The House of Scorta (7 page)

“Father,” Domenico cried out.

“Yes, my children, what can I do for you?” he replied in a honied voice.

“We’re the children of the Mute.”

“Whose children?”

“The Mute’s.”

“That’s not a name,” said don Carlo, with a smile on his lips.

“That was hers,” Carmela cut in, dryly.

“Tell me what her Christian name was,” the priest resumed.

“She had no other name.”

“What can I do for you?”

“She died a few months ago,” said Domenico. “You buried her in the common grave.”

“I remember. Yes. My most heartfelt condolences, my children. But don’t be sad. Your mother is now at the side of Our Lord.”

“We’ve come to see you about the burial,” Carmela cut in again.

“You said it yourselves. She was buried with dignity.”

“She’s a Scorta.”

“Yes, a Scorta. So be it. Fine. You see, she did have a name after all.”

“She must be buried like a Scorta,” Carmela resumed.

“We buried her like a Christian,” don Bozzoni corrected her.

Domenico was white with rage. He said sharply:

“No, Father. Like a Scorta. It’s written here.”

He handed don Bozzoni the paper on which Rocco and don Giorgio had signed their pact. The priest read in silence. Anger rose to his cheeks and he burst out:

“What’s this nonsense supposed to mean? This is unbelievable! It’s superstition, that’s what it is. Magic, I don’t know what. By what authority did this don Giorgio sign in the Church’s name? It’s heresy. A Scorta! Imagine that. And you call yourselves Christians. Pagans full of secret ceremonies, that’s what the people here are. A Scorta! She was cast into the earth like everyone else. That was all she could expect.”

“Father,” Giuseppe tried, “the Church made a pact with our family.”

But the priest would not let him speak. He was already shouting:

“This is madness! A pact with the Scortas. You are out of your mind.”

With an abrupt gesture, he pushed his way to the church’s entrance and disappeared inside.

T
he Scortas’ absence had prevented them from performing a sacred duty: digging their mother’s grave themselves. Filial piety demands this final gesture of sons. Now that they were back, they were determined to honor their mother’s mortal remains. The loneliness, the common grave, the flouted pact: these were too many affronts to bear. They decided that they would arm themselves with shovels and go dig up the Mute that very night. So that she could rest in a pit all her own, dug by her own sons. Too bad if it was outside the wall of the cemetery. Better that than the nameless earth of a common grave for eternity.

At nightfall, they met as agreed. Raffaele brought the shovels. It was cold. Like thieves they slipped inside the cemetery walls.

“Mimì?” asked Giuseppe.

“What is it?”

“Are you sure we’re not committing a crime?” Before Domenico could even answer his brother,

Carmela’s voice rang out:

“It’s this common grave that’s a sacrilege.” Giuseppe then grabbed his shovel with determination and concluded:

“You’re right, Miuccia. Let’s get going.”

They dug into the cold earth of the common grave without a word. The farther they dug, the harder it was to lift each new shovelful. They felt as if they risked waking the great mass of the dead at any moment. They tried not to tremble. Not to stagger in the face of the nauseating stench rising up from the earth.

At last their shovels struck the wood of a coffin. It took great strength and perseverance to extract it. On the pine lid, the name “Scorta” had been carved with a knife. This was where their mother lay. Inside this ugly box. Buried like a pauper. No marble, no ceremony. They hoisted her up onto their shoulders like thieves and headed out of the cemetery. They walked a bit along the enclosure wall until they reached a small embankment where they could no longer be seen by anyone. Here they set her down. Now they needed only to dig a hole. So that the Mute could feel the breath of her sons in the night. When they were about to begin, Giuseppe turned to Raffaele and asked:

“You going to dig with us?”

Raffaele looked stunned. It wasn’t only help that Giuseppe was asking of him; it wasn’t only to share the toil and sweat. No, what he was asking of him was to bury the Mute exactly as if he’d been one of her own sons. Raffaele was white as a sheet. Giuseppe and Domenico looked at him, awaiting his answer. Clearly Giuseppe had asked him on behalf of all three Scortas. Nobody had shown any surprise. They waited for Raffaele to decide. In front of the Mute’s grave, Raffaele grabbed a shovel, tears in his eyes. “Of course,” he said.

It was like becoming, in turn, a Scorta himself. As if the corpse of the poor woman were giving him her maternal blessing. From now on he would be their brother. As if the same blood flowed in their veins. Their brother. He clutched the shovel tight to keep from sobbing. The moment he began shoveling, he raised his head and his eyes fell upon Carmela. There she was beside them, still and silent, watching them work. He felt a twinge in his heart. A sense of deep regret welled up in his eyes. Miuccia. How beautiful she was. From now on he would have to look at her with a brother’s eyes. He smothered this regret in the deepest part of himself, put his head down, and turned the earth with all his might.

When they had completed their task and the coffin was again covered with earth, they sat for a while in silence. They didn’t want to leave without a last moment to collect themselves. A long time went by, then Domenico spoke. “We have no relations. We are the Scortas, all four of us. That’s what we’ve decided. That name will have to keep us warm from now on. Begging the Mute’s pardon, today is the real day of our birth.”

It was cold. They kept their heads down a long time, looking at the turned earth, huddling close together. And indeed, that name, Scorta, was enough to keep them warm. Raffaele was weeping quietly. He’d been given a family, two brothers and a sister, for whom he was ready to give his life. Yes, from this moment on, he would be the fourth Scorta. He swore it over the freshly turned earth of the Mute’s grave. He would carry their name. Raffaele Scorta. And the scorn of the Montepuccians would only make him laugh. He would fight, body and soul, alongside those he loved, those he thought he had lost when they went to America and left him as alone as a madman. Raffaele Scorta. Yes. He vowed he would be equal to his new name.

I’
ve come to tell you about the trip to New York, don Salvatore. If it wasn’t night, I wouldn’t dare speak. But there is darkness all around, you are quietly smoking, and I must have my say. After my father’s funeral, don Giorgio called us together and told us his plan. He had found a small house in the old town, where our mother, the Mute, could live. It would be poor, but dignified. She could move in as soon as possible. For us, on the other hand, another solution had to be found. Life here in Montepuccio had nothing to offer us. We would drag our poverty around the village streets with the rage of people whom destiny had stripped of their rank. Nothing good could come of this. Don Giorgio did not want to condemn us to a life of misery and squalor. He had abetter idea. He would arrange to get three tickets aboard aship going from Naples to New York. The church would pay. We would leave for the land where the poor build buildings as tall as the sky, and fortune sometimes lines the pockets of the downtrodden.

We said yes right away. That same night, I remember, crazy visions of imaginary cities filled my head, and I repeated over and over, like a prayer, the name that made my eyes glisten: New York. . . New York. . .

When we left Montepuccio for Naples—accompanied by don Giorgio, who had wanted to escort us all the way to the pier—the earth seemed to groan under our feet, as though cursing these children who had the audacity to try to abandon her. We left the Gargano, went down into the vast, dreary plain of Foggia, and crossed the entire Italian peninsula before reaching Naples. That labyrinth of shouts, squalor, and heat left us wide-eyed. The big city smelled of herring and rotting fish. The streets of Spaccanapoli
¹⁰
swarmed with children with bloated bellies and toothless mouths.

Don Giorgio brought us to the port, and we boarded one of those ocean liners built to carry starvelings from one point of the globe to another amidst great sighs of petroleum. We took our places among people like us. The poor of Europe, with hunger in their eyes. Whole families and solitary urchins. Like everyone else, we held each other by the hand so as not to get lost in the crowd. Like everyone else, we couldn’t sleep the first night, fearing that treacherous hands might steal the blanket we shared. Like everyone else, we wept once the huge ship left the bay of Naples. “Life is beginning,” Domenico said in a low voice. Italy disappeared before our eyes. Like everyone else, we turned towards America, awaiting the day when her coastline would come into view, hoping, in strange dreams, that everything would be different there, the colors, the smells, the laws, the people. Everything. Bigger. Gentler. During the crossing, we spent hours on the deck, clinging to the railing, trying to conjure up this continent where even wretched folk like us were welcome. The days were long, but that didn’t matter, since the dreams we dreamt needed hours and hours to take shape in our minds. The days were long, but we let them flow by happily, since the world was beginning.

At last we arrived at the port of New York. The ship headed slowly towards tiny Ellis Island. I shall never forget the joy of that day, don Salvatore. We danced and we cried. Awild excitement had taken hold on the deck. Everyone wanted to see the new world. We cheered every fishing trawler we passed. Everyone pointed at the buildings of Manhattan. Our eyes devoured every detail of the coastline.

When the ship finally docked, we went ashore amidst aclamor of impatience and joy. The crowd filled the great hall of the little island. We heard languages spoken which at first we took for Milanese or Roman dialect, until we had to acknowledge that what was happening here was much vaster. The whole world surrounded us. We could have felt lost. We were foreigners. We understood nothing. But we were filled with a strange feeling, don Salvatore. We were sure that we were where we belonged. Amidst all those lost souls, in that confusion of voices and accents, we felt at home. The people around us were our brothers and sisters. By the filth they wore on their faces, and the fear that twisted their guts. Don Giorgio had been right. This was where we belonged, in this country that was like no other. We were in America, and we weren’t afraid anymore. Our life in Montepuccio seemed far away and ugly. We were in America, and our nights were filled with joyous, hungry dreams.

Don Salvatore, pay no attention if my voice cracks and I lower my eyes; I am going to tell you something that nobody else knows. Nobody but the Scortas. Listen. The night is long and I’m going to tell you everything.

Upon arrival we went ashore, excited to be leaving the ship. We were happy and impatient. We had to take our places and wait, but this didn’t matter to us. We waited in endless lines. We participated in strange procedures that we didn’t understand. Everything was slow. We were directed to one counter, then another. We kept very close together so as not to get lost. Hours passed and the crowd seemed to get smaller. People grew restless. Domenico kept moving forward, leading us on. At one point, he announced that we were going to be examined by some doctors, and that we had to stick out our tongues, take a couple of deep breaths, and not to be shy about opening our shirts if we were asked. We had to submit to everything, but it didn’t matter; we were ready to wait for days if necessary. The country was right there, within reach.

When I went before the doctor, he gestured for me to stop. He looked into my eyes and, without saying a word, made a mark on my hand in chalk. I wanted to ask why, but I was signaled to proceed to another room. A second doctor listened to my chest a long time. He asked me some questions, but I didn’t understand him and didn’t know what to answer. I was a young girl, don Salvatore, a young girl whose knees quaked before these strangers leaning over me as if I were some farm animal. A little later, my brothers joined me. They’d had to fight to get through.

After an interpreter arrived, we understood what was the matter. I had an infection. I had, in fact, been sick on the boat for several days. Fever, diarrhea, red eyes, but I thought it would pass. I was a young girl on my way to New York, and I didn’t think any illness could stop me. The man spoke for a long time, but all I understood was that, for me, the journey was over. The ground gave way beneath my feet. I’d been rejected, don Salvatore. It was all over. I was ashamed and hung my head to avoid my brothers’ eyes. They stood silently beside me. I stared at the long line of immigrants who continued to pass in front of us, and I could only think of one thing: “They let all those people in, even that sickly one over there, and even that old guy who might drop dead in two months’ time. They let them all in. Why not me?”

Then the interpreter spoke again. “You’ll have to go back home. Don’t worry, there’s no charge for the journey. The boat is free. Free.” That’s all he could say, just that one word. That’s when Giuseppe suggested to Domenico that he continue on alone. “Mimì, you go on. I’ll stay with Miuccia.”

I didn’t say a thing. Our lives were in the balance, for years to come, in this discussion between two rooms. But I didn’t say a thing. I couldn’t. I hadn’t the strength. I was ashamed. Simply ashamed. I could only listen and put my fate in my brothers’ hands. Our three lives were at stake here, and it was all my fault. Everything depended on their decision. Giuseppe repeated, “It’s better this way, Mimì. You go on, you go on alone. Me, I’ll stay with Miuccia. We’ll go home. We’ll try again later.”

Time stood still. Believe me, don Salvatore, I aged several years during that one minute. Everything was suspended. I was waiting. Waiting for destiny to weigh our three lives and choose the fate it saw fit. Then Domenico spoke: “No. We came together and we’ll leave together.” Giuseppe wanted to insist, but Domenico cut him off. He’d made up his mind. He gritted his teeth and made a brusque gesture with his hand that I’ll never forget: “It’s all three of us or nothing. They don’t want us. They can go fuck themselves.”