The Florios of Sicily

by Stefania Auci

  He wishes he could touch her cheek and feel its warmth. Instead, he crosses his arms, taking care not to crease the jacket he had made specially for the reopening. Whoever comes into the store has to see right away that they’re no longer dealing with a store boy in shirtsleeves.

  At that very moment, Vincenzo arrives. “Mamma! Uncle! Didn’t you wait for me?”

  The boy is tall for his age. He looks like an adolescent even though he’s only just turned eleven.

  Ignazio runs his fingers through the child’s hair. “We haven’t gone anywhere. Besides, what you need to see is in the back. The paint is still drying.”

  He leads the way down the long corridor to the countinghouse. On the desks, also brand-new, there are inkwells, reams of paper, and blotters.

  Ignazio indicates a long, painted wooden sign lying on the floor at the back of the room. The colors are bright, still fresh. Low down, the slender signature of the painter, Salvatore Burgarello, well known in Castellammare. “He finished it this morning and said it should dry away from the sun, otherwise the paint will crack.”

  Giuseppina’s hands are over her lips, as though to stifle a cry.

  Vincenzo’s eyes, however, dash from the painting to his uncle. He points at the writing.

  IGNAZIO AND VINCENZO FLORIO’S

  APOTHECARY STORE

  “You added my name, too! Why?”

  Ignazio puts an arm around his shoulder. “Because you’re my nephew and your father’s heir.”

  And because, he thinks with a tenderness that warms him inside, you’re my son in my heart if not in flesh.

  A forest is painted on the sign. At the bottom, a stream flows out from the roots of a tree, and a lion is drinking from it.

  It’s a cinchona tree.

  * * *

  “Goodbye, Donna Margherita. It’s always a pleasure to serve you.”

  Holding on to Vincenzo’s arm, the old lady sways from the counter to the exit. The boy is a tall, angular adolescent a whole head taller than her. She nods and makes a vague gesture of blessing. “Good boy! I’ve watched you grow. Even when you were a little lad, one could tell you were a levelheaded child. Now you’re grown up, you’re always respectful. Well done . . . The Lord will reward you.”

  Vincenzo continues to smile until the door closes. No sooner has the customer left than he puts his hands over his face. “Holy Mother, she did go on and on!”

  The store clerks giggle. Everybody finds Margherita Conticello, that antique from the Tribunali district, hard to bear. Delegating her to Vincenzo, since he’s an apprentice, is a game from which he always comes out a loser.

  There’s chatter coming from the countinghouse.

  Ignazio appears with a man whose face is darkened by the sun: Vincenzo Mazza, the umpteenth Bagnara man transplanted to Palermo. “Very well, I’ll let you know,” he says with a heavy Calabrian accent. He shakes Ignazio’s hand and gives Vincenzo a pat on the back. “Hey, Vincenzo, look how tall you’ve grown! What do they feed you?”

  “Bread, olives, and onion.”

  “And your mother waters your feet so you’ve grown taller by morning, right?”

  More laughter.

  After saying goodbye, Ignazio returns. The boy stops him. “Uncle, may I have a word?”

  Ignazio sighs. He can already imagine why he wants to talk to him. “Come in.” He sits down and rubs his temples. He’s working himself into the ground, but Vincenzo doesn’t fully realize this: he’s fifteen and has the typical selfishness of someone who’s only just venturing out into the world but thinks he already knows everything. Ignazio motions him to a chair. “So?”

  Vincenzo collapses into it like an empty sack. “Donna Conticello was here. Again.” He covers his face with his hands. “I know more about her gout than her physician. She wants to be served only by me or you, says she wants to speak with the owners and not the clerks.”

  Ignazio rubs his lips. “So what’s wrong? The poor creature needs someone to talk to and she’s taken a liking to you. Just say yes to everything and she’ll go away happy. And that’s no way to sit. Back straight, eyes ahead, and hands on your lap. How many times do I have to tell you?”

  Vincenzo pulls himself up but doesn’t take his hands away from his face. Instead, he gives his uncle a pleading look. “Do I really have to be at the counter? I can’t bear people who complain: I feel like drowning them in La Cala. I’d be much more helpful to you in the office with Signor Reggio, you know I’m good at accounts. Please!”

  Ignazio nails him to the chair with a look. “No. And I’ve already explained why.”

  “Because this way I can learn to read people and guess what they really want. Because this way I’ll learn discipline and build up resistance to tiredness. Because this way I will respect other people’s work.” Vincenzo lists the reasons on his fingertips and huffs. “Have I left something out?”

  “Yes.” Ignazio indicates the room. “Your father and I earned everything you see here starting from a putìa that was little more than a storage shed. I want you to realize what this place means to us, the Florios.”

  The boy hangs his head, his breath quickens. He says nothing.

  “Now go back to work,” Ignazio commands.

  Only after he disappears behind the door do Ignazio’s features soften. His nephew is like his brother Paolo, true, but at the same time he couldn’t be more different. He has a sunny disposition, likes to laugh, and has no fear of life.

  Vincenzo is his pride and joy. He’s learning fast but that’s not enough. He must also learn to keep his feet on the ground.

  Ignazio is still lost in thought when the door opens again. “Can you at least tell me what Signor Mazza wanted?”

  Ignazio rolls his eyes. “So that’s what’s on your mind, right?” He shows Vincenzo a pamphlet. “Here, read.”

  Vincenzo doesn’t wait to be told twice. He grabs the papers and glances through them. “An insurance policy?”

  “That’s right. Mazza and I want to insure a large quantity of sumac. In practice, by paying a sum of money, we’ll protect ourselves against the loss of the shipment.”

  “So that what happened to Captain Olsen’s ship, when you had to pay a ransom for the spice packages, doesn’t happen again?”

  Ignazio points at a section on the document. “Exactly. If you remember, we had to fork out a lot of money to retrieve the goods.”

  “Nobody here in Palermo does this but it sounds like a good idea . . .” Vincenzo concludes, returning the papers. He’s almost as tall as his uncle, uncommonly so for an adolescent.

  “It is. The insurance won’t leave you destitute, while the loss of a shipment could, but not everyone understands that,” Ignazio explains patiently. “What persuaded me is the fact that Abraham Gibbs is in charge of the company. The British know how to earn respect, they have a fleet that defends them against the French, which is something we don’t have. We have to protect our interests and learn from their example. They’ve rented warehouses and fondaci that allow them to trade with the whole Mediterranean; Palermo and Malta are two safe landings for them. They know how to protect merchant ships: they’ve been insuring shipments for decades, and Gibbs is experienced at this. Moreover, he’s not just a trader but also the British consul, and this gives us a further guarantee. Actually, now that I think about it . . .” He looks for a document among the papers and hands it to Vincenzo. “Since you’re so eager to get away from the counter, you won’t mind being an errand boy. This is for Ingham. Make sure he reads it in person.”

  “For Benjamin?” His eyes light up. Vincenzo is intrigued by this man who speaks with a heavy foreign accent and manages people and things with a simple hand gesture. He has a lot of money, really a lot if he can afford to rent a whole ship to send the goods he buys in Sicily to Great Britain. Among the British merchants, like John Woodhouse, James Hopps, and even Gibbs, he’s the best known. Maybe not the wealthiest—Not yet, the boy thinks—but definitely the shrewdest. The mos
t determined.

  “Signor Ingham to you. Remember, Vincenzo, show respect if you want respect. Just because he’s our neighbor doesn’t give you the right to become inappropriately familiar. Now run along.”

  The boy vanishes through the door.

  Ignazio sighs. Sometimes, he feels as though he really is his father and, as a parent, he chides him and loves him.

  And yet.

  There is a dark side to the boy. He’s sensed it only a few times. An underlying restlessness, a rebellious spirit that alarms him and, precisely because he’s never had to deal with it, which he doesn’t know how to handle.

  * * *

  In Via dei Materassai, spring is bursting out on the narrow balconies, the flowers and pots of herbs, the washing hanging out to dry between buildings, the smell of soap and fresh tomato sauce. Undulating white curtains have taken the place of shutters closed against winter storms.

  There’s a coming and going of men, especially merchants who dress according to the English fashion, complete with waistcoats and cloth jackets. You can hear the shouts of sellers from Piano San Giacomo, and beyond, toward Via degli Argentieri, the clinking of craftsmen’s hammers. A dark-skinned sailor is talking to a man with red hair and sunburned skin in what is a blend of Arabic and Sicilian.

  Hands in his pockets, lighthearted, Vincenzo walks the short distance between the store and Benjamin Ingham’s house. The Englishman is the richest person on this street. Richer than many Palermo noblemen.

  Vincenzo straightens his jacket collar and knocks. A butler in livery lets him into the hall, and Ingham comes to welcome him in person. “It’s young Florio! Welcome! Come, let’s go and sit down.”

  “Signore . . .” Vincenzo follows the Englishman into his study, eyes fixed on his back. There are fewer than fifteen years between them and yet the young man has built up a lot of experience—in life and business—that has marked him and made him look much older than he is.

  Ben Ingham is wearing a plastron and sober clothes. The lines on his face, mottled by the Sicilian sun, suggest tenacity, rigor, and discipline. Vincenzo clearly sees the power oozed by this man. It’s a kind of encircling heat, a breath of wind that forces people to keep at least a span away from him. Something at the same time physical and intangible. Unlike other traders, he never raises his voice or loses his temper. He doesn’t need to.

  Vincenzo doesn’t know, however, couldn’t possibly know, how much Ingham has had to struggle in order to acquire this position. Arriving in Palermo after the ship carrying the cloth manufactured by his family in Leeds sank, ruining them, Ingham had found himself alone in an unknown city, with no means of support. When Ignazio met him at the Customs House, he was looking for a way into the cloth trade in Sicily, since cloth, silk, and cotton were all he knew and could talk about. Nevertheless, he learned quickly and can now afford to sell even sulfur, sumac, and hides to other British traders.

  “Do you have something for me?”

  Vincenzo hands him the letter and he begins to read.

  Meanwhile, the boy looks around. He’s never been here and finds this place highly fascinating, so different from the aromateria and its noise. The silence is muffled, the air steeped in a sweet aroma, perhaps tobacco with mint leaves.

  The room is full of light, leather, wood, and books. There are foreign seals on the documents.

  A rustling sound of paper and hushed voices comes from the door to his right. A man enters the room, shows Ingham a document, and asks him something in English. Vincenzo knows only a few words of it and can’t understand what they’re saying. He follows the secretary with his eyes as he disappears as silently as he arrived.

  Noticing his curiosity, Ingham frowns. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  Caught and embarrassed, Vincenzo tries to justify himself. “No, I—forgive me—this study is so—” He moves his hand, indicating the walls. “So different.”

  “A piece of England in Sicily,” Ingham says, pleased, and encourages him to come closer. “Order is everything. You see, all the books are organized by year and contain sections for debits and credits. I think Don Ignazio also uses a similar system.”

  “Yes.” Vincenzo reads the writing on the leather spines. “I’d like to visit your country, signore,” he blurts out. “It must be very different from mine.”

  “Why not go? You have shipments from England, too . . . You could ask your uncle to let you travel on a ship that carries your goods. It would be a highly informative experience.”

  The boy’s tone grows wary. “Yes, we have a few things.” If there’s one rule he has learned, it’s never to discuss the family business.

  Ingham walks around him until he stands facing him. “More than ‘a few things,’ if memory serves. You’ve been selling more than just spices for a long time now.”

  “Yes, we deal in goods from many harbors, and not just in the Mediterranean.”

  “I can imagine. You Florios haven’t gotten to where you are now by selling just cinnamon and cloves for making cakes.” He hands him back the document after scribbling something on it. “Oh, and by the way, tell your uncle there are no problems: the people he mentions are creditworthy.”

  Curiosity sweeps away Vincenzo’s earlier caution. He tries to worm out a reply. “So they’re drafts to be discounted, right?”

  Ingham lowers his eyelids, concealing his true thoughts. “Among other things. But if your uncle hasn’t talked to you about it, then I certainly shan’t.”

  Now he understands why his uncle sent him here, and the thought produces the hint of a smile on his lips.

  When Vincenzo returns to the store, he heads back to the counter and resumes his work with the others. He doesn’t protest. His head is crammed with thoughts; his eyes are still in Ingham’s library; his nose still filled with the aroma of the tobacco. In his chest, there’s an unfamiliar yearning for the sea and open skies, which belongs to his roots and his family’s past.

  In the study, Ignazio reads the English merchant’s reply. The last line provokes a slight smile.

  Vincenzo is very promising. Sooner or later he will do you out of a job.

  * * *

  It’s almost evening by the time Ignazio and Vincenzo finally leave the aromateria. The spring sky is shifting from gray to dark blue and the few passersby in the streets are trudging along the basalt after a day’s work.

  Vincenzo stifles a yawn. “Uncle, do you mind if I take a walk before going home? My head’s all foggy.”

  Ignazio responds with a tap on the back. “As long as you’re back by the time the San Domenico bell rings, because we have to have dinner, and you know your mother’ll start to rant, otherwise.”

  “I know. In any case, I still have some studying to do because Don Salpietra is coming tomorrow—”

  “Then go.”

  Ignazio watches him walk away, a veil of indulgence over his eyes. Then he covers the few yards between the aromateria and the house, and slowly opens the door. A smell of meat stew tickles his nostrils and reminds him he’s skipped lunch.

  Giuseppina is sitting in the kitchen, holding a rosary in her hand, her head resting on a closed fist, her face softened by sleep. The table in front of her is lavishly set. She has dozed off while waiting.

  He stands motionless and hesitates between giving her a shake or letting her slumber and this way allow himself to watch her, to look at the hair that has escaped from her braid, framing her face, on which the first wrinkles have started to appear. Giuseppina opens her eyes and her placid expression is erased by a feeling of guilt. “Good God, I fell asleep while saying my prayers . . .”

  Ignazio puts his overcoat over the back of the chair. She recites a short prayer, mutters “Amen,” and kisses the rosary. When she looks up at her brother-in-law’s face again, she sees the gentleness that makes her heart quiver and forces her to avert her eyes.

  Ignazio approaches. “Are you tired? Olimpia isn’t helping you enough. Would you like another servant girl
in the house? We can afford it, you know,” he adds attentively.

  She shakes her head and wraps the shawl around her, clutching it over her chest. “No, I don’t need one. I know it’s not like it was before, and now—and that’s just why I was thinking about the past and about Paolo. About how we were and everything we’ve been through. I started praying for him.”

  Paolo.

  His brother has been dead seven years. Giuseppina continues to pray for his soul and to wear mourning clothes, though not out of grief. No. There is in her a relentless desire to atone for sins nobody attributes to her—a need to punish herself for the harm she and Paolo did to each other.

  “I wasn’t—no, I wasn’t happy with him,” she says all of a sudden, as though responding to Ignazio’s thoughts. “But he was the husband my family and God had given me and I accepted him. And perhaps if he’d lived, I would have learned to love him, because he wasn’t a bad man. He was reliable, hardworking, and couldn’t do without work. And if we sometimes argued it was because we were the same, he and I.”

  “You quarreled because you wanted different things,” Ignazio replies, shocked. “Because you’d say white and he’d say black, because you couldn’t stand him and he forced you to do things you didn’t want to do, and that upset you.” He can’t stop. He loved his brother more than himself and keeps the memory of him, but he can’t allow Giuseppina to turn him into a saint and take faults upon herself that weren’t hers.

  She raises her hand and is about to reply, then nods. “Yes, it’s true. But you know, one shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.”

  Once again, Ignazio feels hope rising. But he knows it’s a weed and, as usual, he tears it out with force. He clenches his fists and watches Giuseppina move about the room but can’t stifle the sense of injustice squeezing his insides. “Paolo’s dead,” he whispers. “He’s at peace, and you should give yourself some peace, too.”

  Her hands on the skillets, Giuseppina stops, shrugs, and silently curses herself. “I can’t,” she finally says. “I just can’t.” Into these words she pours the pain and anger she carries within, as well as the remorse, the loneliness, and the inability to forgive and be forgiven.