The Florios of Sicily

by Stefania Auci

  Ignazio puts the bowl of seeds on the floor. “I do sometimes. Why?”

  “I think about it all the time. I reckon I’d like to go back there, at least to die.” She throws her head back, looks for stars but can’t find them. “I want to go back to my own home.”

  Ignazio is taken aback. “What are you saying?”

  Giuseppina is hardly listening to him. “You’re all settled with your work,” she says more to herself than to him, “while I have no idea what I’m doing here. Except for Mariuccia, who’s very old now, and a few other acquaintances, I don’t have anybody. I could ask Vincenzo to come with me, and he would help you trade from there, organize your work . . .”

  Ignazio can’t believe what Giuseppina has just suggested. Grasping the railing, in vain he searches for words. “What do you mean? We send ships to Marseille and you’re talking about Calabria? Vincenzo, who speaks English and French, to go and live in Bagnara? He’s a city boy—from Palermo, as a matter of fact—and you want him to go live in a village with four streets?” He sounds aggressive, incredulous, angry. “We’ve been in Palermo for almost eighteen years. Even your husband’s buried here.”

  “Yes, your brother was a fine one. Took everything away from me and didn’t even give me an ounce of love. Just grabbed my dowry money then put me in a corner.”

  “Are you still thinking about this? Your dowry belonged to him and now you’re staying right here. Where do you think you’ll go all alone? And who’d take care of me and your son?”

  The lines on Giuseppina’s face twist into a vexed smirk. “Typical of this family. I have to be your servant till the end of my days, right? More fool me for asking you, hoping you were different. But you’re like the rest, selfish and malarazza—a bad sort.” She stands up. “You know what I find most hurtful? That my son is growing up to be like you two, with a heart of stone that—”

  “What’s the matter with you this evening? How can you say this about your son?”

  “Never mind. Just something I’m thinking. No point talking about it anymore. After all, you’ve also forgotten everything. All you care about is money and the business.” She vanishes behind the curtain.

  Ignazio remains on the balcony, his fist tight on the railing.

  This is ingratitude, he thinks. It’s not my fault.

  He could scream like a madman. Giuseppina’s accusation is cruel and unfair, and she does not acknowledge even one of the thousand things he’s done for her.

  He suddenly wonders if it really is worth working himself into the ground like he does, without an ounce of affection in return. He doesn’t mean the affection Giuseppina has shown in taking care of him: in this respect she has never held back.

  He means something else, something that bites at his flesh and has kept him awake for many—too many—nights.

  Enough.

  He goes to his sister-in-law’s bedroom. She has changed and is wearing a nightdress, plain, with no frills, a leftover from her trousseau. She’s in front of the mirror, untangling clips from her hair.

  Ignazio can’t stop himself. “Why? Don’t you know what you are to me? Why do you always have to remember the past?”

  Giuseppina drops her arms. “I told you. This wasn’t my choice. Being here is a penance for me.”

  “Don’t hold that against me. People have gone forward, made lives for themselves, and many even settled in Sicily . . . Even Vittoria and Pietro Spoliti live in Mistretta. What do you think is left in Bagnara?”

  Giuseppina does not answer. She knows Ignazio is right. And yet she has harbored this resentment for so many years, she cannot do without it now. A resentment that’s a thorn between her ribs and her stomach. She throws down the clasps and starts brushing her hair. “Please go away.” She slams the brush on the dressing table. “Go away!” she cries.

  She hears steps walking away.

  But not her resentment, no. That doesn’t decrease.

  “That’s what you are,” she shouts, “people who take what they want! First your brother and now you have taken my life. You’ve reduced me to nothing and turned my son into a swine, a dog.”

  More footsteps.

  She is suddenly caught in a painful embrace. Her nightdress opens, revealing her breast.

  Ignazio is holding her back tight against his chest. He’s trembling.

  They look at each other in the mirror.

  Giuseppina sees a stranger and is afraid of him. Because the man who has grabbed her like this can’t be the mild-mannered, patient Ignazio. It’s a desperate man, an individual who will stop at nothing.

  “If I were like those of my blood, I would have taken what I wanted years ago,” he whispers into her ear, while his hands confirm his words.

  Giuseppina is scared. She’s never seen him like this, and the expression on his face makes her legs feel heavy.

  But she also sees her own desire, which makes her blush and takes her breath away.

  It would not take much, and they both know it.

  She’s the one who crosses that boundary. She turns to Ignazio. Never mind if she regrets it in the morning. Never mind if they both regret it and aren’t able to look each other in the eye for several days. Never mind if their hands experience the path so often traveled with their eyes and their desire, and if they deny it for the rest of their lives.

  They will bury this night deep in their memory because the regret and awareness of having betrayed someone who isn’t here any longer will be too powerful. It will be something that can never be spoken of, not even if it were a dream.

  A shame to keep forever in their memory.

  * * *

  Nineteen years.

  This sunny April 3, 1818, marks nineteen years since Vincenzo has been alive and that Ignazio has been a father to him. Eighteen years that, together with Giuseppina, they have been a family made of absences and silences.

  Today, at closing time, liqueurs and biscuits appeared on the counter. Ignazio had invited the employees of the aromateria to have a drink, then they went home, where Giuseppina had prepared a stew for the occasion.

  When he returned, in October last year, Ignazio and Giuseppina were waiting on the dock. As soon as he disembarked, she hugged him with the possessive enthusiasm of a mother. Embarrassed, Vincenzo stood still, then sought his uncle with his eyes. Standing aside, the latter had given him a nod. When he approached, they shook hands.

  Nothing else.

  But his uncle immediately saw that those five months in England had done him good: the brokenhearted young man was no longer there, but replaced by a proud man with a decided mouth, wide shoulders, and a determined expression.

  At home, while the porters were carrying the baggage upstairs, they sat talking in the parlor.

  “You won’t believe what I saw, Uncle. Over there, machines do everything in half the time.” And he told him all about steam engines, looms, and locomotives. Every so often, Giuseppina would leave the kitchen, stand close to her son, kiss his hair, and listen to him, bursting with pride.

  Ignazio, on the other hand, was studying him very carefully. “This is why the British can afford to trade at such competitive prices,” he concluded.

  “That’s right. And that’s where we could come in, by offering them what they need.” Vincenzo took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to his uncle without a word.

  “The names and addresses of factories and commercial lawyers,” Ignazio commented as he read the paper contents. “I’m very pleased. Ingham has been a good teacher.”

  Vincenzo clasped his hands under his chin with a hint of a smile. “In the last leg of the journey I stayed with him in London. He met commercial representatives, landowners, and a few factory owners. They thought I was just a boy, so they were talking to Ingham without being careful. I listened and that’s how I discovered that they don’t like having many different suppliers.”

  Ignazio saw in his nephew the passion that had long animated him. “All right. So?”

&
nbsp; “We could be their middlemen in Sicily. Take tannin, for instance: they use it to work hides and leather and to fix colors. We have sumac here in Sicily, right? Let’s buy it, grind it, turn it into tannin, and sell it directly to the tanneries.”

  Ignazio looked at the list of names, then at his nephew. He’d grown a slight beard, which made him look grown up. But it was his attitude that was radically different: serious, stern even. “Ingham is already doing this,” he muttered.

  “Yes, but he’s an Englishman. We’re Sicilian, so we can source at lower prices—”

  Giuseppina interrupted and called them to eat.

  Vincenzo gestured at her to wait. He went to a trunk and pulled out two packages. “This is for you, Uncle. And this is for my mother.”

  Giuseppina accepted the present with girlish joy. A length of fabric with an Oriental pattern appeared out of the paper wrapping. She picked it up by the edge and took it to her face. “Silk!” she exclaimed. “What did that cost you?”

  “China silk, to be precise. Nothing I couldn’t afford.” Then he looked at his uncle and motioned at him with his chin. “Now open yours.”

  Dark cloth for a suit and a tie. Ignazio liked the quality of the fabric and its softness.

  “It comes from one of Ben’s factories. I’ll tell you about it while we eat.”

  And they talked about it in abundance.

  And continued to talk about it.

  * * *

  Ignazio is at the desk while his nephew is looking through the previous years’ books, reading out figures, comparing the quantities of goods by income and expenditure. Bark is their most important resource. But there’s more.

  “The sales of sumac have increased since last year.” Vincenzo rubs his fingers on the book. “Almost all of it sold on the British market. And then there are the cargoes of China silk. They literally disappeared as soon as they’d gone through customs.”

  “The French are serious, too. The other day, Gulì sent a large shipment of sumac to Marseille.” Ignazio bites his lip and thinks for a second. “You know something, Vincenzo, I was thinking of also offering to sell semifinished hides, as well as tannin. The British use lamb and kid skins, and we have no shortage of those here. What do you think?”

  The young man nods. “I think we should try it. As you keep telling me, you and my father started out with a storeroom and now we receive consignments from half of Europe. Shall we start drafting proposals? Now, you were thinking of leather and I was going to talk to you about the French buying sulfur. Were you reading my thoughts? Why don’t—”

  His uncle silently points at a folder on the desk with a few notes by Maurizio Reggio. “I beat you to it. I asked around among merchants and mine managers about the conditions for selling sulfur.” He gives a quick, heavily ironic glance. “You want to teach a grandmother to suck eggs, do you?”

  His nephew’s laughter warms his heart.

  * * *

  It’s January 1820 and bitterly cold. Ignazio has been suffering from rheumatic pain for some time, and has asked for the brazier to be lit in the office at the back of the aromateria.

  Vincenzo is peeling oranges and throwing the skins into the coals. A pleasant smell of citrus peel wafts through the air.

  Over the past three years, Vincenzo has grown up a lot. Watching him, Ignazio realizes that it’s not just Vincenzo’s body that has changed but also his mind. It has become increasingly cold and calculating.

  For example, he made up his mind to import and sell British bark powder even though he knew Palermo apothecaries would not like this novelty. Moreover, a few days earlier, his wish came true when the official physician, the authority in charge of the sale of new drugs in Sicily, granted him authorization, thus shielding him from any complaints. There would certainly be no shortage of buyers for this fine, top-quality bark.

  And there will soon be protests, Ignazio thought.

  Therefore, when one of the employees knocks on the door and, embarrassed, announces that a delegation of apothecaries has arrived to “ask for an explanation,” uncle and nephew have barely the time to exchange a look of understanding. As a matter of fact, the small group of men in black cloaks is already on the doorstep. And at the head of the line stand Carmelo Saguto and his brother-in-law Venanzio Canzoneri.

  Ignazio stands up to greet them, invites them into the office, and sits behind his desk, while Vincenzo keeps standing, looking at them menacingly.

  “So tell us, then, Florio,” Canzoneri starts. He has bushy, gingery whiskers and the tone of someone used to giving orders. “What’s this all about, that you’re now allowed to sell drugs? We heard the news but it’s too preposterous to believe.”

  “And good morning to you, too, Canzoneri,” Ignazio replies, rolling his eyes. “You’re looking well, too.”

  “And I can easily guess who told you.” Vincenzo walks around Canzoneri. He stops behind Saguto, leans over him, and speaks almost in his ear. “As usual, you’re worse than a gossiping housewife.”

  “Did someone say something? Was it the boy?” Saguto turns around abruptly and tries to grab him but Vincenzo leaps back and laughs at him.

  Ignazio gestures at his nephew to join him behind the desk, and the young man, swallowing his pride, obeys. He doesn’t want a brawl in his office. But neither is he willing to be intimidated.

  “No more than your—your discreet brother-in-law has already told you, Don Venanzio. By the way, how is your father? I know he was taken ill a few weeks ago and is struggling to recover.”

  “It’s God’s will that he should live on.” Canzoneri crosses his hands over his belly. He doesn’t like talking about his father, who’s been reduced to a vegetative state. It makes him feel out of place even though he is now, in effect, the owner of the pharmacy. “Let’s return to us. The authorization. You know you can’t sell drugs, don’t you? Neither you nor your nephew are apothecaries, and as far as I know you don’t even employ one.”

  “We will be doing nothing that’s against the law. The chief medical officer has granted us this possibility and we’re very grateful. We have a document that sanctions us, an authorization specially issued. Let me ask you now: what are you doing here?”

  Canzoneri huffs and fidgets on his chair. Behind him, Pietro Gulì, the old apothecary who mocked Paolo and Ignazio so much when they first arrived in Palermo, dries his lips then says, “The College of Aromatari has specific rules. You don’t belong to it. Even worse, you’ve neither asked permission nor respected the rules of our guild regarding the sale of medicinal herbs.”

  “That’s because there aren’t just your rules,” Vincenzo answers immediately. “You know what your problem is, Gulì? You think that laws are made especially for you and that you can make them and break them at your leisure.”

  “But that’s the way it is,” Canzoneri replies softly, preventing Gulì’s angry response. “This meeting is a preventive clarification. Consider it as such.”

  Vincenzo leans forward. He, too, now feels a slimy, angry feeling rise within him. “Meaning?”

  “You’re saying that you still think like foreigners, even though you’ve been living in Palermo for—it’s nearly twenty years, isn’t it? You’ve been lucky and you’ve worked hard, I grant you that. And yet you’re still unable to comprehend that, here, some things change not when someone wants to change them or with authorizations. They change when the conditions are favorable.”

  “And they are. More than half of Palermo’s herbalists are our exclusive customers.”

  Saguto opens his arms in one of his theatrical gestures. “Of course. You have all this because you did the paperwork. But what if the money runs out?”

  “I don’t care for the way you’re speaking, Saguto. There are times—”

  “No, Vincenzo.” Ignazio puts his hand on his nephew’s arm. This is not how the Florios react.

  Vincenzo takes a step back but keeps staring at Saguto, who sneers, satisfied.

  Ignazio’s atte
ntion shifts first to Gulì, then to another man, who’s been standing aside until now. He knows him well. It’s Gaspare Pizzimenti, an apothecary for the courts. He’s of an advanced age, distinguished, with a pockmarked face, perhaps because he had the smallpox as a child. “Tell me, Gulì, and you, Pizzimenti, from whom have you bought your bark supplies for the past two years?”

  Pizzimenti clears his throat. “From you, but—”

  “You’ve always said that our products were the best on the market, and that you bottled our English bark without needing to refine it,” Ignazio says. “Don’t be embarrassed: you can admit it here. After all, we’re all honorable men here, right?” He lets his words linger in the air for a few seconds. “Come now, nobody will blame you. You’re not the only one to do this. And yet judging by your colleagues, you no longer wish to do business with us, and there are many others like you. But I suspect it won’t be very easy to sever relations. On the contrary: it will be neither easy nor painless. I mean for you . . .”

  Vincenzo understands immediately and knows what to get and where.

  He opens a drawer in the bookkeeper’s desk, grabs some papers, and hands them to his uncle. In a flash, stacks of promissory notes appear in front of Ignazio, organized by name and amount.

  And all their names are there.

  He crosses his arms and stares them in the face, waiting for them to understand. “True, there are rules to respect,” he finally says. “Just as it’s a matter of honor always to settle your debts, right?”

  Saguto’s smirk fades and turns into a grimace. Pizzimenti steps back into the shadows. Gulì looks down at his shoes.

  Canzoneri gives a deep, almost liberating sigh. “Right,” he says.

  A few seconds later, they’ve all gone. Canzoneri still keeps his head high and walks without speaking to anybody. Saguto, however, turns around. He sees Ignazio and Vincenzo on their doorstep and bites his thumb at them. He will not forget what’s just happened.

  Part Three

  Bark

  July 1820 to May 1828

  U’ pisu di l’anni è lu pisu cchiù granni.