The House of Scorta by Laurent Gaudé

and now she would have to listen to him explain everything.
    “We need to branch out, Miuccia,” he resumed. “Look at your brothers. They’re right. Domenico has his café. Peppe and Faelucc’ have their fishing. We have to start thinking beyond those damned cigarettes.”
    “Tobacco is the only thing suitable for the Scortas,” Carmela replied laconically.
    Her three brothers had married, and all three, at the moment of their marriages, had embraced new lives. One fine day in June, 1934, Domenico had wedded Maria Faratella, daughter of a well-to-do family of merchants. It was a passionless marriage, but it brought Domenico a comfort he’d never known before. For this he felt a gratitude towards Maria that was something like love. With Maria, he was sheltered from poverty. The Faratellas didn’t exactly live in luxury, but they owned—aside from several olive groves—a café in Corso Garibaldi. By now Domenico divided his time between the tobacco shop and the café, depending on where he was needed most on a given day. As for Raffaele and Giuseppe, they had married fishermen’s daughters, and, ever since, work at sea required the better part of their time and strength. Yes, her brothers had drifted away from the tobacco shop, but such was life. The fact that Antonio used their example to call this change of destiny “branching out” irritated Carmela. It seemed false to her, almost dirty.
    “Tobacco is a cross to bear,” resumed Antonio, as Carmela remained silent. “Or it will become one if we don’t try to change. You did what you had to do, and you did it better than anyone, but now we need to think about evolving. You make money with your cigarettes, but you’ll never have what really matters: power.”
    “What do you suggest?”
    “I’m going to run for mayor.”
    Carmela couldn’t suppress a laugh.
    “And who will vote for you? You wouldn’t even have your own family’s support. Domenico, Faelucc’, and Peppe. That’s it. Those are the only votes you could count on.”
    “I know,” said Antonio, who felt hurt, like a child, though he knew she was right. “I need to show people what I’m capable of. I’ve already thought of that. These ignorant Montepuccians don’t know a thing about politics and are unable to recognize a man’s worth. I need to win their respect, and that’s why I’m going to go away.”
    “Where?” asked Carmela, surprised by such determination on the part of her boyish husband.
    “To Spain,” he replied. “The Duce needs some good Italians ready to give up their youth to crush the Reds. I’m going to be one of them. And when I return, covered with medals, they’ll see in me the man they need as mayor, believe me.”
    Carmela fell silent. She’d never heard any mention of this war in Spain, nor of any of the Duce’s plans in that part of the world. Something inside her told her that it was no place for the men in her family. Some sort of visceral premonition. The Scortas’ real battle was being fought right here, in Montepuccio, not Spain. On that day in 1936, as on every day of the year, they needed the whole clan to be present. The Duce and his war in Spain could summon other men. She looked at her husband a long time and merely repeated, in a soft voice:
    “Tobacco is the only thing suitable for the Scortas.”
    But Antonio wasn’t listening. He’d made up his mind and his eyes were already twinkling, like a child dreaming of distant lands.
    “For the Scortas, perhaps,” he said. “But I’m a Manuzio. And you are, too, ever since I married you.”
    Antonio Manuzio had made up his mind. He was determined to leave for Spain, to fight alongside the Fascists. He wanted to complete his political education and embrace this new adventure.
    He further explained, late into the night, why this was a brilliant idea and how, upon his return, he would inevitably benefit from the aura of the hero. Carmela wasn’t listening. She fell asleep as her boyish