The House of Scorta (12 page)

Korni’s brother talked about his life and the neighborhood he lived in. He described the streets, the people in his building. Korni had these letters read to us, and it was not another torment like the rest. He opened the doors of the city to us. We walked around. We settled there in our minds. I told my sons about New York, and this was thanks to old Korni’s letters. Giuseppe and Domenico did the same. That’s why I brought you the “Naples-New York exvoto,” don Salvatore. I want you to hang it in the nave. A one-way ticket to New York. I want it to hang in the church of Montepuccio. I want candles to be lit for old Korni. It’s a lie. But you do understand, don’t you, that it’s really not? You’ll do as I ask. I want Montepuccio to keep believing that we were there. When Anna is old enough, you can take it down and give it to her. She’ll ask you questions and you’ll answer them. In the meantime, I want the Scortas’ eyes to shine with the sparkle of the great city of glass.

O
ne morning in August 1946, a man entered Montepuccio on a donkey’s back. He had a long, straight nose and small, dark eyes. A face not without nobility. He was young, perhaps twentyfive, but his long, gaunt face gave him a severity that made him look older. The oldest folks in town thought of Luciano Mascalzone. The stranger walked with the same slow pace of destiny. Maybe he was some descendant. He went straight to the church, however, and, before even emptying his bags, feeding his mount, or washing himself, before even drinking a little water or stretching his limbs, to the whole town’s amazement he pealed all the bells at full force. Montepuccio had her new priest: don Salvatore, whom the people did not take long to dub “the Calabrian.”

The very day of his arrival, don Salvatore celebrated Mass before three old women who had entered the church out of curiosity. They wanted to see what the newcomer was like. They were stunned and immediately spread the rumor that the young man had delivered a ferocious sermon. This intrigued the Montepuccians. The following day, five more people came, and so on until the first Sunday, when the church was full. Whole families showed up. They all wanted to see if the new priest was the right man for the job, or if he would suffer a similar fate as his predecessor. Don Salvatore did not seem the least bit intimidated. When it came time for the sermon, he began speaking with authority:

“You call yourselves Christians, and you come seeking comfort from our Lord because you know He is good and just in all things. But you enter His house with dirty feet and foul breath. And I’m not talking about your souls, which are black as ink. Sinners, you are. Born sinners, as we all are, yet you wallow in this state, the way a pig wallows in mud. There was a thick layer of dust on the benches in this church when I entered a few days ago. What kind of village is this, that lets dust cover the house of Our Lord? And I don’t want to hear about your poverty. I don’t want to hear about the fact that you have to work day and night in the fields, which leaves you so little time. I come from a land where your fields would be considered the Garden of Eden. I come from a land where the poorest man among you would be considered a prince. No. Admit it, you have lost your way. I know about your peasant ceremonies. I can tell just by looking at your ugly faces. Your exorcisms. Your wooden idols. I know about your outrages against the Almighty, your profane rites. Admit it, and repent, you band of brutes. The Church can offer you forgiveness and make you into something you’ve never been before: good and honest Christians. The Church can do this, because she is good to her own. But you’re going to have to do it through me, and I’ve come here to make your life impossible. If you persist in your disgraceful ways, if you shun the Church and scorn her priest, if you keep on indulging in your primitive rites, just listen what will happen to you, and do not doubt it for an instant: the heavens shall cloud over and it shall rain for thirty days and thirty nights. The fish will shun your nets. The olive trees will grow from the roots down. Your donkeys will give birth to blind cats. And before long there will be nothing left of Montepuccio. For this shall be the will of God. Pray for His mercy. Amen.”

The congregation was dumbfounded. At first some grumbling could be heard. People quietly protested. Then, little by little, silence returned—a rapt, admiring silence. Outside the church, the verdict was unanimous: “He’s got guts, this guy. Not like that candy-ass from Milan.”

Don Salvatore was adopted. They’d liked his solemnity. He had the harshness of the Southern lands and the dark gaze of men who know no fear.

A
few months after his arrival, don Salvatore had to face his first baptism of fire: preparing the feast of Sant’Elia, the town’s patron saint. For a whole week, he couldn’t sleep. The day before the festivities, he was still running from one place to the next, brows knit. The streets were decked out for the celebration. Paper lanterns and garlands had been hung. The next morning, at the crack of dawn, several cannonblasts shook the walls of the houses. Everything was ready. The excitement increased. Children grew restless. The women were already preparing the menu for the feast days. They were frying, one by one, in the sweat of their kitchens, slices of eggplant for the parmigiana. The church had been decorated. The wooden statues of the saints had been brought out and displayed for the parishoners: Sant’Elia, San Rocco, and San Michele. They were covered with jewelry, as tradition demanded: gold medals and chains, offerings that sparkled in the glow of the candles.

At eleven o’clock in the evening, while all of Montepuccio was out on the Corso, peacefully sampling the cool drinks and ice cream, a wild yell rang out and don Salvatore appeared, livid, eyes rolling back as if he’d just seen the devil, lips pale, on the verge of fainting. With a voice that sounded like the wail of a wounded animal, he cried, “Somebody has stolen the medals of San Michele!” All at once, the whole town fell silent. The silence lasted long enough for each of them to grasp in full what the priest had said. The medals of San Michele. Stolen. Here. In Montepuccio. It wasn’t possible.

Then, all of a sudden, the silence turned into a dull rumble of anger, and the men all stood up. Who? Who could have committed such a crime? It was an insult to the whole town. Nobody could remember such a thing ever happening. To rob San Michele! On the eve of the celebration! It would bring bad luck to everyone in Montepuccio. A group of men went into the church. They questioned those who had come to pray. Had they seen any strangers prowling about the place? Or anything out of the ordinary? They looked everywhere. They checked to make sure the medals hadn’t fallen at the foot of the statue. Nothing. Nobody found anything. Don Salvatore kept repeating, “Damn! Damn! This town is a pack of criminals!” He wanted to cancel everything. The procession, the Mass, everything.

At Carmela’s house, the consternation was as great as everywhere else. Giuseppe had come over for dinner. All during the meal, Elia never stopped squirming in his chair. When, at last, his mother removed his plate, he exclaimed:

“Ha! Did you see the look on don Salvatore’s face!”

And he broke into a strange laughter that made his mother turn pale. She understood at once.

“Was it you? Elia? Was it you?” she asked, her voice cracking.

The boy started laughing even harder, with that mad laughter the Scortas knew so well. Yes, it was him. Quite a prank, one had to admit. What a look on don Salvatore’s face! What panic, all over town!

Carmela was ashen. She turned to her brother and said in a weak voice, as though she were dying:

“I’m going out. Kill him.”

She got up and slammed the door. She went straight to Domenico and told him everything. Giuseppe, for his part, let his anger well up inside him. He thought of what the townsfolk would say. He thought of the shame that would be heaped on the family. When he finally felt his blood boiling, he stood up and gave his nephew a thrashing such as no uncle had ever done before. He opened a gash in the boy’s eyebrow and split his lip. Then he sat down beside him. His wrath had subsided but he felt no relief. A tremendous gloom filled his heart. He’d beaten the child, but in the end the result was the same. There was no way out. Then, turning towards his nephew’s swollen face, he said:

“That was an uncle’s rage. Now I leave you to the town’s rage.”

He was about to go out, leaving the boy to his fate, when he remembered something.

“Where’d you put the medals?” he asked.

“Under my pillow,” replied Elia between sobs.

Giuseppe went into the boy’s room, slid his hand under the pillow, pulled out the pouch in which the thief had hidden his treasure and, mortified, head hanging and eyes dead, went straight to the church. “The feast of Sant’Elia should still take place, at least,” he said to himself. “Too bad if they tear us apart for spawning such a heathen. But the feast should still take place.”

Giuseppe hid nothing. He woke don Salvatore and, without giving him time to regain consciousness, handed him the medals, saying, “Don Salvatore, here are the saint’s medals. There’s no point in hiding the criminal’s name from you. God knows already. It’s my nephew, Elia. If he survives the beating I just gave him, all he’ll have left to do is make his peace with the Lord after the Montepuccians get through with him. I’m not asking you for anything. No favors, no leniency. I just wanted to bring you back the medals. The feast should take place tomorrow, as it has every twentieth of July in Montepuccio since the beginning of time.”

Then, without waiting for an answer from the priest—who sat there, stunned, torn between joy, relief, and anger—he turned around and went home.

Giuseppe was right to think that his nephew’s life was in danger. Without anyone’s knowing how, the rumor that Elia Manuzio was the faithless thief had begun to spread. Groups of men had already gathered, vowing to deal the blasphemer a beating he would never forget. They looked for him everywhere.

The first thing Domenico did when his sister showed up in tears was to go get his pistol. He was determined to use it if anyone stood in his way. He went straight to Carmela’s, where he found his nephew halfunconscious. He picked him up and, without even taking a moment to wash his face, put him on the back of one of his mules and took him to a small stone hut in the middle of his olive groves. He threw him down on a straw bed, and let him drink a little. Then he locked him in for the night.

The next day, the feast of Sant’Elia took place as usual. Nothing of the previous day’s drama was visible on people’s faces. Domenico Scorta took part in the festivities, as was his wont. He carried the statue of San Michele in the procession and told whoever wanted to listen that his degenerate of a nephew was a wretch and that, if he wasn’t afraid to spill his own blood, he would kill him with his bare hands. Nobody suspected for a moment that he was the only person who knew where Elia was hiding.

The following day, groups of men went out again in search of the criminal. Although the most important things had been salvaged—they’d been able to celebrate Mass and hold the procession—the thief still needed to be punished, and in exemplary fashion, so that this would never happen again. They hunted for Elia for ten whole days. They looked for him all over town. In the middle of the night, Domenico would slip out and secretly bring him provisions. He didn’t talk. Or he spoke very little. He only gave him food and drink. Then he would leave, always taking care to lock him back in. After ten days, the searches ceased and the village calmed down. But for Elia to go back to Montepuccio was unthinkable. Domenico found him a place at the house of an old friend in San Giocondo, a father with four sons who all worked hard in the fields. They arranged for Elia to stay there a year, and only after that year could he return to Montepuccio.

Once they’d loaded some things on the donkey’s back, Elia turned to his uncle and said, “Thank you,
zio
,” his eyes full of repentance. At first his uncle said nothing. The sun was rising over the hills. A fine rosy light caressed their ridges. Then he turned to his nephew and spoke words that Elia would never forget. In the beautiful light of the dawning day, he revealed to Elia what he considered his own personal wisdom:

“You are nothing, Elia. Me neither. All that matters is the family. Without it, you’d be dead, and the world would keep on turning without even noticing you were gone. We’re born, we die, and in the time in between, only one thing matters. You and me alone, we’re nothing. But the Scortas, the Scortas, that’s something. That’s why I helped you out. No other reason. From now on, you have a debt. You’re indebted to the people with the same name as you. One day, say, twenty years from now, you’ll pay off this debt. By helping one of our own. That’s why I saved you, Elia. Because we’re going to need you when you become a better man—the same way we’re going to need every one of our sons. Never forget that. You’re nothing. The Scorta name passes on through you. That is all. Now go, and may God, your mother, and the townsfolk forgive you.”

H
is brother’s exile made Donato as melancholy as a feral child. He no longer spoke, no longer played. He would stand for hours in the middle of the Corso without moving, and when Carmela would ask him what he was doing, he always answered, “I’m waiting for Elia.”

The solitude that had suddenly been imposed on his playtime had turned his world upside down. Without Elia around, life became ugly and boring.

One day, sitting in front of his mug of milk, Donato looked at his mother in wide-eyed seriousness and asked, “Mama?”

“Yes,” she answered.

“If I steal the medals of San Michele, can I go join Elia?”

Carmela felt horrified by the question. Dumbfounded. She rushed to her brother Giuseppe’s place and recounted the scene to him.

“Peppe,” she added, “you have to look after Donato, or he’ll end up committing a crime. If he doesn’t die of sadness first. He doesn’t want to eat anymore. He only talks about his brother. Take him away with you somewhere, make him smile. A boy his age shouldn’t have dead eyes. The child has drunk of the world’s sorrows.”