Vincenzo’s cheeks are burning. He mutters, “Yes, Uncle,” grabs his jacket, and slips out of the room. All his other thoughts are wiped out by this worry. Even the image of a pair of dark eyes that, for some weeks now, have made him blush and stammer like a child.
But it’s not easy.
It’s not just a matter of pride. Finding someone you can trust when it comes to business is not easy. It won’t be easy to find someone who will lend them money and not start blabbing around.
It’s only when Vincenzo is as old as his uncle is now, however, that he will truly understand what this decision has cost him.
* * *
It’s late evening when the sound of jangling keys comes from the hallway.
Ignazio.
Giuseppina helps him take off his coat. He, too, has locks of white hair on his temples, and his eyes have grown heavy.
“Do you get enough sleep?” she suddenly asks.
He’s taken aback. “I have all eternity to rest. I don’t have time now, especially since the war against the French, last year.” He puts a hand on her face. “Thanks for your concern, anyway.”
She evades the caress.
A lump of bitterness in his throat, Ignazio drops his hand. “Where’s Vincenzo?”
“In his room. I wanted to talk to you about him.”
His silence is full of questions.
He follows her into the kitchen. Marianna is preparing tuna, desalinating it: she changes the water and covers it completely. It’s the only way of removing excess salt. A thick scent of sauce with potatoes stimulates his appetite.
Giuseppina gives the cook a sign and the woman leaves, closing the door behind her. “He’s acting oddly. Have you noticed it, too?”
Ignazio dips a crust of bread into the pan and tries the sauce. “Absolutely! He spent all day with his face glued to the store window. I think he was expecting somebody.” He licks his fingers. “This sauce is delicious.”
The color drains from Giuseppina’s face. “Who?”
“I have my suspicions. Don’t make a drama out of it. He’s just a young man chasing after a skirt.” Ignazio is reluctant to say any more because he doesn’t want to betray his nephew.
But Giuseppina is a mother and a bloodhound. “Who is she?”
“The daughter of Baron Pillitteri. I noticed he always sits behind her in church, and he’s forbidden one of the store clerks to serve her so he can take care of her himself. Normally, he hates being behind the counter but he literally pushed the other boy away in order to speak to her.”
“Isabella Pillitteri? That little thing that’s all skin and bones? The daughter of aristocracy that lost everything on card tables?”
“Yes, but she looks levelheaded to me. She speaks softly and is always understated—”
“So I should hope! After the way her father and brother have acted—they had to sell their shirts to pay off their debts—she shouldn’t even leave the house. She should shut herself away in a convent, except that they wouldn’t have her there either, without a dowry.” She paces up and down the kitchen nervously, and stops in front of him. “Are you sure it’s her?”
“No, but it probably is. Besides, she lives right at the back here, in Piazzetta di Sant’Eligio.” Ignazio omits to say that on at least two occasions, Vincenzo had offered to run errands to that area.
Giuseppina walks around the kitchen, clasping her forehead. “Hadn’t we better find him a girl from Bagnara and marry him off immediately?”
“Please don’t mention Bagnara and arranged marriages!” Ignazio snaps back. “Vincenzo is almost grown up and he’s a boy: you can’t keep him tied to your apron strings forever, and he’s no longer a baby. He’s nearly eighteen, do you realize that? And while we’re on the subject, let me tell you something I’ve been thinking about for a while: he’s leaving for England with Ingham and his secretary in a few weeks’ time. He’s asked to go several times, and Ingham has agreed to let him stay with him and take him with him. The change of air will do him good and he’ll get this fancy out of his head.”
“What do you mean—England?” She collapses onto the chair, a hand on her chest. “My son is going away and you don’t tell me anything? This is why he’s learning English with that merchant’s secretary, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Vincenzo needs to see the world and learn as much as possible. And you’ll see, once he’s been to England, he’ll have forgotten all about the young baroness.”
Giuseppina shakes her head. The fact that her son, her Vincenzo, has looked at this kind of girl upsets her even more than the journey she imagines to be filled with dangers. “He has to get that girl out of his mind!”
Ignazio raises his voice. “Enough! We don’t even know for sure if that’s the case, and even if it is, we’ll make him see sense. And the trip won’t do him any harm. Now serve the meal because I still have work to do after dinner.”
* * *
Dinnertime is silent.
Vincenzo is puzzled. He eats, glances at his mother, sees her frowning, and can’t think why.
Once the table is cleared, he sits down with his uncle to go through the books.
Ignazio separates the invoices from the promissory notes, while Vincenzo does the accounts.
“There are too many people not paying,” he says at one point. “And thank goodness we have the aromateria sales, because at present, as suppliers we might as well be giving the goods away. Between wars, debts, and the cold weather, everything’s going downhill.”
As though in response to his words, the maid comes in to add coals to the brazier that is heating the room. It is a year with no warmth, 1817.
Ignazio waits for her to leave, shudders, and grimaces. “After the loan, it’ll be a miracle if we don’t wind up with a loss.”
“We won’t be the only ones,” Vincenzo replies. “Everybody is having a rough time. Even Saguto has asked for an extension to payments on behalf of his father-in-law . . . assuming the old man still has a say in anything. Since his apoplectic fit, it’s his eldest son who’s been running the business.”
“Saguto is a lackey. They keep him happy because he brought money into the family when he married the old man’s daughter, but he’s just a pawn. A dog who barks at corpses and licks wealthy men’s boots.”
“He’s a dog, yes, but he doesn’t have much to bark about. The Canzoneris are also in debt now. They’ve stopped teasing.”
“Half of Palermo’s in debt, Vincenzo, and the other half has debts it can’t collect.”
His nephew does not answer. He continues to count and brood. This morning, he went to La Cala. On the way, he saw nothing but desert. Now it’s only closed store windows and bolted doors where the British warehouses used to be. In Via San Sebastiano, he saw the landlord of a wine canteen for merchants sweeping the floor of his empty premises.
Since Napoleon’s defeat, the Mediterranean has been liberated from the French plague and the British no longer have their main reason for being in Sicily: now they can trade anywhere, with anyone, and however they please. The island has lost its strategic importance. The harbors are empty.
Palermo seemed dead.
On his way back, he walked past Gulì’s aromateria. He was curious.
The putìa, with its walnut shutters and alabaster vases, was deserted. Gulì himself was leaning on the counter, looking out with a desolate expression. Then he saw the young man and spat on the floor.
He can spit all he likes, Vincenzo now thinks. He rummages through a stack of promissory notes and smiles when he finds a sheet of paper with Gulì’s signature, black on white.
Ignazio opens the window slightly to let the smoke from the brazier out. “I’ve never seen so many stores close down in such a short space of time. Even Ingham said he’s had far fewer orders than before—”
“Well, what did he expect? Commerce died after his fellow countrymen left. They excused themselves and left us the problems with the Neapolitans.”
Vince
nzo shakes his head. The changes over recent years have been too many and too quick.
Nobody was able to stand up against the return of the Bourbons: Sicilians were divided. Palermo hated Messina; Trapani, an ally of Messina, hated Palermo; and Catania looked out for herself. They could boast the oldest parliament in the world but didn’t know what to do with it, as they had amply proved. They were united on just one thing: a loathing for everything “beyond the lighthouse,” beyond the Strait of Messina.
Then disaster struck. The Bourbons returned to Naples.
Since December 1816, state offices and customs have been administered by Neapolitans, and Neapolitans are also military commanders. Palermo has no longer any power or independence. Heavier taxes, restrictions, and new constraints regarding trade have dealt the final blow.
And the already limping economy has come to a complete halt.
Vincenzo closes the accounts book abruptly. “This month we’ve paid out more than we’ve earned, but there are letters of credit about to expire.” He lowers his head, stretches out his arms, and emits a loud yawn.
Ignazio gives him a disapproving look. Vincenzo mutters an apology and straightens up. His uncle points at the accounts sheet. “We’re not a charitable association.” He picks up the promissory notes. “No more extensions.”
They continue to work in silence, shoulder to shoulder. At times, when he’s lost in thought, Ignazio thinks it’s still his brother sitting next to him, and addresses him in Calabrian. Then his nephew looks up and Ignazio realizes his mistake.
That’s when memory grabs him by the stomach and turns to regret.
* * *
When Vincenzo wakes up the following morning, he finds his uncle ready.
Ignazio is playing with his mother’s ring and watches it shine in the light of day. Then he studies Vincenzo.
He wonders what Rosa Bellantoni would have thought of her grandson.
He hears him cursing softly, and finds him tackling a shaving cup and razor, using a towel to dab the bleeding cut under his lip.
“What’s the matter with you? Why are you already so tense first thing in the morning? Come, let me help you.”
Vincenzo sits down and puffs.
Ignazio’s hand is fast and steady. He speaks softly so Giuseppina won’t hear him. “What’s the matter, Vincenzo?” He rinses the razor and the metal clangs against the ceramic. “You’ve been acting odd lately. Even your mother’s noticed.”
The young man pulls away. “I have things on my mind, Uncle.”
“Keep still or I’ll hurt you,” Ignazio says. He lifts Vincenzo’s chin with his fingers. “Is it something serious? Money problems you haven’t told me about?”
“No, not at all.”
One more swipe. The razor glides on the skin under the soap.
“Is it a girl?”
A moment of hesitation. Then an almost imperceptible nod.
“Ah.”
Vincenzo blushes.
“Mind who you go after, Vincenzo.” The blade delicately skids along his jaw. “And mind what you do and with whom. It’s easy to do something stupid, especially if it’s your blood ruling your head.”
The young man’s eyes are a blend of embarrassment and impatience. “You know, I’m not a child anymore, Uncle.”
“True. But a woman can turn a man stupid. And you’re not stupid.” He’s finished. He hands him back the razor. “I’ll wait for you at the store. Hurry up.”
* * *
Isabella Pillitteri is sixteen, with black hair, shiny eyes, and a neck like a swan’s. She is refined, with a grace that’s a blend of the shyness of a novice and exuberant sensuality.
She is beautiful. Very beautiful.
She’s turned many heads in Palermo. She is penniless, however, because her father—recamatierna, peace be with him—had a passion for cards. Everything had been seized by the creditors, from their palace in Bagheria to her mother’s jewels. Then, one day, he was found dead in his bed.
Isabella knows he took poison but it’s not something you can say out loud. Suicides are not blessed in church.
Her brother, on the other hand, is being ruined by the women he frequents. There are constant arguments with their mother.
Nobody gives them credit anymore. The only one who accepts their promises is that young man in the aromateria.
Isabella knows he’s pining after her. She’s not surprised when she sees him, morning and evening, outside her windows in Piazzetta di Sant’Eligio, where she lives in a house her maternal uncle gave her mother more out of pity than affection.
He’s a little older than her, polite, and his family has some money—at least that’s what she hears. But she’s not interested in this kind of match. She is a baron’s daughter. Her family has no land and is in debt until the next generation, but they still have a china dinner set, even though there’s nothing on their dishes but broccoli and onions. This young man is only a jumped-up store boy.
Still.
There he is, like every morning.
Isabella withdraws behind the curtain. “There’s that young man again, Mother,” she announces.
Baroness Pillitteri rushes to her. “Oh, he’s such a nuisance,” she says, pulling Isabella away from the window. “Don’t encourage him. We don’t need his sort. You’re the only one in a position to ensure we get a little comfort. You must find a good match, get married, and do it quickly.”
But Isabella resists, gives Vincenzo another glance, nods, and he responds with a greeting.
Her mother drags her away. “Shame on you!” She closes the curtains and shakes her. “Are you trying to spoil everything? You can’t behave like this with a boor who soils his hands with work. These are contemptible people with no manners.”
Isabella gives in and obeys. She knows that aristocrats mix only with one another and that hers is the kind of beauty they seek. She also knows that beauty doesn’t last long.
Even so, she cannot ignore Vincenzo Florio’s glances. They are not like those of other suitors: they penetrate deep inside her, make her laugh with embarrassment, fascinate her, extinguish her smile, and make her ache.
* * *
The following Sunday, at the evening Mass in San Domenico, Vincenzo manages to sit behind Isabella Pillitteri.
He got out of escorting his mother to Santa Maria La Nova this morning. Giuseppina has become oppressive and is constantly asking him what he’s doing and where he’s going. Vincenzo prefers to be with Ignazio, who is content to watch him with his stern eyes. Never mind. For the sake of one glance from Isabella’s feline eyes he can tolerate his mother’s invasiveness and his uncle’s silent disapproval.
Isabella has white skin, like marble against her black hair. He can almost feel her warmth and the fragrance of her face powder. The attraction is so powerful that he can feel the pulse of the blue vein on her neck, concealed by her collar, throbbing under his fingers.
He dreams of seeing her dressed in silk: in a sumptuous outfit with a neckline that hints at her milky breasts. He imagines touching the silk and feeling her body against his. Then going lower down . . .
He covers his face with his hands.
She’s the kind of woman, this he knows, who can drive a man to distraction.
After Mass, Vincenzo lunges forward so as to find himself right in front of her. Since she is petite, Isabella has to look up at him. She raises her eyebrows slightly in a silent inquiry.
It’s an instant that’s as long as a thousand.
Vincenzo coughs and stands aside to let her through. “After you,” he murmurs in a deep voice that comes from he doesn’t know where. The girl bursts out laughing and he thinks it’s the best sound in the world.
Isabella is about to thank him when her mother pushes her. “What are you doing? Let’s go.”
Still focused on the girl, who keeps turning around, Vincenzo hasn’t noticed the look of contempt her mother has given him.
But, standing next to his nephew, Ignazio ha
s seen it, and returns an equally frosty look.
* * *
“Still after her?” Giuseppina spits out her words, which seem to fall on the dining table and roll onto the floor.
Ignazio chooses to ignore her. He picks up his fork and starts to eat. After a morning spent answering questions from Neapolitan officials ready to tax him on his shoes if they could, he’s tired and hungry.
Giuseppina goes to the window, sits back down, then gets up again. She ignores the dish of pasta and tomato sauce in front of her. “Don’t you have anything to say?”
He carries on eating. “He should know for himself that she’s not suitable for him and—”
“And what if he does something stupid? What if we then have to deal with her, her debts, and her bastard?”
“Stop that now.” Ignazio raises his eyebrows and motions her to the seat at the table. “Then, and only then, will we handle the situation. Not before. And I’ll be the one to do it. You’re his mother but I’m a man, so I know how he thinks. Besides, if she acts all flighty, that’s not Vincenzo’s fault. He’s a grown man, so it’s normal”—he clears his throat—“that he should go after what all other men go after.”
Giuseppina blushes under the weight of Ignazio’s eyes. She sometimes forgets that her brother-in-law, too, is a man, and probably also has needs.
Keys turn in the lock. Vincenzo arrives, out of breath. “Excuse me for being late. I—”
“I won’t excuse you. Where have you been?”
“Mamma, what do you—”
“Now, you keep quiet and listen to me. I don’t want to see that Pillitteri girl here, do you understand? She has a brother who squanders money in brothels, and her mother is hoping that some rich man will be foolish enough to marry her. And, judging from the way you’re behaving, it seems you’re the perfect candidate.”
“Oh, by Saint Francis of Paola!” Ignazio covers his face with his hand. “You couldn’t wait for me to talk to him, could you?”
The Florios of Sicily Page 13