The Florios of Sicily

by Stefania Auci

  The young man walks away from the table. “You can’t talk to me this way. Isabella is—”

  “Isabella? On first-name terms already, are you?”

  “Damn it, her name is Isabella! Yes, I went to stand outside her house. So?” Vincenzo, too, has now raised his voice. “What makes you think she isn’t—isn’t an honest woman?”

  “You just have to look at the way she moves to know the kind of woman she is.” When Giuseppina is this angry, there’s no power, human or divine, that can bring her back to reason.

  And Ignazio suddenly sees it: the concealed side of Vincenzo, the one he’s always suspected. Destructive, fueled by determination, nurtured by anger. It’s there, throbbing and glowing.

  “Calm down, Vincenzo.” Ignazio approaches him and tries to placate him, but the young man isn’t even listening, and pushes him away. It’s as though he doesn’t recognize his own mother anymore: he doesn’t know the shrew who’s spitting insults at him. What hurts him most is the contempt in her face.

  “What gives you the right to think you’re better than her?” he tells her. “You’ve always been judgmental, always shut in your own world and never wanted to see outside it! You just enjoy tormenting other people, that’s all!”

  “I’m your mother!”

  “No—” His anger sticks in his throat, preventing him from speaking. He backs away to the door. “Why don’t you look at yourself in the mirror and see who you really are before you go insulting people?”

  He leaves and slams the door behind him.

  He strides the short distance to the aromateria at full speed. The store is empty, thank God. Everybody’s home for lunch.

  He tries to calm himself down by going through a list of herbs and their use.

  Witch hazel for soothing.

  Cloves for nausea and indigestion.

  Tormentil for gut infections.

  Horse chestnut root for varicose veins.

  Cinchona bark for fevers . . .

  * * *

  Ignazio has quickly finished eating his pasta, now cold, while Giuseppina has been yelling and shouting.

  He’ll never say it out loud, but he knows his sister-in-law’s fears are not unfounded: a bastard is the last thing they need. He therefore leaves without saying goodbye and heads to the aromateria. He finds his nephew alone in the office, hunched over the ledgers. He puts a hand on his back. “Do you trust me?”

  The young man nods.

  “What’s going on between the young baroness and you, Vincenzo?”

  “Nothing, Uncle, I swear.”

  Ignazio sees again in Vincenzo’s eyes that dark side he’s always feared existed. Now it has surfaced, there’s no way of pushing it back.

  “It’s not as my mother says: she just says that because . . .” He runs his fingers through his thick, wavy hair. “I don’t know why she says that.”

  “You’re her son. She’s scared you’ll brush her aside.” And she’s jealous, he thinks. Because your mother doesn’t love you like her child but like a part of herself, with a love that leaves no room for anything else.

  Vincenzo rests his elbows on the table. “In any case, I think she likes me, too—Isabella, I mean.”

  “What gives you that impression?”

  “The other day she was standing behind the curtain and when I walked past her house she greeted me. Now she openly smiles at me even when she’s with her mother, who then chides her. That old woman snubs me like a leper.”

  “Her mother also wants what’s best for her.”

  “And I’m not good enough, right?”

  Ignazio doesn’t reply. It’s true that the Florios are well off but Vincenzo isn’t the heir of an aristocratic family, and for that kind of person, blood is everything. He strokes his hair. “Listen. You’re going to England next month and you’ll be staying there for a few months. If you still want her when you’re back, I’ll try to talk to your mother and persuade her. But not before. Right now, if your mother was standing in front of the young baroness, she’d strangle her.”

  Vincenzo can’t help laughing. However, his expression darkens. “You know something, Uncle, I’ve been thinking about this trip. I’m not sure it’s a good idea for me to go.”

  Ignazio freezes. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not sure I want to go.”

  “You must, Vincenzo.” His voice is calm, as usual, but his blood is boiling.

  The young man lets go of his pen and a drop of ink spreads over the paper. “What if Isabella—”

  “She’s a woman, and right now she’s beautiful and makes your blood stir, but some things don’t last forever, Vincenzo. What does last is this work!”

  “If her mother marries her off to someone else I’ll—”

  “No.” Ignazio raises his voice and shakes him. “You can’t do this to me. You can’t be this ungrateful after all the sacrifices I’ve made for you and this business. You, too, have to look after this putìa and the people who work here.”

  * * *

  You can no longer just look out for yourself.

  These words are crowding his mind as he’s walking, his head down, fists in his pockets.

  Words as heavy as rocks.

  He tries to shake off his sense of guilt. It’s true: his uncle has devoted himself to work, for his sake and his mother’s. He feels stifled, like an animal in a cage.

  Never has he been so aware of belonging to a family as now.

  He reaches La Cala.

  Until a year ago, the harbor was heaving with ships, and chests with British or colonial stamps were being unloaded along the docks. Now the whole district seems to be turned inward, wrapped in a mellow silence where you can even hear the lapping of the water.

  The prospect of the trip to England resurfaces more strongly than ever.

  Oh, God, it’s true that I want to go, he thinks. It’s what he’s wished for most ever since he met Ingham. On the other hand, Isabella is the desire of a rogue heart persuaded by promises enclosed in a few glances from behind a curtain.

  His shoes wear out the cobbles, leading him to Piazzetta Sant’Eligio.

  To hell with convention. He needs to know.

  * * *

  It’s late afternoon by the time Isabella comes out. The first thing she sees is Vincenzo, leaning against the wall outside the front door.

  He walks over to her and takes her hand. “So?” he asks hastily. “Tell me now.”

  She holds her breath and wants to answer but cannot, although she tries. “I—”

  A fan slaps her on the lips and breaks her voice. The baroness quickly slips between them. “So what? What do you want?”

  “It’s Isabella I want to speak to, not you.”

  “How dare you call her by name? She’s Baronessina Pillitteri to you. Now, on your way before I call my son and he gives a laborer like you the blows he deserves.”

  The young woman stands behind her mother, extremely pale, not reacting, her fists clenched against her mouth.

  Vincenzo feels anger rising in his chest. “Your son, signora”—never would he give her the satisfaction of addressing her by her aristocratic title—“is probably drunk in some brothel, squandering the last money you gave him.”

  The woman’s cheeks shrivel. She may have been as beautiful as Isabella when she was young, but life has marked her face, stealing every last spark of grace. “How dare you speak to me like this, you miserable dog?”

  “I mean no disrespect to you, but you show me none.”

  Passersby stop to watch them. There are a few heads peering out the windows. “My forebears would have people like you whipped for as much as raising their eyes or saying a word too many, and you now dare speak to me like this! You and your family of longshoremen can go back to the bilge you came from.”

  Vincenzo studies her. The lace on her dress is darned, and the frill on the hem so worn, it’s threadbare. “Did you choose your outfit before going out? Or was it your maid? Of course, I forget, yo
u no longer have a lady’s maid, right? In that case you should have paid more attention: the silk in your skirt is torn, signora.”

  The sound of a slap echoes in the street.

  Vincenzo stands petrified.

  He can’t remember the last time his own mother slapped him across the face.

  The color drained from her in shame, Isabella backs away to the front door.

  Vincenzo notices and takes a stride past the baroness, forgetting his burning cheek. “Isabella!” he calls out.

  At first, she shakes her head, then echoes her refusal in a loud voice, again and again before disappearing in the darkness of the courtyard.

  “No.”

  The baroness approaches Vincenzo and, standing on tiptoe, brings her lips close to his ear. Her words are like blades. “Rather than seeing her touched by someone like you, I’d sooner my daughter were dead or dishonored,” she says. “Or even a whore in a brothel.” She walks away, then speaks up so everybody can hear her. “You could have all the money in the world but it’ll always stink of sweat. You’ll never be anything but a laborer. It’s blood that counts.”

  * * *

  Vincenzo stands motionless in the middle of the street while Palermo rushes past him. The windows close again and laughter fades amid the clanging of wagons. Some look on him with sympathy and compassion. Others do nothing to conceal their contempt.

  It’s blood that counts.

  He leaves the square. Head high, back straight. But he feels as heavy as lead.

  Everything inside him is shattered. Only humiliation keeps him in one piece.

  Never again, he tells himself.

  Never again.

  * * *

  “So, how do you find Yorkshire?”

  Benjamin Ingham is sitting opposite him in the carriage. He speaks English to him.

  Vincenzo’s nose is crushed against the window as he studies the countryside. “It’s beautiful, but everything in England looks different from what I’d imagined,” he finally replies. “I thought it had many cities and houses.” He looks at Ingham. “I’ve never seen so much rain, especially in August.”

  “It’s brought by the ocean winds,” the Englishman explains. “There are no mountains here to stop the clouds, like in Sicily.” He then looks at Vincenzo’s suit and gives a pleased nod. “My tailor has done an excellent job. What you brought from Palermo wasn’t suitable for this climate.”

  The young man feels the cloth of his jacket: it’s warm, thick, and stops the damp from getting through. But what truly surprised him was the cotton used for making shirts. His underwear had a coarse texture, while this is soft, made by the steam looms Ingham has described enthusiastically.

  He’s been learning more in the past few weeks than over a whole year of studying. Everything about this trip is a discovery: the ocean that has given him an awe-provoking sense of vastness, the cliffs of the French coast, the sun becoming an evanescent presence. And the factories. So many factories!

  “Before we go home to Leeds, we’ll call at one of the textile mills I own,” Ben promised when they arrived. “A textile factory with steam-powered looms. It’s wonderful, you’ll see.”

  It’s exactly where they’re now going.

  As soon as Vincenzo steps out of the carriage, he’s overwhelmed by the smell of burning coal: a sharp, bitter odor blending with the north wind.

  The workers are busying themselves around goods wagons and chests covered with canvas.

  He looks at the brick walls in the courtyard. No plaster. No decoration. In the center, there’s a building with a large portal and a chimney on a slate roof.

  A man comes forward to greet Ingham. It’s the foreman: a fat man with a jacket that seems about to burst at the seams. As he walks them to the entrance, he mentions a couple of engine failures.

  Benjamin reassures him and says he’ll speak to him later. He makes a sign at Vincenzo to follow him.

  They go in.

  Whistles, thuds, and a constant shrieking that seems to be coming from the roof. The clanging is deafening. Vincenzo plunges into the darkness and heat.

  He senses movement. Bodies. He remembers the tercets from Dante’s Inferno, which he has learned with Don Salpietra, where the poet finds the indolent souls running around and colliding with one another, going after a weathervane, rushing about aimlessly.

  Only a few seconds later does he make out men, women, and children of all ages moving around the machines. Many have skin glowing with sweat and wear cloths tied around their heads.

  Benjamin tugs at his arm. “There are more than thirty people employed here. The work follows a specific order: over there they produce the yarns, which are then worked in this part of the plant.” He indicates a section of the building that seems better lit. Vincenzo sees children sitting and carding the wool. “They used to be shepherds or weavers at home; now they have a steady salary and a roof over their heads.”

  There’s a hiss on his right. He bends over the mechanical spool running up and down, as though with a life of its own, weaving the woof and warp. He wants to touch the threads but stops when he sees the fingers of the woman pushing the cloth along the loom. She has two phalanges missing.

  He feels sweat gather between his shoulder blades and run down his back. He removes his coat. You can’t breathe here. How can people work in these conditions?

  Ingham indicates a few black cylinders separated from the work area by a wall. That’s where the hissing and clicking is coming from. The closer they get to it, the more stifling the heat. The workers’ faces look feverish, and some are laboring with bare torsos. They take almost no notice of the visitors; even so, Vincenzo detects a mixture of resentment and resignation in their furtive glances.

  So here it is, the heart of the factory. The steam engine is a monster with a black carapace, shiny with grease. A slab conceals the pistons activated by the heat. Gingerly, almost reverently, he reaches out to one of the tubes. It’s hot, and he feels the motion vibrating under the palm of his hand. It seems to be throbbing with a life of its own.

  * * *

  Ingham is right when he says that something like this could never work in Sicily. In Britain, workers don’t complain or make mischief, there’s no shortage of water, and, above all, no shortage of entrepreneurs.

  “People here think differently,” he explains in the office after the visit. A maid is serving tea, a blend Vincenzo has never tried and which has a flower scent. He lifts his cup, trying to conform to British etiquette, which is so different from his family’s simple rituals.

  “Building an enterprise is not just about money. You need ideas and the courage to manage them. Let me give you an example. Who, of all Palermo’s aromatari, has as much business as you?”

  “Not many,” Vincenzo admits. “One or two, perhaps. Like Canzoneri and Gulì.”

  “And why is that? I’m sure you’ve thought about it.”

  “They’ve been familiar with this way of working for generations, so they just carry on.” The thoughts he’s stumbled over so many times line up in an orderly manner and start to make sense. “They’ve never believed they could go beyond it. So—”

  “They’ve stopped at what they have. A putiedda—a store.”

  It’s strange to hear that word uttered in an English accent.

  While Ingham sips his tea, Vincenzo lowers his eyes and ponders. For a moment, his thoughts are polluted by the memory of Isabella. He dismisses it, along with the words spoken by the baroness. “What if these machines were set up in Sicily? Wouldn’t it bring our costs down?” he insists.

  “Yes and no.” Ingham puts down his cup. It’s time to resume their journey. “Don’t think I haven’t considered it. I’d have to import the looms and spare parts, as well as mechanics . . . not to mention the fact that coal is easily available here. Ideally, we would have a factory that produces these machines in Palermo.”

  “But there aren’t any,” Vincenzo says, disheartened. “The business would run at
a loss.”

  As they’re about to get back into the carriage, Ingham puts a hand on his arm. “In any case, I think we can drop the formalities. Call me Ben.”

  * * *

  The sirocco is a wet blanket cast over Palermo.

  The aristocracy has relocated to San Lorenzo or Bagheria for the summer, to villas surrounded by gardens. The luckier ones spend their days shut in their houses, wetting the curtains to cool the air, or taking refuge in underground rooms.

  Even children don’t feel like playing. You can see them in the sea, beyond La Cala, diving into the water and chasing one another on the rocks.

  Those forced to work cross the streets, heads down beneath a ruthless sun. Ignazio hates the heat: everything becomes twice as much effort, and leaves him breathless. He goes to the aromateria at dawn, and leaves once night has fallen over Palermo.

  This is when Palermo’s residents reclaim their city. Life resumes in the narrow streets and the tuff and stone alleys that lead to the rear of luxurious aristocratic palaces whose shutters are closed because their owners are in their country villas. Gusts of humidity blow in from the harbor, so those who are able to take their carriages or buggies for a ride by the sea. There are shiny vehicles and wagons painted with paladins and humble traps full of people in search of a little coolness. The great, popular feast of the city’s patron saint, Rosalia, took place just recently, and left the city tired and drunk on celebration and color.

  Chairs and benches are dragged outside the doors. Women chatter while keeping an eye on their children, and workers fall asleep on straw mattresses thrown on the balconies.

  Giuseppina is waiting for him by the window, some darning in her hands. They eat in serene, familiar silence.

  Evenings end on the balcony, watching people in the street. She has a fan made of palm, and a glass of water with zammù, aniseed water, and Ignazio has a bowl of semenza.

  One night, Giuseppina suddenly becomes gloomy.

  “What’s the matter?” he asks more out of habit than true concern.

  “Nothing.”

  “What’s wrong?” he repeats.

  She shrugs. She looks sad. Then she says softly, “Do you ever think about our house in Pietraliscia?”