closed eyelids. Immacolata? Why did they say Immacolata? Who was she? The woman he made love to was Filomena. Immacolata. Filomena. Images from a time long gone merged with the predatory laughter of the mob surrounding him. He saw it all again, and he understood. As the men around him continued jeering, he thought: