The House of Scorta (6 page)

“W
ait!” cried Giuseppe, “wait!” Domenico and Carmela stopped, turned round, and beheld their brother hopping on one foot a few yards behind them.

“What’s wrong?” asked Domenico.

“I’ve got a pebble in my shoe.”

He sat down at the side of the road and began untying his shoelaces.

“It’s been torturing me for at least two hours,” he added.

“Two hours?” asked Domenico.

“Yes,” confirmed Giuseppe.

“And you can’t put up with it a little longer? We’re almost there.”

“Do you want me to be limping when I make my reentry into town?”

In a peremptory tone, Domenico let fly a resounding “
Ma vaffanculo!
”
⁶
Their sister burst out laughing. They took a break at the side of the road. Deep down they were happy to have a chance to catch their breath and contemplate the distance still left to travel.

They blessed the little pebble tormenting Giuseppe; it was the excuse they’d been waiting for. Giuseppe removed his shoe slowly, to savor the moment. Montepuccio now lay at their feet. They gazed down at their native village with a kind of hunger in their eyes, and the apprehension that emigrants feel at the moment of their return—the old, irrepressible fear that during their absence, everything had disappeared. That the streets would no longer look the same, and the people they’d known were gone or, worse yet, would greet them with frowns of disgust and sidelong glances, as if to say, “Oh, you again?” There by the side of the road, they all shared this fear, and the pebble in Giuseppe’s shoe was the tool of Providence. They wanted time to take in the town at a glance, catch their breath, and make the sign of the Cross before beginning their descent.

Scarcely a year had passed since their departure, but they had aged. Their faces had hardened. Their eyes had acquired a harsh strength. A whole life had gone by: a life of anguish, scrapping, and unexpected joy.

Domenico—whom everyone called “
Mimì vaffanculo
” because every statement that came out of his mouth ended with that injunction, which he uttered in a drawling manner as though it was not an insult but a new form of punctuation—Domenico had become a man. He looked ten years older than his age. He had a thick, unhandsome face and a piercing gaze that seemed made for gauging the worth of the person he was talking to. He was strong, with broad hands, but all his energy went into sizing up, as quickly as possible, the person in front of him. “Can I trust this man?”“Is there any money to be made here?” Such questions no longer formed in his mind; they had, as it were, entered his blood. Giuseppe, for his part, had retained his childish features. Two years Domenico’s junior, he still had a round, chubby face despite the months that had passed. Within their little group, he instinctively concentrated his whole being on defusing conflicts. He was often cheerful and had so much confidence in his brother and sister that he rarely lost hope in tomorrow. His nickname was “
Peppe pancia piena
,”
⁷
because having a full belly was the state he loved most in life. To eat his fill, and beyond, was his obsession. A day was considered good when one had eaten a meal worthy of the name. And if there were two decent meals, the day was exceptional and put Giuseppe in a good mood that might last several days. How many times, on the road that took them from Naples to Montepuccio, had he smiled when remembering a plate of gnocchi or pasta he’d devoured the previous day? He would start talking to himself, in the dust of the journey, smiling blissfully, as though he no longer felt tired but had found some inner, joyous strength that would make him suddenly cry out: “
Madonna, che pasta!
…”
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.

T
hey 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.

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