* * *
When he comes home, Vincenzo finds each of them locked in a silence he can’t decipher. They eat the stew and exchange only a few words about what they did today.
Ignazio is the first one to retire. He taps his nephew on the back, then approaches his sister-in-law, almost touching her. Her hands full as she is carrying the dishes, Giuseppina stops by the kitchen door.
“Good night,” he says, his breath tickling her hair. She feels something stirring in her chest: the echo of a memory never lived, of a life she has never even had the courage to dream of.
And, as Giuseppina leans forward, he turns his face away and leaves.
Vincenzo watches the scene without understanding it. Perhaps, he thinks, they had a disagreement. Or perhaps his mother got upset by something his uncle said . . . Who knows? He’s always seen those two together and never questioned it. They have been—and still are—his family. They’ve each brought him up in his and her own way, and it’s right it should be so.
Except that this evening, for the first time, he feels that’s not the case. In a muddled but unequivocal way, he senses that these two people are not separate but are a couple. And that they’ve created a family around him, sacrificing—perhaps—themselves in the process. Because although they love each other with a feeling that has nothing to do with marriage, it is no less strong or durable. Even though there’s a ghost standing between them: that of his father, Paolo.
That’s when he understands that there are love affairs not called that, but which are nonetheless deep, and as worth experiencing, however painful.
* * *
The church of the aromatari, Sant’Andrea degli Amalfitani, is heaving. The men wear dark suits and the few women have black veils. You can hear the voices and smells of the Vucciria market nearby.
Outside the front entrance stands a funeral carriage with horses in dark harnesses and black plumes. The following of orphans is ready behind it. Two mourners are beating their bosoms, peeping toward the door, about to raise the volume of their lament as soon as the coffin comes out.
It’s the funeral of Salvatore Leone, an elderly Palermo spice seller as well as one of Casa Florio’s best customers.
The coffin parades down the nave, followed by the priest and the altar boys with thuribles. Then, right behind, come the tearful widow and her two daughters, dressed in black silk and crepe.
Vincenzo is in one of the back rows, behind his uncle. He’s sweating. It’s a muggy September still impregnated with summer.
“A first-class funeral,” Vincenzo whispers. “The orphans, the choir of altar boys . . . The hearse alone must have cost him an arm and a leg.” He slips two fingers under his collar, where his stubble itches and bothers him. His seventeenth year has brought him the gift of bristly hairs, and he’s still learning to manage.
Ignazio nods. “And to think that his family was in a position to hold this kind of ceremony despite the current crisis. In any case, there should be as much dignity in death as in life.”
The boy and his uncle go up to the family of the deceased and offer their condolences. The three women, devastated, shake hands and weep.
As the mourners resume their lamentations, representatives of the College of Aromatari, with their banner, gather around the relatives. They watch them and chatter.
“See that?” the boy asks.
Ignazio nods.
“Do you suppose they’ve heard about the Sumatra pepper deal with Ben’s brother-in-law, Joseph Whitaker?”
“It’s possible. It’s not our problem, Vincenzo. We’re going to be paying a high price for this pepper, but at least we found it—not them.”
Following a loud cry from the mourners, the widow breaks down into sobs. The hearse starts with a jolt and the procession behind it breaks up. The two Florios keep their distance from the other traders.
“Gentlemen . . . I was just looking for you.” A tall, strapping man smelling of sandalwood, Giuseppe Pajno has come up behind them without their noticing. He’s one of the wholesalers the Florios buy from and sell to. They know and respect one another. They have done business together on several occasions, including buying colonial produce plundered by Sicilian privateers, then sold in Palermo.
They shake hands. “How are you?”
“Better than Don Leone, that’s for sure.” Pajno wedges himself between them and speaks softly. “Poor man . . . after a lifetime of working . . . He was a customer of yours, wasn’t he?”
“One of our best, even though lately he had trouble keeping up with his payments.”
“Like everyone else, these days.”
An alarm bell rings in Ignazio’s head. “If I’m not mistaken, he was also one of your buyers.”
“That’s right. Did you know Leone sold his store to Don Nicchi, a few days ago?”
No, he didn’t know, but Ignazio doesn’t show it. “I’d heard something,” he says. “I was planning to go and see Don Leone’s relatives in a few days’ time. In the circumstances, it didn’t seem appropriate to talk business.”
Pajno slows down imperceptibly. “You’re a gentleman, Don Ignazio. Not like some.” He juts his chin at the banner of the College.
Vincenzo understands. “Ah . . . Now, what did they say? All they do is gossip and make trouble. It’s like the other time at the accounts office—”
Pajno puts a hand on his arm. “Unfortunately, not everybody respects you. The higher you climb, the more obstacles you encounter, and it’s often people who talk too much who cause damage. You see,” he adds, addressing both, “I’m a merchant, just like you. All I’m interested in is people who work and people who pay me. Given our relationship, it seemed only fair that I should warn you that nasty things are being said about your work.”
Ignazio keeps walking, his eyes glued to the hearse, his face impassive. “What kind of things?”
“They’re saying that you don’t have a penny in the till and that the business about the pepper is just a rumor to encourage people to buy goods. Since the British left, Palermo has been like a mortuary. We all thought that once the French were defeated, business would pick up. Instead, everything is still even, though they’ve sent Napoleon into exile in the middle of nowhere. Since the crisis flared up, it’s become extremely hard to find imported spices, it’s no longer safe to travel by sea, and you don’t know with whom to trade anymore. And you suddenly show off about getting pepper straight from Sumatra.” He drops his voice. “You must admit it does sound odd.”
“But it’s true! We—”
A glance from his uncle stabs him like a knife. Vincenzo falls silent.
“I’ll bet the entire contents of the warehouses at customs that I know who is spreading this news.” Ignazio’s voice is like a razor blade. “It’s Saguto, isn’t it?”
Slowly, Pajno nods. “He says you’re on the brink of bankruptcy. A little while ago, I heard him say you’re up to your necks in debt and won’t make it to the end of the year. That man’s a viper. I don’t know why he’s got it in for you, but he’s the kind who uses the weapon of cowards: gossip. And he knows how to ensnare people, believe me.”
Ignazio speaks calmly, concealing his anger in the fists in his pockets. “The contract with Whitaker was signed by proxy by Ingham, who is his brother-in-law as well as his representative in Palermo. Are you doubting his word?”
“I know better than that.” Pajno looks at the tips of his shoes. “But Ingham is a foreigner, and many people don’t trust foreigners entirely, even when they’re wealthy.”
“Carmelo Saguto is a louse, but he bites and stings so much that people listen to him. What about you, Pajno? Do you believe him?”
The man puts his hands behind his back. “You owe me for some supplies you received two months ago, and for which you haven’t paid me yet.”
Ignazio doesn’t reply immediately. “I understand,” he says, finally. “If I remember correctly, the deal I’ve signed has a three-month deadline.”
“That’s true. Let’s put it this way: this little chat of ours is by way of warning you to watch your back. You’re a trustworthy store owner, Don Florio, and a reliable person.”
“Then why did you come to us? U’ niuro s’un tingi, mascarìa—if black doesn’t stain, it nevertheless soils.”
Behind him, Vincenzo intervenes harshly. “If you have so much respect for us you could simply have come out and asked us outright if we have the money to pay you. There was no need for this performance.”
“Vincenzo! Your manners!”
Pajno smiles and his brief laugh carries an admission of guilt. “Ah, the joy of being young!” He confesses his lack of trust casually, in an apologetic tone attempting to be complicit. “You, too, would be careful if you were afraid of losing money.”
At that moment, the funeral cortège pauses for a blessing. More weeping and praying.
Ignazio lingers behind with Pajno. “You’ll get your money as agreed, Pajno, crisis or no crisis. The Florios always settle their debts. And if my signature isn’t good enough, then you have my word.”
Ignazio proffers his hand. Pajno takes it. “This I do trust. I’ll be waiting.”
* * *
On their way back, Vincenzo sees his uncle walking with his head down. He sees the indignation and anger.
“Why?” he suddenly asks, genuinely astonished. “Why do some people hate us so much? And I don’t just mean Canzoneri, Uncle, and that snake of a son-in-law. I’m going to smash their faces one of these days . . .”
Ignazio slows down. “I don’t know. I’ve been wondering myself for a long time now. At first I thought it was because we were strangers in the city: they’d accuse us of charging low prices to do them out of business. Then we began to make money and they never forgave us. We’ve tried to do things our way without asking anyone for help. There are people who would happily set our store on fire if they could.”
“But we’re all foreigners here. Even Ingham, but nobody’s picking on him.”
“Because he came with the British and that gave him an advantage: nobody refused the king’s allies. But now, after the war with Napoleon, he’s facing the same difficulties as us. As a matter of fact, it’s surprising he decided to stay after his countrymen left.”
Piano San Giacomo welcomes them with a sunny, refreshing embrace. Vincenzo breathes in deeply. “Or perhaps it’s because this has become home for him, too.”
His words rekindle in Ignazio the memory of his arrival in Palermo, when he was hoping to find somewhere he would belong. He remembers the moment they left Bagnara, when the skiff navigated by his brother Paolo left the dock. The San Francesco di Paola seemed reluctant to leave. It struggled as far as the entrance to the harbor, its lateen flapping against the mast in search of a breath of wind.
Ignazio then thought perhaps Bagnara didn’t want to let them go. But no sooner had they passed the promontory than a powerful gust penetrated the rigging and made it creak. The lateen swelled and the jib spread open like a wing. The change in speed was immediate.
He recalls Paolo holding the helm tight, taking the boat into the open sea. He thinks again about the promises the city made him upon his arrival, seducing him with its wealth of people, colors, and life. Even though it was very tough in the beginning, even though they had to work so hard, even though he was the first to sacrifice himself in order to guarantee Vincenzo, Giuseppina, and Vittoria a certain standard of living, he, Ignazio, was happy. He worked so hard and did so gladly.
However, Palermo turned out to be treacherous. She gave him so much but also took so much away. She was bound not to play fair.
* * *
Giuseppina is standing by the door to her son’s bedroom. She watches Vincenzo searching the street with his eyes. He seems to be waiting for someone.
She’s almost forty and has never loved anybody as much as her child.
He’s her flesh and blood. That’s how she knows.
He is in love.
For the first time, Giuseppina feels her age. She has accepted her first wrinkles and shrugged at the first threads of white in her hair. But not this. A woman who’ll take her son away from her? She can’t bear to think about it. It would mean that a piece of soul she put inside him wouldn’t belong to her anymore. She would be left alone.
It must and will happen, that she knows, it’s a law of nature. But not yet. It’s still too soon.
She turns back, her footsteps muffled by the rug. She takes refuge in the kitchen, where Marianna, the cook, is making dinner.
She sighs. She has no one to confide in. She misses Vittoria, who decided to marry a distant relative and is now living in Mistretta. His name is Pietro Spoliti. He’s a tradesman who, like the Florios, had a boat on which he would travel back and forth between Tyrrhenian ports. He was always bringing news from Bagnara, about who’d gotten married, who’d died or left. Giuseppina needed to keep contact with her village and the world of her memories, so she would invite him to stay and eat in order to hear his stories and that familiar accent.
One day, however, he took Vittoria aside and asked her to marry him. He knew he couldn’t keep her in the same comfort as her relatives, but promised her a dignified, free life. She would no longer be a servant in somebody else’s house but the mistress of her own.
Vittoria’s thoughts were confused and her heart disoriented. But she was a practical young woman: she was nearing twenty-five and spent her days, here in Palermo, doing house chores with her aunt and embroidering. She felt like a household nun, like one of those old maids who pay for their room and board with housework, making themselves invisible in the eyes of the world so as not to disturb anybody, and allowing the years to pass.
When Pietro returned, she accepted him. Together, they told Ignazio and Giuseppina. Her uncle was generous: he gave her a large dowry and held her in his arms for a long time, telling her she’d made the right decision. Giuseppina, on the other hand, gave her a nasty look, as though she’d been betrayed. “Why do you want to leave?” she asked in earnest. “Have we ever deprived you of anything?”
“No, Auntie, you haven’t. You’ve been like a mother to me,” Vittoria replied, her head down. “But now I want a home of my own and to be able to decide what to do with my life. And that’s something I can’t do here. Here I am just your niece, and I don’t have a roof of my own or an income. I don’t want to be the family old maid for the rest of my life. I’m lucky: Pietro is an honest man and I think he’ll treat me with respect.”
Giuseppina had nothing to say to this. It was straightforward: Vittoria had more lucidity than she, as well as more courage. She was choosing to live in a household with smaller means, far from Palermo, but to be the mistress of her own fate.
She looks around and dismisses these sad thoughts. Their home can’t be considered luxurious but they do have a daily maid, as well as one hired by the hour for heavy work. There’s only the corriola, the trunk with her trousseau, left from the furniture brought from Bagnara. Everything, even the linen, is new.
They live in a comfort she wouldn’t even have dared imagine twenty years ago. And yet she still misses Bagnara. She misses her newborn son clinging to her breast.
She feels alone on this island, far from the land where she belongs.
She would gladly give all this up if she could go back. To Bagnara. To Vincenzo as a child.
She could even love Paolo. Who knows?
She can no longer remember her husband’s voice. She still sees before her his stern face, rough movements, and harsh reproaches. Vincenzo has inherited his coloring, his penetrating look, and that determination that borders on inflexibility.
But when Giuseppina thinks about warmth, affectionate gestures, and silent encouragement, then another face comes to mind: one for which she still has—and always will have—a timid feeling and at the same time the attachment of a wild animal.
* * *
Giuseppe Pajno is not the only one to have heard the rumors concerning th
e Florios. The afternoon following the funeral, Guglielmo Li Vigni, secretary to Nicolò Raffo, another wholesaler, comes to the aromateria. He wants to know if they have sumac in stock, and at the same time, almost by chance, asks if they are going to settle the bill for last month’s supply of sugar. This is how they discover that Saguto has been to Raffo’s office intending to buy their credit agreements. In that petty way of his, all insinuations and allusions, Saguto said he was certain that the Florios wouldn’t pay their debts and therefore tried to persuade Raffo to give him the documents. “It would have been advantageous for me, Don Ignazio,” Guglielmo says with a sigh. “He had the money ready in hand . . . but I wasn’t going to do you this wrong. Besides, I still don’t know why he hates you so much . . . You’re an honorable man.”
“I’m grateful for your esteem, Don Li Vigni. Carmelo Saguto feeds on envy and rage, and his jealousy is certainly not provoked by me or my nephew. It’s something he harbors inside him because he wishes he was heaven knows what and instead he’s just Don Canzoneri’s secretary and nothing else. These are hard times for everyone, but I swear on my honor that you’ll get your money to the last penny.”
After Li Vigni has left the office, Vincenzo asks, with a hint of fear, “Are we really in difficulty, Uncle?”
Ignazio shuts the door and goes to the walk-in safe. “We have little money in the till, but that’s not the same thing.”
“But we have the bills of exchange . . .”
Ignazio leans against the desk. “It’s pure and simple, Vincenzo: people aren’t paying, and if they don’t pay, we don’t have any money. You can’t eat bits of paper.” His tongue feels furry. “We need to ask for a loan. We need the cash.”
Vincenzo feels his stomach tightening. Until now his uncle has shielded him from all concerns, and now . . . “But everybody’ll find out! That idiot Saguto will tell the world and his wife!”
“I know that, damn it!” Ignazio hits the desk, jolting the inkwell. “When there’s no choice one has to swallow one’s pride. ‘The reed must bow its head until the full moon is over,’ old people say. And that’s what we’ll do.” He rubs the top of his nose. “You go home. I’m going to try to talk to a couple of people. Please don’t say anything to your mother . . .”
The Florios of Sicily Page 12