The Florios of Sicily

by Stefania Auci

  He looks at Vincenzo and his heart is breaking. He wishes he could take away his pain, but that’s not possible. It’s a law of life, just like the one that regulates the cycle of days and seasons: each one of them carries the mark of its own suffering.

  * * *

  Lying on the bed, Vincenzo is looking up at the ceiling illuminated by the moon. His cheekbone is throbbing, painful.

  The wind is blowing; he can hear the sheets hanging out to dry lashing against the balcony grating.

  He turns over on the bed.

  Laborer. That’s what Saguto called him.

  It lasts just a second. The last image of Isabella Pillitteri.

  That shrew of a mother had called him the same thing: a laborer. That’s why he lost it with Saguto, he can admit it to himself. He should be thankful to his uncle for getting the man out of his way or he would have slaughtered him.

  Isabella.

  The memory of her is no longer as painful as it used to be. But the sense of shame persists—that and a desire for revenge. But not on her. She is now a shadow, a ghost lost in the folds of an adolescence when he was too mollycoddled. Some time ago, he read an announcement in the newspaper that she was marrying a marquis twenty years her senior.

  It did not happen because it could not and was not supposed to happen.

  Ignazio’s voice echoes in his ears. He pulls a face and the shadow of the laundry swaying in the wind seems to answer him.

  Vincenzo is intimate with anger.

  He has been storing it in his chest for years. He’s raising it like a daughter. A bolt of lightning cracks the night in two. It’s about to rain.

  He is not like his uncle, who is patient, self-possessed, and brave.

  Vincenzo believes he is brave. But calm? Self-possessed? He touches his bruise. That’s something he is still working on.

  He is twenty-five years old. A man. He still sleeps in his nursery, in a bed with a painted copper headboard.

  He has studied, he has traveled. His clothes are finely tailored. He thought his family was respected, and they probably are, but not by everyone, and not as they should be.

  And that’s what outrages him. To discover that it’s never enough, never sufficient. That no matter what he does, he always carries the original sin for which he is not to blame.

  In Via dei Materassai, in the alleys of the Castellammare district, they are the Florios: middlemen, merchants, wholesalers of colonial produce, and persons of esteem one can go to for advice concerning a consignment of goods or a letter of guarantee.

  But this is a city inside another city, and Palermo by the sea has little to do with those who live beyond Cassaro, the large road that, at the exquisite Baroque intersection of Quattro Canti and Via Maqueda—the wide, elegant stone street created by the Spanish viceroys—divides the city into four districts: the ancient Kalsa, now the site of the courts of justice; the Albergheria, where the Royal Palace is situated; Monte di Pietà, with its Capo market; and, finally, Castellammare, the old Loggia quarter, where he lives.

  He slams his hand on the bed. Outside, a burst of rain pelts the windows.

  He can see challenging him, demanding that Saguto lowers his head and gives him the right of way.

  Vincenzo usually looks the other way. But he will not do that anymore. He will walk with his head higher and higher, like his uncle, who has turned to stone and no longer needs anybody.

  He will make them eat their arrogance: common people like Saguto as well as aristocrats like the Pillitteris. All of them.

  He swears it to himself and seals the promise with his anger. He must have patience. Patience and resentment.

  * * *

  In the other room, one door away, Ignazio is standing, watching the thunderstorm.

  He hears a knock. He turns and sees Giuseppina in the doorway, her hair down and with puffy eyes.

  “If it weren’t for you, he’d already have gotten himself in trouble so many times.” She speaks softly and her voice is practically lost in the storm. “You brought him up for me as though he was your own.” In vain, she tries to swallow her pride and her tears. “Paolo would not have treated him the way you have.”

  Ignazio is surprised. Something is startled in his resigned chest. He does not want to read in her words something that’s not there: Giuseppina is still angry about everything her husband—and fate—put upon her, and perhaps will always be.

  And yet.

  “I love Vincenzo.” And I love you, his eyes tell her. I’m here, a step behind you.

  She nods. She would like to say more, much more, but does not. Because resentment is a stone embankment between your throat and your soul. It’s her security, her excuse for justifying her unhappiness.

  * * *

  The spring air is warm. It smells of sea and blood.

  Ignazio looks at the tuna being unloaded one after another, victims of the mattanza—the slaughter—following the Feast of the Holy Crucifixion that May, in 1828. Their large, shiny eyes almost look astounded. Their silver skin has been ripped open by harpoons.

  At the bottom of the black boat, other creatures are waiting to be unloaded. They are going to be dragged into the tonnara, where they’ll be hung by the tail for two days at least, so that blood and other humors may be drained before they are gutted.

  He turns and his eyes search for Ignazio Messina. Florio finds him talking to the rais of the tonnara.

  Ignazio Messina is their secretary, hired after Maurizio Reggio left his position, having confessed that he felt inadequate to the large volume of work; Florio himself knew that Reggio was not up to the task anymore, but did not want to dismiss him after so many years of service and dedication. His resignation came as a relief to all: by now the size of the House of Florio business required people with experience and enthusiasm, something Maurizio no longer had.

  Ignazio Messina, on the other hand, is shrewd. Ignazio Florio immediately took a liking to this man, who, although he is of an advanced age, is full of energy. Above all, he has eyes that appear peaceful but which can actually delve deeply.

  The secretary joins him. He looks satisfied. “This second netting has gone well, too. I told Alessio to come by the office tomorrow and pick up the money for himself and the crew.”

  “Good,” Ignazio mutters. He shields his eyes from the sun with his hand. The tuna fishers are finishing unloading. Some are carrying pails to wash away the blood, others are collecting the ropes.

  From the boat ramp he can see the coast almost all the way to the Madonie Mountains.

  Below stand La Cala and Palermo, with its tiled domes and ocher walls. He remembers his arrival there and how thrilled he was to see the city on offer, noisy and full of promises.

  Then life changed, the business grew and Vincenzo with it. After all these years, even the pain of losing Paolo has become less burning but has turned into a melancholy feeling, a sadness stuck between his throat and his chest, that makes him sigh.

  Sometimes, he misses Paolo, it’s true: but above all he feels a powerful regret for what has been and can never return, and remembers his strong body, his hope, his enthusiasm, and even the emotion of a love without hope that used to make him feel alive.

  He misses being what he used to be.

  He misses the sea.

  He knows this by the pang between his stomach and rib cage. He feels a sense of loss when he recalls the boat rolling under his feet and the sense of freedom on the skiff, twenty years ago.

  He, a creature of the wind, has been forced to become a man of the land and of money.

  The pain that was no more than a lament of the soul suddenly turns into a grip that shortens his breath. His blood pumps in his throat. He closes his eyes and leans on Messina’s arm.

  It is not the first time.

  “Don Ignazio, what’s wrong?”

  The grip eases and his mind focuses again. “Just tired,” he says with a dismissive gesture.

  “You work too hard. You give yourself to t
he business, body and soul, and never rest.” The secretary seems genuinely concerned. “Your nephew knows how to deal with customers. You could—”

  “This is my concern,” he says, interrupting him with more harshness than is necessary.

  The other man falls silent.

  They slowly walk around the wall of the plant.

  “I’ve always liked this place,” Ignazio says softly, his words carried away by the wind. “I took over its management a few years ago, when it wasn’t very productive. There wasn’t much fishing, the British had gone and there was no more money around. Then, just within a few years . . .” He clicks his fingers. “Everything changed.”

  The secretary looks around. “The timing wasn’t right. But this year, the sea has been generous.” He makes motions with his head to the inside of the building, from which they can hear voices, thuds, and chains squeaking. “We can cure it and sell it on the mainland, beyond the lighthouse.”

  “That’s right.”

  Ignazio leans against the wall. Beneath him, there is black water and cliffs; in front of him, the reflection of the sun. His life has always been like this: an ebb and flow of right and wrong timing to which he has had to adapt. Maybe that is why he has become so good at it, by working hard at being something he was not.

  He comes away from the wall. “Let’s go back to Via dei Materassai. I have things to finish.”

  “But, Don Ignazio, it’s afternoon already. By the time we get back to town, it’ll be time for vespers.”

  Ignazio walks ahead. “Don’t put off till tomorrow what you can do today. Besides, Vincenzo is waiting for me to complete some transactions.”

  He gets into the buggy. He takes one more look at the sea of the Arenella tonnara, his heart heavy with desire and regret.

  * * *

  On May 18, 1828, Ignazio opens his eyes. He sees a light filtering through the shutters of the balcony overlooking Via dei Materassai: a sharp glow that heralds the summer, as does the swallow song in the attic.

  He is tired. He’s had a bad night. He’s had digestive problems for a while, so much so that he sometimes prefers to eat just bread and fruit.

  He does not feel like getting up but he must. He props himself up on the mattress, is suddenly dizzy, and falls back down on the pillows. His left arm is hurting, but that’s normal since he usually sleeps on that side. He catches his breath and waits.

  He dozes off without even noticing.

  It is an hour later by the time he wakes up. He calls Olimpia, the maid, and she shuffles into the room. “Here I am, signore.”

  She flings open the shutters. The sun floods into the bedroom, illuminating the untidy bedding. “What’s wrong, Don Ignazio? Sweet Jesus, you’re as white as a sheet.”

  Ignazio stifles a cough and sits up with difficulty. “Nothing. I didn’t digest my food properly. Can you make me some water with bay leaf and lemon?” He massages his chest. His stomach seems to be bubbling up.

  Olimpia picks up the clothes he dropped higgledy-piggledy the night before, too tired to tidy them away. She presses the pleat of his pants while still chatting away. “Your nephew looked in on you a little while ago. Poor thing, he was worried. He saw you were asleep and left you to it. He’s at the store now. Just give me a minute and I’ll make you water with bay leaf.”

  She disappears. He props himself up against the night table to get up. It’s easier to breathe standing up.

  He drinks the decoction, shaves, and gets dressed.

  I’m not a youngster anymore, he thinks, looking at himself in the mirror. His eyelids are swollen, his hair streaked with gray, his hands shaking. Time is a creditor that does not accept promissory notes.

  He hears Giuseppina’s voice coming from the kitchen. She must have gone to the market early in the morning. She says it’s something she enjoys doing. Ignazio knows it’s really because she does not trust the maids.

  He has barely done up his tie when she appears in the doorway, one hand on the jamb, the other on the knob. “Olimpia says you’re unwell. When Vincenzo and I went out, we also thought—”

  “I’m all right,” he interrupts her, sharply. He puts on his jacket but the movement makes him moan. The stabbing pain in his arm has increased. He suddenly vomits and staggers.

  She can barely hold him up before he falls. For the first time in many years, Ignazio and Giuseppina are close. He can smell her perfume; she senses how ill he is.

  His heart is thumping under his breastbone. The pain suddenly explodes in his chest.

  Ignazio collapses. Giuseppina cannot stop him: he is too heavy, she is dragged down with him, and, in the fall, the bowl of water shatters. Water and shards are scattered on the floor.

  “Olimpia!” Giuseppina screams. “Olimpia!”

  The maid rushes in and puts her hands on her head. “Don Ignazio! Sweet Mother of God! What happened?”

  “Help me put him on the bed.”

  But Ignazio is practically unconscious and prey to convulsions.

  “Call Vincenzo! Run to the store and tell him to come right away.”

  “Woe!” Olimpia cries. “What a tragedy!” Her screams really seem to presage a disaster.

  Giuseppina is on the brink of tears. Ignazio looks waxen and is sweating. She holds him to her bosom and brushes his hair off his face. She unbuttons his collar and pulls off his tie.

  What’s happening to him? He can’t die, he’s always been here, he’s—“Ignazio!” she calls, tears in her voice. “My Ignazio!”

  She is sobbing now.

  She feels a shudder in her brother-in-law’s hand.

  Ignazio opens his eyes and meets hers. His fingers open and touch her cheek.

  For an instant, Giuseppina sees everything in him. What and how much, and how, and for how long. She realizes how wretched she is going to be from this moment on, and how fortunate she has been without knowing it.

  Vincenzo rushes into the room. “Uncle!” He throws himself on the floor, next to Ignazio. “Uncle, what’s wrong?”

  He puts his hands on Ignazio’s chest while his mother keeps holding his uncle tight against her and rocking. He practically snatches him out of her arms. “Uncle! No!”

  Again he yells no, and again he calls him. He can’t die like this, not him. How will he manage on his own?

  Ignazio seems to look at Vincenzo for a moment. He even has a faint smile.

  That is when his heart gives way.

  * * *

  Ignazio Messina is the one who informs the registrar of the death of Ignazio Florio. He also asks Serretta, the notary, to come to Via dei Materassai the day after the funeral to read out the will.

  Wearing a mourning tie, Vincenzo waits in the drawing room, crammed with Bagnara folk and staff. In a corner, dressed in black, stands Giuseppina. She seems suddenly aged. She is grieving, and the light has gone out of her eyes. She who was always so hard, such a fighter. For the past two days she has been going into her brother-in-law’s bedroom, placing a hand on his bed, sighing bitterly, then leaving. Back and forth.

  When Serretta arrives, relatives and employees sit around the table. Everybody except for Vincenzo, who continues to stand by the window and look out. He has his arms crossed over his chest and seems impassive.

  The May light is flooding over the walls and spreading over the Flemish tapestries purchased years earlier from captains who traded with the East, and over the ebony and walnut furniture. Vincenzo now realizes everything was picked out by Ignazio.

  Thanks to him, in thirty years, everything has changed: he turned their putìa into an enterprise and made them into what they are.

  The Florios of Palermo.

  And he made a man out of Vincenzo.

  The notary reads out figures, ownership shares, legacies and bequests to his nephews in Bagnara, a sum of money for Mattia and her children.

  Vincenzo has not stirred.

  “Don Vincenzo, did you hear what I said?”

  Don Vincenzo. All eyes are on him.
He is the head of the family now.

  Serretta, the notary, is waiting.

  “Yes,” Vincenzo replies.

  He knows what is in his uncle’s will. They drafted two similar documents a few years ago, each nominating the other as his heir. But Ignazio recently added another clause. It is a sign, a message. When the notary reads out the codicil, Vincenzo can almost feel Ignazio’s steady, gentle presence right there, next to him.

  “That the business should continue to operate under the name of Ignazio and Vincenzo Florio.”

  He signs his acceptance of the inheritance without a word. He shakes the notary’s hand. He kisses his weeping mother on the forehead. He goes to Ignazio Messina. “Please take care of the paperwork. I’ll see you later in the store.”

  He goes out.

  His feet know where they are going.

  His head down, he walks decisively, dodging passersby. He reaches La Cala and goes to the far end of the pier.

  He sits on the ground, just as he did so many years ago, when his father died.

  He then said to his uncle Ignazio, “We are alone now.” I am alone now, he thinks.

  A tear, just one tear, runs down his cheek.

  Part Four

  Sulfur

  April 1830 to February 1837

  Addisiari e ’un aviri è pena di muriri.

  To desire and not have is sure grief.

  —SICILIAN PROVERB

  In 1830, twenty-year-old Ferdinand II becomes king of the Two Sicilies, and obviously favors economic and social revival. A political and tax overview is launched and, above all, infrastructures are substantially boosted. The Bourbon reign becomes a time when technology and science are widely exploited: engineering is boosted, as is the creation of railways and the building of military ships with metal hulls. Italy’s first pension system is set up, and the first network of electrical street lighting is started. Moreover, there is a drive toward improving the exploitation of solfataras, and this leads to an open conflict with the British and the French, who are determined to purchase sulfur below market prices.