The House of Scorta (8 page)

T
he disinterment of the Mute’s body and her second burial sent a tremor through Montepuccio. There was now a mound of freshly turned earth outside the cemetery that couldn’t be ignored. It was an unacceptable wart on the face of the village. The people of Montepuccio were afraid that word would spread. That everyone in the region would know and point the finger at them. They were afraid that people would say that in Montepuccio they did not bury their dead properly, that in their cemeteries they turned the earth as in a field. This wild grave, apart from the rest, was like a permanent reproach. Don Carlo was still fuming. He went about casting aspersions. He spoke of grave-robbers. For him, the Scortas had crossed the line. To dig up the earth and extract a body from its final resting place was the work of heathens. He would never have imagined that such barbarians could exist in Italy.

One night, unable to stand it any longer, he went so far as to pull up the wooden crucifix that the Scortas had planted in the mound of earth and broke it in a fit of rage. The grave remained in that state for a few days. Then the cross reappeared. The priest prepared a second punitive expedition, but every time he tore away the cross it reappeared. Don Carlo thought he was fighting the Scortas, but he was wrong. He was engaged in a contest of wills against the whole town. Every day, anonymous hands, repelled by that miserable, unmarked grave, would plant another wooden cross. After a few weeks of this game, a delegation of townsfolk went to don Carlo to persuade him to change his mind. They asked him to hold a ceremony and allow the Mute to be reintegrated into the cemetery. They even suggested that, to avoid having to dig up the poor woman a second time, the cemetery wall be broken and rebuilt in such a way as to include the excommunicated woman. Don Carlo would hear none of it. The scorn he felt for the villagers only increased. He became sullen and prone to violent outbursts.

From that moment on, all of Montepuccio began to hate Father Bozzoni. One after another, the villagers swore they wouldn’t set foot in the church so long as that “idiot priest from the North” presided there. In fact, what the Scortas had demanded of him was something the whole town had expected from the start. When they’d first heard of the Mute’s death, they immediately thought that the funeral would be as grand as Rocco’s. Don Carlo’s decision had revolted them. Who did this priest, who wasn’t even from these parts, think he was to come here and change the unalterable rules of the village? The decision of the “new guy,” as the women at the market called don Carlo, was seen as an insult to the memory of the beloved don Giorgio. And this was unforgivable. The “new guy” had no respect for tradition. He came from who-knows-where to impose his own law. The Scortas had been insulted. By extension, the whole town felt insulted. No one had ever witnessed such a burial before. This man, though a priest, had no respect for anything, and Montepuccio wanted no part of him. But there was another reason for this savage reprobation. Fear. The old terror of Rocco Scorta Mascalzone, never wholly forgotten. By thus burying the woman who had been his wife, don Carlo was condemning the village to Rocco’s wrath. They remembered the crimes he had committed during his lifetime, and trembled at the thought of what he might be capable of in death. There was no doubt about it, an evil fate awaited Montepuccio. An earthquake. Or a bad drought. Rocco Scorta Mascalzone’s breath was already in the air. You could feel it in the hot evening wind.

The people of Montepuccio viewed the Scortas with an inextricable mixture of scorn, pride, and fear. In normal times, the village ignored Carmela, Domenico, and Giuseppe. They were merely three hungry souls, a brigand’s spawn. But the moment anyone wanted to touch a single hair on their heads or insult the memory of Rocco the Savage, a kind of maternal instinct awoke in the whole village, and it defended them like a shewolf defending her young. “The Scortas are good-fornothings, but they belong to us”—such was how most of the people in Montepuccio saw things. And, after all, the Scortas had gone to New York. This conferred something sacred on them, making them untouchable in the eyes of most of the townsfolk.

In the space of a few days, the church was deserted. No one went to Mass anymore. No one greeted don Carlo in the streets. He had been given a new nickname, which signed his death warrant: “the Milanese.” Montepuccio sank into an ancestral paganism. People practiced all sorts of ceremonies in the shadow of the church. In the hills they danced the tarantella. The fishermen worshiped fish-headed idols, hybrids of patron saints and water spirits. In winter, old women spoke with the dead in the recesses of their homes. On several occasions, people practiced exorcisms on simpletons believed to be possessed by the devil. Dead animals were found outside the doors of certain houses. Revolt was brewing.

A
few months passed until the day when Montepuccio, late one morning, was gripped by an unwonted agitation. A rumor was circulating that made people’s jaws drop. They lowered their voices when they spoke of it. Old women crossed themselves. Something had happened that morning, and everyone was talking about it. Father Bozzoni was dead. And that wasn’t the worst of it. He had died in strange circumstances that common decency prevented one from describing. For many hours, nothing more was known. Then, as the day progressed and the sun warmed the fronts of the houses, more details began to emerge. Don Carlo had been found in the hills, a day’s walk from Montepuccio, naked as a worm, tongue hanging out like aslaughtered calf. How was this possible? What was don Carlo doing all alone in the hills so far from his parish? From one gathering to another, over Sunday coffee, the men and women of Montepuccio asked themselves these same questions. But there was more astounding news yet to come. Around eleven o’clock, people learned that don Carlo’s body had been scorched all over by the sun—even his face, though the corpse had been found face down. It was obvious; he had been naked before he died. And he had been walking about naked, under the sun, for hours on end, until his skin had blistered and his feet bled and he died of exhaustion and dehydration. The central mystery remained: Why had he set off like that, alone, into the hills, at the hottest time of day? This question would fuel many a conversation in Montepuccio for years to come. But on that day, in order to arrive at a consensus, at least temporarily, it was agreed that, to all appearances, his solitude had driven him insane. He must have woken up one morning in the grips of madness and decided to leave the village he so despised, by whatever means possible. The sun had got the better of him. That grotesque death, that nakedness—so obscene for a man of the Church—confirmed the villagers in their conviction. Clearly, this don Carlo was a worthless fool.

Raffaele blanched when he heard the news. He had them repeat it to him, and stood as if rooted to the square, where speculations swirled about like wind in the streets. He had to know more, to hear all the details, to confirm that it was all true. He seemed afflicted by the news, which surprised those who knew him. He was a Scorta. He should have rejoiced at this passing. Raffaele lingered a long time, unable to tear himself away from the outdoor café. Then, when he had to face the facts, when there was no more doubt in his mind that the priest was dead, he spat on ground and muttered, “That rascal found a way to take me with him.”

T
he previous day, the two men had crossed paths on one of the trails through the hills. Raffaele was coming up from the sea, and don Carlo was taking a solitary walk. Trudging along the paths in the countryside had become the priest’s only distraction. At first, the quarantine in which the townsfolk had placed him had enraged him; then, as the weeks went by, it plunged him deep into a hopeless solitude. His mind wandered. He lost his bearings amidst such isolation. Staying in the village became a heavy cross to bear. He found no respite except in these long walks.

Raffaele was the first to speak. He thought perhaps he could use this opportunity to attempt a last negotiation.

“Don Carlo,” he said, “you have offended us. It’s time to go back on your decision.”

“You are a bunch of degenerates,” the priest shouted by way of an answer. “The Lord sees you, and He will punish you.”

Anger rose up in Raffaele, but he tried to restrain himself and continued:

“You hate us. So be it. But the one you’re punishing has nothing to do with this. The Mute has a right to be buried in the cemetery.”

“She was in the cemetery before you dug her up. She got what she deserved, sinner that she was, for having spawned such a band of heathens.”

Raffaele turned pale. It seemed to him as if the hills themselves commanded him to answer this insult. “You’re unworthy of the frock you are wearing, Bozzoni. Do you hear me? You’re a rat hiding behind a cassock. Give back that cassock, or I’ll kill you.”

And he leapt at the priest like a snarling dog. He grabbed him by the neck and with one furious swipe of the hand ripped off his collar. The priest was beside himself, choking with helplessness. Raffaele wouldn’t release his grip. He yelled like a madman, “Strip, you son of a bitch, strip!” shredding the priest’s cassock with all his might and pummeling him all the while.

He didn’t calm down until he had undressed Father Bozzoni completely. Don Carlo surrendered. He cried like a baby, covering his torso with his plump hands. He muttered prayers, as if he were up against a horde of heretics. Raffaele rejoiced with all the ferocity of vengeance, “That’s how you’ll go around from now on: naked as a worm. You have no right to wear this habit. If I find you wearing it again, I’ll kill you, understand?”

Don Carlo did not answer. He walked away, weeping, and disappeared. He never came back. This episode had sent him over the edge once and for all. He wandered through the hills like a lost child, paying no mind to fatigue or the sun. He wandered about for a long time before collapsing, exhausted, on the southern ground he so detested.

Raffaele remained a while at the spot where he had thrashed the priest. He couldn’t move. He was waiting for his anger to die down, trying to get a grip on himself so he could return to the village without having his expression betray him. The priest’s torn cassock lay at his feet. He couldn’t take his eyes off of it. A ray of sunshine made him blink. Something glinted in the light. He bent over without thinking and picked up a gold watch. Had he left at that moment, he probably would have thrown it away in disgust a bit further on, but he didn’t move. He felt that he hadn’t seen things through. Slowly, warily, he bent down again, gathered up the torn cassock and went through the pockets. He emptied don Bozzoni’s wallet and left it a little further up the path, open, like a deboned carcass. He squeezed the wad of bills and the gold watch in his fist, an ugly, demented grin on his face.

“T
hat rascal found a way to take me with him.” Raffaele had just realized that their altercation had led to a man’s death, and even though he kept repeating that he hadn’t killed anyone, he knew full well that this death would forever weigh on his conscience. He could still see the priest, naked, crying like a child, going off into the hills like a poor soul condemned to exile. “So I’m damned,” he said to himself, “damned by that jerk, who wasn’t worth the spit on my tongue.”

Around midday, Father Bozzoni’s body was brought back to Montepuccio on the back of a donkey. The corpse had been covered with a sheet, not so much to keep the flies off as to make sure the priest’s nudity didn’t shock the women and children.

Once it arrived in Montepuccio, something unexpected happened. The donkey’s owner, a taciturn peasant, deposited the body in front of the church and declared loud and clear that he had done his duty and had to go back to his field. The body remained there, wrapped in a sheet, covered in dirt. People looked at it. Nobody moved. The Montepuccians bore grudges. Nobody wanted to bury it. Nobody wanted to participate in the ceremony or carry the coffin. Besides, who would say Mass? The priest from San Giocondo was away in Bari. By the time he got back, don Carlo’s body would be decomposing. At a certain point the sun’s heat became overwhelming, and they ended up agreeing that if they left the Milanese’s body out there, it wouldn’t be long before it stank like carrion. That would be too sweet a revenge for the priest. To befoul Montepuccio. Spread sickness, why not? No, it was better to bury him. Not out of any sense of decency or charity, but to make sure he did no more harm. They decided to dig a hole behind the cemetery, on the other side of the wall. Four men were chosen by lots. They threw him into the ground, without any sacrament. In silence. Don Carlo was buried like a heathen, without a prayer to soften the bite of the sun.

This death was a big event for the people of Montepuccio, but the rest of the world hardly gave it a thought. After don Carlo’s death, the village was once again forgotten by the episcopate. That suited them just fine. They were used to it. Sometimes, when passing the closed church, they even muttered amongst themselves, “Better nobody than a new Bozzoni,” fearing that the Church, in a kind of divine punishment, might appoint them another man from the North who would treat them like dirt, mock their customs, and refuse to baptize their children.

The heavens seemed to have heard them. Nobody came and the church remained shut, like the palaces of those great families that disappear all at once, leaving behind them a scent of grandeur and old, dry stones.

T
he Scortas resumed their miserable life in Montepuccio. All four of them lived cramped together in the only room in Raffaele’s house. Each had found a job and brought home something to eat, but not much more. Raffaele was a fisherman. He did not own his boat, but every morning, at the port, someone would take him aboard for the day, in return for a portion of the day’s catch. Domenico and Giuseppe hired themselves out as farmhands. They picked tomatoes or olives. Cut wood. Spent entire days in the heat, bending over an earth that yielded nothing. As for Carmela, she cooked for the other three, took care of the washing, and did a bit of embroidery for people in town.