Free The House of Scorta by Laurent Gaudé

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