The Florios of Sicily

by Stefania Auci

  Her husband keeps smiling as she looks at herself in the mirror in disbelief, happy.

  The package with the ribbon and the clasp remains in Ignazio’s hands, behind his back. He, too, just smiles and feels foolish, out of place, out of time.

  He goes away. Shortly afterward, he goes back to his room. He hides the package in a trunk at the foot of his bed.

  That’s where Giuseppina will find it after his death.

  * * *

  Vincenzo is sprinting through the alleys, heedless of splashing mud on his pants. He reaches Via della Tavola Tonda, and knocks hard on a door. “Peppino, come down! The brig’s arrived, iamuninni! Let’s go!”

  A little boy appears on the doorstep. He must be seven or eight, the same age as Vincenzo. His eyes are alert, his hair tousled, his feet dirty. They laugh and run, one barefoot, the other in leather shoes, their eyes reflecting their pleasure at being in each other’s company.

  “Where did your father say it was coming from?”

  “Marseille. The French give the spices to Neapolitan sailors who then resell them to my father. Then he sells them at the store.”

  They go through the customs door, clinging to a cart. When the driver notices them, he threatens them with a stick and they run away giggling.

  They reach the dock all sweaty and red in the face.

  Vincenzo’s hair is glossy in the September sun. He sees his uncle on the deck, examining the shipment as it is gradually pulled out of the hold. Reggio follows him, holding the papers, counting out loud.

  Other traders wait their turn on the dock, but it’s the Florios who have the lion’s share. Vincenzo knows this because he heard his father announce it with pride the night before. He knows that, if the sale goes well, they’ll be able to move house. That’s what his mother said.

  Followed by Vincenzo, Peppino climbs on a coil of rope. “Oh, look! Your uncle has boots like a gentleman.”

  “My uncle says it’s important. He says people can tell what you’re like from the way you talk to them but they won’t listen to you unless you’re well dressed.” He shields his eyes from the sun with his hand. The smell of spices that wafts toward him is stronger than the smell of salt from the sea. He recognizes cloves and cinnamon, and whiffs of vanilla scent.

  Ignazio notices him when he turns to speak to Reggio. He also recognizes the little boy with him: Giuseppe Pastore, the son of a Bagnara sailor married to a woman from Palermo.

  If his brother knew that Vincenzo frequents this urchin, he would lose his temper and with good reason. Francesco Pastore, Peppino’s father, lives by his wits; it’s his wife who brings home the money by working as a kitchen maid. But he doesn’t agree with his brother; on the contrary, Vincenzo should have contact with all kinds of people and be able to keep his dignity no matter what. Besides—what the hell!—they, too, used to play barefoot in the streets of Bagnara.

  Reggio comes up to him. “We’ve finished, Don Ignazio. Shall I have everything sent to customs?”

  “Everything except for the package of indigo and the saffron. Take those to the warehouse in Via dei Materassai.”

  A kind of murmur rises from the dock, which Ignazio interprets as a sigh of relief. It’s no sin to have the largest shipment, he thinks. Let them come to terms with it. But, judging by the aggressive looks as he steps down on the land, it’s not envy.

  It’s ill will.

  “So you’ve finished, have you?”

  It’s Mimmo Russello, one of the storekeepers in Via dei Lattarini, speaking: one of those who used to sell spices of dubious quality and scrape a living in the shadow of Canzoneri and Gulì. “I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting. Do go through.” He accompanies his words with a simulated bow.

  A few people laugh, some cough in their hands.

  “Once upon a time it was only the Canzoneris who laid down the law here. Now that you’re here, too, one can’t work anymore. What is it—are you two in cahoots?” Russello mumbles.

  “Us? With the Canzoneris?” Ignazio’s laugh is genuine. “Not even in a dream!”

  “You folks laugh while people who have to work starve. As soon as you and Saguto get to customs, everything gets paralyzed. You set the price and take the best packages. So now you’re acting like masters over here, too.”

  Ignazio isn’t laughing anymore, though. “This is my work. It’s not my fault if customers don’t come to you any longer, Master Russello.” He stresses the word master so that those around see the difference between them. “If our prices are higher it’s because the quality is the best in Palermo and people know it. You want more spices? Different things? Come to our office and we can discuss it.”

  “That’s right. This way, you and Canzoneri can fleece us between you.”

  “Then don’t complain.” Sarcasm has been replaced by coldness. “Nobody’s stealing anything from you. This is all our work,” he adds in a Palermo dialect that has almost lost all Calabrian inflection.

  Russello winces. “Caciettu,” he hisses. “I understand.” He studies Ignazio’s clothes, looks down at his boots and indicates them with his chin. “Don’t you find them tight? They say when you walk around barefoot for a long time, you find it hard to wear closed shoes.”

  All around, silence concentrates into surprised, uneasy looks. Only the sailors keep shouting and calling out to one another, heedless of what’s happening.

  The response comes once Russello is already halfway up the gangplank. “No, my feet don’t hurt. I can afford soft leather. But I can tell you your pocket’s going to hurt so much you’ll cry, if you dare touch our money.”

  He uses the calm tone of someone merely making an observation, but the traders around him step back, confused. The mild-mannered Ignazio Florio has never used threats.

  Ignazio walks away without looking anybody in the face. He feels rage burning inside him: corrosive and unfair. In Palermo, working and breaking your back is not enough. You always have to raise your voice and impose your power, true or pretended, and fight those who speak too much or out of turn. Appearances are very important. The shared lie, the papier mâché backdrop against which you play your part.

  Nobody forgives you reality, the true wealth.

  His eyes meet those of Vincenzo, still up on the coil of ropes.

  His nephew’s little face darkens, afraid. Before he can say anything, Ignazio grabs him by the arm. “Who told you to come here? And with him at that! What will people think of us?” he says, indicating Peppino. His resentment is pushing him for an escape route. “If your father knew you roamed the streets like this, he’d give you the stick.”

  The child mutters an apology. What has he done wrong?

  Behind him, Peppino comes down from the coil of ropes and takes a few steps away from them. Vincenzo keeps turning toward his friend while being dragged away. He looks at Ignazio, then at Peppino.

  He doesn’t understand.

  * * *

  Fits of dry coughing. Again.

  Paolo roams around the house, a hand over his mouth to avoid waking up Ignazio, Vincenzo and Vittoria, and Giuseppina.

  He shivers under the blanket he has pulled over himself. He’s sweating. He goes into the dining room: there’s a table and a dresser and he leans against them in order to catch his breath. There are two arras on the walls.

  He goes to the window searching for fresh air but stops: it’s too cold.

  Below, white in the moonlight, the flagstones are shiny from the humidity. The fruit seller’s baskets stand empty against the door of their old home.

  The new home is beautiful. It’s on the second floor and has windows, real doors, and a kitchen with a cooking brazier that works.

  Another coughing fit. Paolo massages his chest. After every fit he feels it being crushed. He must have caught a chill that won’t go away. How did it happen? He’s always out in the sun, the wind, and the rain . . .

  Footsteps behind him.

  He turns. A face in the darkness. The nightshirt ha
rdly covers his bare feet on the brick floor.

  His son is looking at him.

  As an adult, this will be Vincenzo’s immediate image of his father. Not his voice or gestures or an emotion. His ruthless memory will present him with a hunched-over man looking at him with feverish eyes and with the mark of illness on him.

  He will be revisited by the anguish he felt when he had the confused gut feeling that his life was about to change.

  He will feel his thin, childish voice in his throat, and also in his throat that smell of disease he has already learned to hate.

  “What’s wrong, Papà?”

  Vincenzo is big now: he’s seven and has eyes that give nothing away. Paolo senses a nameless fear in his son’s voice.

  “It’s just a little cough, Vincenzo. Go back to bed.”

  But the little boy shakes his head. He takes a chair from a corner so he can look out the window next to him. They stand, leaning against each other. Their breaths synchronize and their eyes hover over the same stones.

  Vincenzo takes his father’s hand. “Can I come to the aromateria tomorrow?”

  “And what about your teacher? What will we tell the teacher when he comes?”

  The boy insists. “Afterward?”

  “No.”

  Ever since his father has decided that he must study, Vincenzo’s days of freedom between La Cala and the harbor alleys with Peppino and other Bagnara children are over. However, he doesn’t give up. Whenever he can, he runs away to La Cala or to his friends. He spins tops u’ piriu with them on the balate of Piazza Sant’Oliva, the large, smooth stones that form the cobbles in the square. That’s where his mother grabs him by the ear and takes him back home, where, every day, Antonino Gagliano, a young man about to become a priest, makes him study.

  Writing, counting, reading. He does enjoy studying but he prefers even more to stand behind the counter and listen to his uncle talking to suppliers and ships’ captains, learning the names of places and to distinguish the shapes of the ships in the harbor. He can recognize the spice smells: bark, cloves, arnica, even asafetida.

  His father seems to read his thoughts. “You must be patient. Patient and persevering: if you don’t study you’ll never be able to do my work.”

  “But you never studied.”

  “That’s true.” He sighs. “That’s why I had to work much harder and even be swindled. But if you know things, then it’s less likely to happen. The more you know, the less people walk all over you.”

  Vincenzo is not convinced. “You have to see things, Papà, not just study them.”

  “When you’re older.” He tries to pick him up but can’t. A dizzy spell forces him to lean against the jamb. “Come on, let’s go back to bed. I’m tired.”

  Instead, Vincenzo hugs him. He holds him tight against his chest, hides his face in the crook of his father’s neck, and breathes in his smell, a scent of medicinal herbs and sweat. Concealed in these smells, he senses something new, unpleasant and sour, that doesn’t belong there.

  He will remember this hug all his life.

  * * *

  The year 1806 is nearly over but Paolo’s cough won’t go away. It has become deep and insistent. He doesn’t want to be seen by a physician even though Ignazio has repeatedly urged him. Paolo is always tired and can spend only a little time in the store.

  Maurizio Reggio looks after the accounts and Ignazio runs the business. It’s him customers find behind the counter and him retailers turn to for their orders. His delicate features have been erased over the years of hard work. He’s a young man with a calm voice devoid of emotion. His face does not give away either the worry about the business or the fear that the chest cold Paolo suffers from could be something serious.

  But it is.

  He realizes it when Orsola, the maid Paolo has employed for his wife, arrives at the store, breathless. “Come quickly, Don Ignazio!” She pants and rubs her hands on her dress. “Your brother’s sick.”

  Even though it’s winter and nearing Christmas, he doesn’t stop to pick up his cloak. He runs, climbs the steps two at a time, and stops by the bedroom door. Sunk in a chair in the corner, Vittoria, fingers on her lips, is rocking to and fro. She mutters, “Blessed Virgin, what a misfortune,” and can say nothing else.

  Giuseppina is standing up. She is holding a bowl full of soiled handkerchiefs, and looks like someone who knows but can’t admit she understands.

  Slowly, Ignazio comes in and removes the bowl from her hands. Giuseppina’s fingers are trembling. He covers them with his for a moment. “Go to the kitchen. Tell Orsola to call Caruso the physician immediately, then go and wash yourself and the child. You, too, Vittoria. Wash all the laundry in boiling water and lye.”

  The women leave the room. Only then does Ignazio pluck up the courage to look at his brother.

  Paolo is slumped on the pillows. His lips and mustache are stained in red. He attempts a smile that’s more of a smirk. “That’s what it is. I knew it wasn’t a chill.”

  Ignazio hesitates a moment before sitting on the bed. He hugs him tight. It’s his brother, he doesn’t care how ill Paolo is. “I’ll take care of everything, you hear?” He presses his forehead against Paolo’s, just as Paolo did years earlier. “I won’t leave you on your own.” He gives the back of his neck a squeeze. “I’ll get some echinacea made up for you straightaway. Then I’ll find a house outside the city, maybe in Noce or San Lorenzo. There you’ll have warm weather and clean air. You’ll get well, I swear.”

  * * *

  In the kitchen, Vittoria and the maid are preparing cauldrons of water to soak sheets and clothes. The girl’s face is ashen, her lips tight, like a wound.

  Giuseppina can’t stop her hands from shaking. Wrapped in towels, Vincenzo is sitting on the kitchen table. There’s a steaming tub at his feet. He sees his mother is distressed but doesn’t exactly know why.

  Ignazio comes in. He suddenly looks older. “We must all get ourselves checked.” He’s tense, his voice has lost its warmth.

  Giuseppina wishes she could say something, but it’s as though there’s a stone in her throat. Behind her, her son senses something serious is happening. The way children sense things: with an illumination that is already a certainty.

  “Is Papà ill?”

  Giuseppina and Ignazio turn around at the same time.

  Vincenzo understands.

  Giuseppina tries to approach but Ignazio stops her. He speaks to him the way one speaks to a man. “Yes, Vincenzo.”

  The light goes out of the child’s dark eyes. He slides off the table and walks across to his room. There’s a slate on his bed and, on it, the homework left by his tutor. He sits down and begins to write.

  * * *

  Nobody sleeps that night.

  Not Paolo, the lost soul who keeps coughing. Not Vincenzo, who cannot imagine what will happen to his father and stifles his crying with his pillow. Not Vittoria, who sees the ghost of a new solitude drawing closer.

  Not Giuseppina, who, her back turned to her husband, stares into the darkness and keeps her fear locked inside.

  Not Ignazio, who’s walking barefoot, his shirt outside his trousers, his waistcoat unbuttoned. He takes pleasure in the coldness of the floor.

  Paolo’s illness changes everything.

  He already knows that the news will soon spread across Palermo and that some—the Canzoneris first and foremost—will try to take advantage of the situation.

  The business is entirely on his shoulders. He’s going to need to take on another worker; he’ll need to make sure Vincenzo keeps studying without distraction. He’ll have to take care of Giuseppina.

  And this makes him tremble inside.

  He cannot imagine what the next few months will bring him. How advanced the illness is and what its consequences will be.

  He remembers a fall morning when his brother, still an adolescent, dragged him to Mattia and Paolo Barbaro’s house to protect him from their stepmother’s resentment and their father
’s indifference. He saved his life. He realizes it now.

  Mattia.

  Mattia and her children have moved to Marsala. Since Barbaro’s illness had left him unable to work, he found an inexpensive house for himself and his family there. Sometimes, Ignazio sends her money to pay for Raffaele’s studies or simply help her make ends meet.

  Or perhaps, he admits, ashamed, he’s been sending it to soothe his conscience.

  He must tell his sister. Paolo doesn’t know it but his wife has disobeyed his order to sever her relations with Mattia. Giuseppina has been asking him, timidly at first, then regularly, to write letters, and Ignazio has agreed.

  This way, he has kept this piece of family, this piece of life close to him. It’s a secret he shares with his sister-in-law, one of the unspoken things that always formed a bond between them.

  * * *

  The opportunity to contact Mattia arrives a few days later. Paolo has been moved to the country and Giuseppina has gone with him to find a maid to look after him day and night.

  Ignazio and Vincenzo are staying in town, however.

  It’s early afternoon. The store clerks have gone home for lunch.

  “May I come in?”

  Vincenzo is doing division at the counter. He raises his head and calls out, “Uncle, there’s someone’s here for you.”

  Ignazio looks out of the backroom door. It’s one of their freight forwarders who sails on a felucca, come to pick up some aniseed. “Master Salvatore, please come in.”

  “Assabbinirìca—God be with you, Don Florio. You’re looking well. And how’s your brother? They told me at the harbor that he’s not very well . . .” Words softly spoken, respectful, followed by sidelong glances at the child.

  “Thank you, we need all the blessings we can get . . . My brother’s . . . He’s . . . He’s got a chest cold but he’s certainly not at death’s door. He’s being treated outside the city and waiting for God’s will.”

  “Oh, I heard some nasty things. Tongues wag.”

  “They’ve clearly got nothing else to do. Come in . . .” He pushes him gently into the backroom office and smells the scent of salt and sun that brings back memories of his adolescence.