The Florios of Sicily

by Stefania Auci

  “That’s right. Only with these machines. Then they export it to the colonies. Look: the powder is much purer because the dregs stay at the bottom, so it’s ready to be sold. You don’t even need to sift it. Just collect it in glass jars.”

  Maurizio Reggio dunks a finger into the powder. “It’s impalpable . . . Truly incredible.”

  Vincenzo bursts into a brief laugh. He closes the lid again so the volatile elements won’t be dispersed, then tells the Palermo worker to fetch some jars. “Secure the tops and put our wax seal on them.” Then he thanks the blacksmith in English and says to his uncle, “I’ll tell him to train our workers to use the machine, so that he can go back with the next shipment to Leeds.”

  The three men go out into the open. It is one of those days when the sun is still hot but the light is no longer blinding and there’s a slightly pungent coolness in the wind, which smells of the sea.

  “England does you good. And us, too.” Ignazio takes his nephew by the arm. Vincenzo has become a man, with Paolo’s tousled hair and his mother’s long eyes.

  Giuseppina.

  His sister-in-law is growing old, just like him, and yet she still has that indomitable expression he’s been drawn to ever since he’s known her. He has been by her side, taking care of her, for years.

  He could not do otherwise.

  He rubs his mother’s ring. Paolo—recamatierna, peace be with him—has been dead for many years. He and Vincenzo manage the business together.

  He could find himself another woman: one who gives him love and with whom he could finally start a family. Have a little happiness. Even tenderness, perhaps.

  Yet he is still with Giuseppina and Vincenzo.

  It is the life he has chosen. He can admit it to himself with the serenity of a man who has settled accounts with his past.

  Some might say he is a daydreamer. But Ignazio does not pretend, nor act out of a sense of duty.

  What he feels for Giuseppina no longer tastes of passion. It is something reminiscent of the gentleness of fall evenings, an awareness that summer is behind them and that winter is just around the corner.

  * * *

  It’s nearly noon by the time they reach the aromateria.

  “When you wrote to me from London, saying you were planning to buy this machine, I was perplexed, but now that I’ve seen it I have no more doubts.” Ignazio is thinking out loud. “If we sell the quinine in sealed jars, our market will no longer be confined to Palermo but will take in the whole of Sicily.”

  “That’s my plan, Uncle.”

  Maurizio walks ahead and opens the door to the store. The scent of spices blends with the air, steeped in the perfume of the sea, that drifts in from La Cala. “But I don’t think it’s the right time yet, Vincenzo,” he says. “Particularly because we don’t have enough people. Besides, you’ll see, the apothecaries won’t be very happy.”

  Vincenzo shrugs. “They’ll change their minds. It’s a matter of time.” He speaks with assurance as he flings open the flap that separates the counter from the back of the store. “And we’ll show them how to do it.”

  The customers greet them. Ignazio shakes hands and stops to speak to a sales clerk but cannot dismiss a memory that has crept into his mind. Four years ago. His idea to ask the chief medical officer for the authorization to sell drugs. The concession. And then the apothecaries landing on the aromateria, furious and silenced only by the promissory notes flung in their faces . . . Have times really changed? Do they ever? he wonders on his way to the office.

  Vincenzo is busy with calculations and venturing sales forecasts. “We already have the authorization for medicinal powders, Uncle. Neither apothecaries nor aromatari can object. We haven’t used it up to now but . . .”

  Ignazio runs his fingers through his hair, which has patches of gray in it. “You know how much quinine apothecaries buy from us and at what price. Can you imagine how much profit they make from sales in their own stores? By selling bark, we’ll hit them right in their pocket-books. You can imagine what will happen, can’t you?”

  His nephew raises his arms and swears through his teeth.

  Ignazio keeps still for a moment. “However . . . there is a solution that might bring us some luck.” He drums his fingers on the table. “Call Maurizio. We must draft an application to the viceroy.”

  * * *

  The days go by. The application is drafted with great care and the waters tested with informal chats.

  Finally, Ignazio and Vincenzo turn up in person to see Pietro Ugo, Marquess delle Favare, Viceroy of Sicily.

  They spend a long time on brocade couches in a room with a very high ceiling, waiting with other supplicants. The palace clerks give them looks as inquisitive as they are contemptuous. What do these velvet-clad laborers want? Why do they expect to speak to the viceroy in person?

  Ignazio is impassive. He did not become one of Sicily’s most prominent merchants by heeding the opinion of lackeys whose only luck was having a father who was also a palace servant.

  Vincenzo, on the other hand, walks up and down the room, his hands on his hips, and gets upset when he sees other people, who arrived after them, being shown in. He puffs demonstratively when a priest in a cape walks past.

  Ignazio looks up imperceptibly. “Vincenzo, calm down.”

  “But, Uncle . . .”

  Ignazio raises his hand. “Enough.”

  Sinking his teeth into his lip, Vincenzo sits back down next to him.

  They wait. Outside, the day is going by in Palermo.

  It is late afternoon by the time Pietro Ugo receives them.

  A valet in livery shows them in, then blends in with the tapestry in the study.

  Two large whiskers, and bright eyes beneath a forehead made larger by baldness. Sitting at a desk with tortoise and horn inlays, he looks them up and down and focuses on Ignazio. He examines him for a few seconds before deciding that, yes, these two can take a seat.

  Ignazio speaks softly, his back straight, his fingers pointing at the documents. He describes the machine and explains that they already have the authorization to sell drugs.

  “In this case, what do you want? If you already have an official document . . .” Pietro Ugo listens attentively. “I mean, quinine is a drug. Isn’t it included in the chief medical officer’s authorization?”

  “Yes and no. Until now, its sale has been the exclusive prerogative of apothecaries.” Ignazio crosses his hands in his lap. “It’s a delicate matter, Your Excellency. We do not claim medical skills we know we don’t possess: our investment is of a purely economical nature. We wouldn’t like to find ourselves with a machine we cannot use because of a bureaucratic impediment.”

  “I understand. So you would like an ad hoc authorization.” His fingers massage his chin, covered with a goatee, his eyes already focused on other thoughts. “I’ll tell my secretary to examine the matter and—”

  Vincenzo puts his palms on the desk and speaks with ardor. “We’re only asking you to protect our rights, Your Excellency. We want to practice our work as merchants in peace, and this machine will allow us to do it in an innovative way. We are nobody’s servants and are not asking for any favors. We want our right to work to be acknowledged.”

  The viceroy is taken aback, as though he has only just noticed him. “And who would you be, young man?”

  “Vincenzo Florio, Your Excellency.”

  “He’s my nephew.”

  The two Florios speak in unison: Vincenzo with pride, Ignazio with embarrassment.

  The viceroy watches them, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “Fire and water,” he mutters, then slowly leans back against the chair, his eyes fixed on the ornate edge of the desk. “You know, I’ve heard all kinds of supplicants today: people asking for money, assistance, protection, even a priest who wants a particular parish.” He looks up and his tone changes. “But nobody asked me for the acknowledgment of the right to work, as you have done.”

  He stands up.

  Ign
azio and Vincenzo do the same. The meeting is over.

  Then, strangely, the viceroy proffers his hand to them.

  When the Florios realize he does not intend for them to kiss it but shake it, they are more surprised than hesitant. The valet sees them to the door. As they are about to go through it, the viceroy adds, “You will soon have news.”

  * * *

  And the news arrives at the end of 1824.

  Shortly before Christmas, a paper bearing the royal seal is delivered to the management of the general accounts office that deals with sales rights.

  The news spreads across Palermo, goes into bookkeepers’ rooms, through grocery stores, and finally lands in Via dei Materassai.

  There is a celebration in the office: they will now be able to sell quinine powder not only in Palermo but also in Licata, Canicattì, Marsala, Alcamo, and Girgenti.

  Glasses of wine are passed around. Maurizio Reggio lifts the bottle. “Here’s to the Florios and all who work for them!”

  Ignazio laughs and drinks. It has been a good year: not only have they obtained the sales license but, a few months ago, they even acquired an ownership share of a schooner, the Assunta. “We’ll use the Assunta for deliveries throughout the whole of Sicily,” he announces, holding a glass in one hand, and placing the other on a map of the island spread on his desk. “Packaged quinine in sealed bottles with wax and our seal. Deliveries every month.”

  Vincenzo proposes another toast.

  At that moment, there’s the sound of crashing glass from the store.

  Immediately afterward, shouts are heard.

  “What’s the matter?” Ignazio rushes into the aromateria, followed by Maurizio and his nephew. Two frightened lady customers are slipping away, leaving already wrapped purchases on the counter.

  “Thieves! Scoundrels! Whom did you corrupt to obtain this license?”

  Carmelo Saguto is trying to smash the store. Francesco, the head clerk, tries to stop him by pressing his hands against his chest, pushing him away.

  Ignazio feels the crunch of broken glass under his feet, and sees golden powder on the shards. The fragments of a jar of cinnamon are scattered around.

  “And now you’re here, you bastard! You’re crooks!” Saguto yells. “What, have you suddenly become experts? You know you have to have studied before you sell drugs, and you never did. You want to sell bark powder? Tell me the truth: did you buy this license?”

  Ignazio cautiously approaches. “We obtained the authorization to sell medicinal powders four years ago,” he says softly. “Don’t you remember? We have a license. So what’s new?”

  “Powdered quinine! And what’s all this about you having a machine? What’s this novelty that half-English nephew of yours brought from England?”

  “Who wants to know?” Vincenzo comes forward but his uncle stops him.

  “Oh, the little dog barking.” Saguto laughs and wipes the saliva off with his sleeve. He looks at them both with malice and ferocity. “I don’t remember. Do you still have the promissory notes?”

  Ignazio does not reply. But then he senses Vincenzo quivering behind him, so he replies, still calm, “It’s a grinder, Don Saguto. It does what the workers do with the mortar, only faster and better.” He just wants this man to go away.

  “Tell that to the idiots you’re going to sell it to. A machine has no eyes, so it grinds everything the same way. You know something? Go ahead and do it. Go sell this powder. It will ruin you first of all, because as soon as everyone realizes what swindlers you are, nobody will want your rubbish anymore.” He spits on the floor. “Stick to your own work, to what you do best.”

  Ignazio drops his arms. “You shouldn’t have said that,” he tells him in an icy tone. He shows him the door. “Get out.”

  Saguto laughs with contempt.

  Francesco pushes him toward the door. “Come on . . .”

  “Don’t touch me, you dog!” Saguto yells. He smooths his tie, which has become loosened, affecting an elegance he does not possess.

  Carmelo Saguto’s look travels past Ignazio and stabs Vincenzo in the face. “I’m leaving, yes. You could have all the money in the world, but you’ll still always be what you were, and your behavior proves it.”

  “I said, go away!”

  Vincenzo stands next to his uncle, his hands on his hips. “No, wait. What was that you said again? What is it we are?”

  “Jumped-up lice. You were born laborers and laborers you’ve ended up.”

  An icy atmosphere suddenly falls on the room.

  Vincenzo’s fist is so quick and unexpected that Saguto has no time to dodge it. It hits him full on, between the base of the nose and the eyes, propelling him to the floor.

  Immediately afterward, Vincenzo grabs Saguto by the collar and drags him out of the store, into Via dei Materassai. He beats him up methodically, violently, his teeth clenched, without shouting.

  Francesco, Ignazio, and Maurizio Reggio cannot pull them apart. Vincenzo hits Saguto again and the latter punches him in the eye, making him stagger.

  But Vincenzo is young and agile. He headbutts Saguto in the stomach and sends him down into the street mud.

  “That’s enough now!” Ignazio shouts. He stands between the two men, while Maurizio and Francesco finally manage to push Vincenzo against the store door. “You, inside!” he commands his nephew, who is protesting and panting. Then he addresses Saguto, who is down on the ground. His pants are dirty and there is a tear in his jacket, revealing the lining.

  Vincenzo has struck with the intention of hurting.

  “If I don’t finish my nephew’s job it’s because I have self-respect. You’re a coward, Saguto. All our lives, you and Canzoneri have spat venom on us Florios, insulted us, and ridiculed us with your arrogance. But now that’s enough. You hear me? Enough! That time is over. You amount to nothing. If we’re laborers, then so are you. My family and I have come up in the world, this is what we’ve worked for . . .” He indicates the store. “And what have you done? What you were, you still are—Canzoneri’s paper pusher. And you’ll be that forever. Now get out of my sight and don’t come back unless you decide to apologize.”

  He goes back into the aromateria without deigning to give Saguto or the knot of onlookers that has gathered another look. He takes a deep breath. His heart is beating fast and his hands are shaking slightly.

  He lifts his head, meets the baffled looks of the clerks and Francesco. “Get back to work,” he says, panting. Then he goes into the office, from where he hears a series of curses. Maurizio has made Vincenzo sit down and is holding a wet cloth against his cheekbone. “I’ve sent a boy for some ice in Via dell’Alloro,” Maurizio explains. He takes off the cloth and replaces it with a colder one. “What a scoundrel. How dare he come here to insult honest, hardworking people?”

  Ignazio keeps standing. He studies his nephew, who is sitting by the desk. “Let me see,” he commands. A bruise is emerging between the eye and the jaw.

  Vincenzo does not complain or say anything. He is staring into space. In his face, there is darkness: not anger, not rage, but something more obscure and undefinable.

  “Go into the store, Maurizio,” Ignazio says. “I’ll stay here.” Maurizio Reggio is startled by his tone, cold as metal. Never has he heard Ignazio speak like this.

  He leaves uncle and nephew alone.

  Ignazio approaches Vincenzo. His hand opens and closes. He is itching to slap him like he’s never slapped him before. Instead, he says in a low, furious voice, “Don’t ever do this again—do you hear? You must never show them that you’re vulnerable to their insults. Never.”

  The darkness in Vincenzo’s eyes dilates, as though about to burst; then it vanishes, and is replaced by bitterness. “I couldn’t stand him. He made me angry and I lost it.”

  “Do you think I don’t know what they call us? That to them we were and always will be laborers?” Ignazio shakes him and raises his voice. He, whose gestures are always so self-possessed, always so measur
ed. “They’ve been laughing behind my back and making my life difficult for twenty years. What do you know about goods swapped at the last minute, or about officials who make you wait in line while attending to other people first? First, they did that to your father and me because we were a couple of wretches, and afterward because we decided to expand and trade with the nobility. They thought they were dealing with lucky people and not two men who were breaking their backs. Do you really think I don’t know that to them we are not much better than mud? But I am not like them and neither are you. It’s different now. They’ve started to spread rumors about us because . . . Listen to me carefully, Vincenzo: it’s because of envy. They’re angry and afraid of us, and anger eats away at them. So what you need to hit them in the face with is our earnings, because they are the measure of their failure. Not fists, because they definitely are longshoreman behavior. The facts must speak for you. Remember that.”

  Vincenzo stands up abruptly, but feels dizzy and has to sit back down. Uncle Ignazio has never spoken to him openly about these things. “But then you . . . You . . .”

  “Calm, Vincenzo. Self-control. I’ve ignored it for years but I’ve never forgotten it.” He touches his forehead. “I’ve noted everything here. I’m not forgetting anything they’ve done to me. But never show them you’re angry, because rage drives you to make the most stupid mistakes. These are people who think with their bellies. But we’re not like that. You have to develop a pair of cuorna ruri, horns that are as hard as those of a bull, and not hear them but keep walking straight down your path.”

  They look at each other.

  “Do you understand?”

  Vincenzo nods.

  “Now let’s get back to work.”

  Ignazio returns to his desk. He ignores the pressure and breathlessness in his chest. He picks up papers and a pen, then puts them down. He looks at his nephew again. He is sitting with his face in his arms.

  Vincenzo is not his son only because he was not born from his seed. But in all other ways, he’s given him his all. And a man wishes he could spare his son suffering and disappointment even when he knows they will help him grow and become stronger and shrewder, and farisi crisciri i’ scagghiuni, as old Palermo people say, to cut this teeth.