The Florios of Sicily

by Stefania Auci

  Between 1830 and 1831, revolutionary movements break out in France (with the accession to the throne of Louis-Philippe d’Orléans, a constitutional monarch) and in Belgium (which obtains its independence). In July 1831, in Marseille, Giuseppe Mazzini founds Young Italy, which supports “independence from foreigners,” “national unity,” and the constitution of the republic; however, the revolutionary movements organized by Mazzini’s supporters in 1833 and 1834 all end in bloodshed.

  SULFUR. In Sicilian, u’ sùrfaru.

  The devil’s gold.

  Rocks that light a fire.

  The accursed wealth of merchants.

  The treasure landowners suddenly found under their feet after cursing it for centuries; its presence made the soil barren and not even suitable for pasture because of the fumes.

  But now there are winding corridors being dug underground. Children and men line up like ants and surface with basketfuls of yellow stone that deform their backs.

  The clods are weighed and put in sacks, ready to be sold.

  Once loaded, the sulfur travels from Sicily to the rest of Europe: to France and especially Britain, which is guaranteed the lion’s share of the production; but there are other destinations, too, including northern Italy.

  The sulfur is burned in a lead room and, through heat and steam, is turned into oil of vitriol, precious sulfuric acid, used for manufacturing dyes and useful in the transformation processes in the chemical factories that are sprouting all over Europe.

  The devil’s gold makes you rich. It creates well-being and jobs.

  Everywhere. Except in Sicily.

  But that is something Sicilians do not realize.

  At least, not all of them.

  * * *

  The sun has only just risen. It brings the warm, peaceful light that’s typical of a spring morning, like on this day in April 1830.

  In Via dei Materassai, activity is already under way.

  Giuseppina takes a tricotto cookie and dunks it in milk. There are crumbs floating. “Will you be home for lunch, son?”

  Vincenzo does not reply. Stern, wearing a dark frock coat and highly polished boots, he is absorbed in a note the messenger has just brought him.

  “Did you hear what I said?”

  He makes a sign for her to be quiet. Then he suddenly screws up the piece of paper and throws it away. “Damn it!”

  “What is it?” Giuseppina goes to him. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Never mind.”

  Olimpia picks this moment to come into the dining room. “Have you finished? Can I take the cups away?” she asks in a singsong tone. Her smile wanes when she notices that the master is tense and the mistress is worried, so she picks up the crockery and vanishes without a sound.

  Giuseppina insists. “What happened?” Her anxious voice goes after Vincenzo. Her black dress rustles, like sand on the floor.

  “Nothing, I said.” He takes his coat and gives her a kiss.

  “But—”

  “Don’t worry and mind your own business.”

  The woman stays behind, clutching her chest. Vincenzo, her own flesh and blood, has not belonged to her for a long time. Nothing and nobody can enter his world made of money, men, and goods.

  The only person who cared for her died almost two years ago. She is old now.

  Slowly, her heart heavy, she sits back down.

  * * *

  Vincenzo opens the store, just as his uncle used to. A few minutes later, the workers arrive; then Ignazio Messina comes in, having already been to La Cala to get the latest news.

  Vincenzo’s greeting to everybody is more like a grunt. He calls his secretary, who looks at him for a moment and immediately realizes something is wrong. “What is it, Don Vincenzo?”

  He sits at the desk that used to belong to his uncle Ignazio. “The Anna is lost.”

  “Holy Mother of God!” The secretary slaps his forehead. “What do you mean? What happened?”

  “Pirates. She had only left Brazil three days earlier. They probably followed her from the coast and attacked as soon as she was en route for Europe.”

  “Good God!” Messina exclaims. “And now these cowards will ask for a ransom. Any dead? Was anyone hurt?”

  “Apparently not, at least that’s what this morning’s dispatch says.” Vincenzo slumps in his chair. “Bastards, that’s what they are. It was a European ship without an escort, which had never been that far, so they noticed it right away.”

  “Yes, that’s probably what happened . . . We really didn’t need this abduction. It will cause a big loss. But let’s look on the bright side. You were right to employ Captain Miloro, he knows what he’s doing and is worth holding on to.” The secretary leans on his elbows on the desk. “We’ve gotten all the way to Brazil without knowing the route of the American clippers and without asking for the British to mediate. This is a great achievement. You can shed tears with just one eye, Don Vincenzo.”

  “Miloro knows all the winds and streams, and he’s studied. He’s no jumped-up ship boy.” He drums his fingers on the table, where a map of the Atlantic is spread out. “I’m not worried about the cargo: it’s a big loss but it’s insured. What’s important is that we now know we can buy coffee and sugar from the colonies without needing to go through the British or the French. This means our own goods, like oil and wine, can also get to America.” Vincenzo’s smile is embittered, like a grimace. Even though it has turned out like this, the way is now open. He can establish trade relations with the Americans, and that’s not all. He can reach America with his ships and his goods, like Ben Ingham has been doing for a long time now. The Englishman already has holdings in the railways that go from the east coast to the west coast of the United States.

  Messina instinctively glances toward the corridor, outside, where Palermo is waiting for news that will feed chatter and gossip. “Except that when people find out . . .”

  Vincenzo stands up. He strokes his uncle’s ring, the one that belonged to Ignazio’s mother, and which he removed when his uncle was already in his coffin. He imagines how pleased his uncle would be with the result, how he would look at him, concealing enthusiasm under a layer of dispassion.

  “When people find out, fools will be delighted because we’ve lost a cargo. The cleverer ones will follow our example.” He heads for the exit. “Later on, go and make the report to the insurance company. But now come with me.”

  “Where?” The secretary has barely the time to pick up the folder and documents and run after him down the corridor. Sometimes, he simply cannot keep up with this man.

  “To the tonnara.”

  * * *

  The Ignazio and Vincenzo Florio Company is extremely wealthy for a Palermo business. It trades in spices and colonial goods, has holdings in an insurance company formed by Palermo and foreign merchants, and shares in various steamers and cargo ships. It manages the tonnare of San Nicolò l’Arena and Vergine Maria, and, more recently, has taken over that of Isola delle Femmine: investments that have become profitable after lean years.

  For Vincenzo, however, “the tonnara” is the plant in Arenella. The one and only true passion of Ignazio, who chose to keep renting it even when tuna fishing was in severe crisis.

  “It’s a matter of love,” his uncle would say.

  And he, too, has fallen in love with the place without knowing it, and wants it the way you yearn for a woman’s body. Like the kind of love that grows inside you until it becomes impossible to stifle it, one that lasts a lifetime.

  Ignazio Messina gets out of the carriage, followed by Vincenzo. The secretary leans on a stick and Vincenzo overtakes him, taking quick strides. He walks past the marfaraggio, the actual plant, painted the same black as fishing boats.

  He reaches the trizzana, the dockyard where boats are kept, and where there’s hard work going on. Inside, there are the voices of men and the dry smell of the sea and algae. The sailors are getting ready to drop the tonnara into the sea.

  “Don
Florio!” A barefooted worker comes to meet them. “I have a message from His Lordship. He’s waiting for you at the slide, where the tent is.”

  “Thank you.” Vincenzo gestures at Ignazio Messina to follow him.

  “The baron?” he asks, perplexed.

  “Yes, Mercurio Nasca di Montemaggiore.” Vincenzo walks past a group of men mending the nets to catch the tuna just as they arrive into the Mediterranean in order to mate. “He’s one of the tonnara shareholders, together with the Monastery of San Martino delle Scale.”

  “Yes, I know he’s one of the owners . . . But how come he’s summoned you to this place? I mean, it’s odd that an aristocrat should stoop to ask for a meeting in a tonnara.”

  They go past workers in the process of caulking the boats. Vincenzo, who is more than a span taller than Messina, looks over his shoulder. There’s a smell of pitch and tar in the air. “Well, what do you suppose a baron might want from a trader like me?”

  “Only one thing.”

  “Exactly.” Vincenzo cocks his head toward his secretary. “Nasca di Montemaggiore sent me a note a few days ago, requesting a meeting. And to act with discretion.”

  “Oh. So the rumors about him—”

  “Are true. He’s in dire straits. I discounted some of his promissory notes, and he found out about it. That’s why he wants to talk to me: I think he’s hoping that one of us common mortals will lend him money.”

  There’s a white tent glowing against the blue of the sea, down the cobble-and-mortar slide.

  The baron is sitting at a camp table. He is a middle-aged man in rather threadbare clothes that speak of a taste linked to the past: a shirt with lace trimmings and a tailcoat with embroidered edges. Behind him stands a servant in livery; next to him, a distinguished-looking man, possibly his factotum.

  Around them lie shreds of netting and anchors left to rust.

  “Signor Florio.” His tone is that of a monarch granting an audience, and he proffers his hand to receive the homage of the common man. Vincenzo takes it and gives it a mighty squeeze. The aristocrat pulls it away and clenches it into a fist over his stomach.

  Then, not waiting to be invited, Vincenzo sits down and says to the servant, “A chair for my secretary, please.”

  The man obeys.

  The baron’s forehead is beaded in sweat, although it’s only a warm April day. “So . . .” he says, then stops.

  Vincenzo is impassive. “So.”

  The factotum whispers something into the baron’s ear, and the latter nods with evident relief and gestures at him to continue. “His Lordship wishes to ask for your cooperation.” He aspirates his consonants, the way people from inland Sicily do. “The baron has had to meet unexpected expenses because of unfavorable economic circumstances, and in addition do some maintenance on the Palace of Montemaggiore. His fondaco situation is especially delicate at the moment and he is experiencing a temporary cash crisis—”

  “In other words, he’s run out of money.” Vincenzo addresses the baron directly, while the nobleman keeps his eyes on the sea. “I understand perfectly well. My business as an entrepreneur also exposes me to great risks. You have my full sympathy, signore.”

  The baron clears his throat. A few words trickle out. “I’ll be frank with you, Signor Florio: I need a loan. That’s right. This is why I’ve asked for a preliminary meeting in this place. It did not seem proper to discuss a business deal at my palace.”

  Vincenzo does not reply.

  The silence becomes like salt. Dry and bitter.

  “How much?” Messina asks.

  The factotum hesitates. “Eight hundred oncie at least. His Lordship is willing to offer his share of the tonnara as guarantee.” He takes some documents from a leather case and hands them to Ignazio Messina, who begins to read them.

  “You must give us a few days to estimate the amount of the loan and the guarantees he offers,” Messina says once he has finished.

  The baron’s voice takes on a tone of fear and shame. “I—I have very large expenses and—I’m afraid I have to ask you to reach a decision by tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” Vincenzo’s surprise seems genuine. “I didn’t realize you were in this much trouble.” He turns to Messina, but the secretary shakes his head, indicating the papers.

  It’s not enough time.

  “You see? Even my secretary says it’s not possible. A week is the minimum we need to estimate your guarantees.” He does not wait for a sign of discharge and stands up. “You’ll know my answer in a week. Good day, gentlemen.”

  The baron reaches out to him. “Wait.” He grabs the factotum by the sleeve and tugs at it. He is practically shouting. “No! For the love of God! It’ll be too late by then. Tell him!”

  The factotum tries to calm him down while Messina, disconcerted, picks up the documents, gives a vague bow, and walks away without a word.

  He catches up with Vincenzo outside the carriage. He chooses not to see the ghost of feeling in his eyes. “But, Don Vincenzo, don’t you think—don’t you think you might have been a little—” he pants.

  “No. If he wants this money then he’ll do whatever it takes to have it, and he will have it, but on my terms.”

  * * *

  “As a guarantee against the sum, you provide land and sea equipment, the accommodation ladder, the anchors, the body, the bottacci, the sea area opposite, and the tonnara warehouses . . .”

  Michele Tamajo, the notary, reads in a monotonous voice, as though chanting at the deaths registry.

  Wearing a dark suit, Vincenzo is lost in a secret thought. He ignores the buzzing fly trapped inside the room, the rustling of the document pages, and the creaking of the chairs.

  At an appropriate distance, Baron Mercurio Nasca di Montemaggiore is staring at him with hatred. His cheeks are flushed and his eyelids heavy. If looks could kill, Vincenzo Florio would already have died in great pain.

  “And that is all.” The notary turns to the baron. “Are you sure you wish to sign this?”

  The baron indicates Vincenzo. “This loan shark doesn’t give me a choice!” His voice is full of resentment.

  Only then does Vincenzo seem to notice him. “Me, a loan shark? Baron, I’m not a charity.”

  “You are taking advantage of my destitution!” He twists his mouth. “You are forcing me to sell.”

  “No, signore. Don’t lie. I asked for a week to draw up an estimate of your guarantees, and just as well I did because I discovered that the plant equipment was in terrible condition. Consequently, I proposed to buy your share of the tonnara to help you out. You responded only by asking for the payment to be in cash to silence your creditors. You got it. And now you have the audacity to say that I didn’t give you a choice?”

  “You don’t have noble blood, and it shows! You’re a nasty individual with no respect.” His voice becomes a hiss. “Vous êtes un parvenu insolent!”

  Vincenzo, who has just picked up the quill to sign the contract, freezes. Never mind that so many years have passed or that it should be in French instead of dialect. The insult still—always—stings. “You can pull out if you wish,” he mutters icily.

  The silence starts weighing heavily on the room, broken only by the buzzing fly. A drop of ink falls on the paper.

  Everybody—and the notary is no exception—knows that the baron is ruined. But he also knows that the baron is a man of rare pride. “It is up to you, Baron,” he then says to save appearances. “What do you choose to do?”

  The temptation is strong. The baron is probably thinking that he can perhaps hold out for a little longer, sell the last of his wife’s jewelry or else give up his share of the tonnara to the monks of San Martino delle Scale, who already own part of the building. But he knows only too well that the monks hold their purse strings very tight and that his wife’s jewelry is little more than junk. He stifles a humiliated sob. “For God’s sake, sign. Sign, then get out of my sight.”

  Vincenzo signs with a flourish below the ink blotc
h. He gets out of Ignazio Messina’s and the baron’s factotum’s way, so they take care of the paperwork, and withdraws to the other side of the room, arms crossed, his knitted eyebrows making him look like a bird of prey.

  At the end, Messina comes up to him. “You could have stayed in the office. I have the power of attorney. There was no need for you to witness this scene.”

  But Vincenzo keeps staring at Nasca di Montemaggiore. “In future, perhaps. But not today.” He holds out his hand. “Give me the bag.”

  “But—” Messina receives a look that brooks no contradiction.

  Vincenzo approaches the baron, who is slumped on the chair, and drops the bag in his lap. He does not have the time to take it, and the coins fall on the floor and scatter all over the rug. Vincenzo Florio leaves the room as Baron Nasca di Montemaggiore is on his knees, picking the money off the floor.

  * * *

  “Gently, gently . . . What are you doing, for heaven’s sake? Can’t you be careful with other people’s possessions?”

  Giuseppina is getting worked up as she guides the porters along the hallways of her new home.

  A large apartment with an upper floor. Still in Via dei Materassai, but at number 53.

  Vincenzo bought it from Giuseppe Calabrese, a neighbor of the store. Actually, to be precise, it was an acceptance in lieu of a debt Calabrese was not able to honor in time. Business is business and honor has nothing to do with it.

  It is actually two apartments he has joined together by knocking down a few walls. If you look out from the roof, you can see La Cala all the way to the horizon and, at the back, the city and the mountains. And since he likes the view, he will also have a small terrace built, for spending summer afternoons.

  Giuseppina lets herself drop on the chair and just points at the room where the furniture should go. The maids will sweep the floors and tidy up later.

  Vincenzo appears in the doorway. “So, do you like it, Mamma?”

  “Of course I do. It’s large . . . and there’s so much light.”

  Her thought is a thief that runs to the hovel in Piano San Giacomo, then to the other place, in Via dei Materassai, where Ignazio died. Rented apartments, suitable for working people.