Free The House of Scorta by Laurent Gaudé Page B

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.
    They hadn’t touched what they called amongst themselves “the New York money.” For a long time they thought this money should be used to buy a house. For the moment, they had to tighten their belts and wait, but as soon as an opportunity presented itself, they would buy. They had enough to buy something quite respectable, since in Montepuccio, at the time, stone was still worth nothing. Olive oil was more precious than acres of rock.
    One evening, however, Carmela looked up from her bowl of soup and declared:
    “We have to do things differently.”
    “What?” asked Giuseppe.
    “The New York money. We have to use it for something other than a house.”
    “That’s ridiculous,” said Domenico. “Where would we live?”
    “And if we bought a house,” retorted Carmela, who had already spent hours thinking about this, “you would keep on sweating like animals for the rest of your Godgiven days, just to earn your daily bread. That would be all you’d have to depend on. And the years would go by. No, we have money; we have to buy something better.”
    “Like what?” asked Domenico, intrigued.
    “I don’t know yet. But I’ll come up with something.”
    Carmela’s argument had set the three brothers thinking. She was right. There was no doubt about it. Buy a house, and then what? If only they had enough to buy four houses, but that wasn’t the case. They had to think of something else.
    “Tomorrow is Sunday,” continued Carmela. “Take me out with you. I want to see what you see, do what you do, all day long. I’ll watch and I’ll figure something out.”
    Once again, the men didn’t know what to say. Women in Montepuccio didn’t go out, or if they did, it was only at very specific times. In the morning, very early, to go to market; to hear the Mass—though since the death of don Carlo this was no longer the case; and at harvest time, when they came out to pick