The House of Scorta by Laurent Gaudé

olives. The rest of the time, they stayed home, cloistered behind the thick walls of their houses, away from the sun and the covetous glances of men. What Carmela was suggesting went against the grain of village life, but ever since their return from America, the Scorta brothers had complete confidence in their little sister’s instincts.
    “All right,” said Domenico.
    The next day, Carmela put on her best dress and went out, escorted by her three brothers. They went to the café and drank strong coffee—which wrenched the guts and made the heart beat fast—as was their Sunday custom. Then they sat at a table along the sidewalk and played cards. Carmela was there too, sitting up straight in her chair, a bit off to the side. She watched the men go by. She observed village life. Next, they went to visit a few fishermen friends. At dusk, they went for a passeggiata 11 along the Corso Garibaldi, strolling up and down the avenue, greeting people they knew, hearing the day’s gossip. For the first time in her life, Carmela spent a whole day in the streets of the village, in a world of men who stared at her in astonishment. She heard comments behind her back. People wondered what she was doing there. They made remarks about how she was dressed. But she didn’t care and concentrated on her mission. That evening, when they got home, she carefully took off her shoes. Her feet ached. Standing over her, Domenico watched her in silence.
    “So?” he finally asked her. Giuseppe and Raffaele looked up and fell silent so as not to miss a word of her answer.
    “Cigarettes,” she answered calmly.
    “Cigarettes?”
    “Yes. We should open a tobacco shop in Montepuccio.” Domenico’s face lit up. A tobacco shop. Of course.
    There weren’t any in Montepuccio. The grocer sold a few cigarettes, and you could find them at the marketplace, but a real tobacco shop, no, she was right, Montepuccio didn’t have one. Carmela had observed the doings of the men during the day, and the only thing the fishers of the old town had in common with the bourgeois of the Corso was that they were all puffing avidly on small cigarettes. In the shade at the hour of aperitifs, or in the heat of the sun as they toiled, they smoked. This was something to work with. A tobacco shop. On the Corso. Carmela was sure of it. A tobacco shop. You could bet your life on it. It would never be empty.

 
     
    T he Scortas set about acquiring the property they wanted. They purchased a commercial space on Corso Garibaldi, a large, empty room of about thirty yards square at street-level. They also bought the basement for storage. After that, they had nothing left. The night of their purchase, Carmela was gloomy and silent.
    “What’s wrong?” asked Domenico.
    “We have nothing left to buy the licence,” answered Carmela.
    “How much is it?” asked Giuseppe.
    “It doesn’t cost much, but we’ll need some money to butter up the director of the licence bureau. To send him gifts, every week, until he grants us the license. And we don’t have enough for that.”
    Domenico and Giuseppe were dismayed. This was a new, unforseen obstacle, and they did not know how to overcome it. Raffaele looked at the three of them and said to them softly:
    “I have some money, and I want to give it to you. The only thing I ask is that you don’t ask where it came from. Or how long I’ve had it. Or why I’ve never mentioned it before. I’ve got it. That’s all that matters.”
    He laid a wad of crumpled bills on the table. It was Father Bozzoni’s money. Raffaele had sold the watch. Until this day he had always carried the money on him, not knowing what to do with it, not daring either to get rid of it or to spend it. The Scortas shouted for joy, but he felt no relief. Bozzoni’s crazy silhouette was still dancing in his head, twisting his guts with remorse.
    With Raffaele’s money, they set to work on getting the licence. Every two weeks for the next six months, Domenico