The House of Scorta by Laurent Gaudé Page B

dormitories, from sickness, disappointment, and solitude. Abandoned by everyone and everything, those creatures had a hard time finding a reason to live they could grasp onto. Often they let themselves drift into death with a vague smile on their faces, happy, deep down, to put an end to the series of trials and humiliations that had been their lives.
    Strangely enough, I got stronger. My fever broke. Soon Icould cross the deck from end to end. I raced up and down the stairs, I wended my way through the corridors. I was all over the place, going from one group to the next. In afew days, everybody knew me, regardless of their age or language. I spent my days doing little favors, darning socks, finding a little water for the old Irishman, or someone to trade a blanket for a small silver medal that a Danish woman was willing to part with. I knew everyone by name, or surname, at least. I wiped the brows of the sick. I prepared food for the elderly. People called me “the little one.” I got my brothers involved. I told them what to do. They moved sick people out onto the deck on sunny days. They passed out water in the dormitories. We were alternately messengers, merchants, nurses, and confessors. Little by little, we managed to improve our lot. We earned a few pennies, won a few privileges. Where did the money come from? Most of the time, from the dead. Many people died. It was understood that the few possessions the dying left behind would go to the community. It would have been hard to do otherwise. Most of the poor creatures were going back to a country where no one was waiting for them. They had left their loved ones behind in America or in lands where they had no intention of returning. Were we to send the few coins they hid in their rags to an address where they would never arrive? The booty was redistributed on board. Often the crew helped themselves to it first. That’s where we came in. We made sure the crew was informed as late as possible, and we divided things up in the darkness of the hold. This involved long negotiations. If the deceased had family on board, everything went to the survivors, but if not—which was more often the case—we tried to be fair. Sometimes we would spend hours reaching an agreement on the inheritance of three pieces of string and a pair of shoes. I never tended a sick person with the idea of his impending death in mind or how I might profit from it. I swear it. I did it because I wanted to fight, and this was the only way I had found to do so.
    I looked after on an old Polish man in particular, whom I liked a lot. I never succeeded in pronouncing his full name, Korniewski or Korzeniewki, I just called him “Korni.” He was small and wizened. He must have been about seventy. His body slowly abandoned him. People had discouraged him from making the trip, from trying his luck. They told him he was too old, too weak, but he had insisted. He wanted to see this land that everyone was talking about. His strength had begun to wane from the start. He kept the smile in his eyes, but he was losing weight by the day. Sometimes he would murmur things in my ear that I couldn’t understand, but he made me laugh because the sounds he made seemed like anything but a language.
    Korni. He saved us from the poverty that was eating away at our lives. He died before we reached England. He died one night when the ship was gently rocking. The moment he felt himself fading, he called me to his side and handed me a little rag tied with string. He said something I didn’t understand, then, letting his head fall back on the bed, eyes wide open, he began to pray, in Latin. I prayed with him, until the moment death robbed him of his last breath. In the rag there were eight gold coins and a small silver crucifix. That was the money that saved us. Shortly after old Korni’s death, the boat began to put in at the ports of Europe. First it berthed in London, then cast anchor in Le Havre, and then set off again for