“It’s a beautiful apartment.” Giuseppina looks around and nods. Her son has had it refurbished; he has changed the door and window frames, and painted the walls and ceilings with patterns of flowers and blue skies. There is even running water and a carriage house. “Of course, the air here isn’t like in Bagnara but—”
“Still?” Her son rolls his eyes. “I wish you’d stop going on about the village. This is our home. No more rent or cottages in Calabria. From now on, this is where we live.”
Once again, Giuseppina is forced to lower her head. She has never had the right to have a say on where she lives. Far from it.
When she asked if they could afford such a luxurious apartment, Vincenzo looked up from his papers with a calmness that was as placid as it was annoying. “When did you start telling me how to spend my money, Mamma?” he asked. “Of course we can afford it. We’re not storekeepers anymore. Only yesterday we passed the San Rosalia cargo through customs and we’d barely unloaded the goods when the auction for the shipment of cotton began.” Over the years, Vincenzo’s laugh has become raspy. He’s now thirty-three. “We need a home that’s worthy of us. You’ll never want for anything as long as I’m here.”
A worker calls Vincenzo, and he leaves.
Giuseppina stands up again and looks through one of the windows: she can see a large stretch of Via dei Materassai and a part of Piano San Giacomo.
They certainly have come a long way.
Even her rancor had dissolved over the years, until it vanished with Ignazio’s death.
She has nothing left but herself and her memories. Her son—her flesh and blood and reason for living—is an island, the same as she has been for such a long time. And now she must be brave because there’s something causing her anxiety and stopping her from sleeping at night. At fifty-four she feels old and knows that Vincenzo cannot be left alone. Every man needs a woman for company, to keep his bed warm and take care of him, and to put up with him when he’s in a bad mood. To give him children, heirs, because that’s something Casa Florio needs now.
What Ignazio and Vincenzo have built cannot be left at the mercy of the wind and the rain. It’s an heirloom to be passed on and safeguarded, and for that you need good blood.
They need a woman brought up like a lady. Her son must start a family. Giuseppina clenches her teeth as she thinks this. She must talk to him about it.
And she will have to step aside. Soon.
What is left to her is the knowledge that she’s alone—and something else that’s more bitter, more subtle, and more painful: that she turned down the love of her life.
* * *
That evening, mother and son sit opposite each other, alone, like they used to do in the old house. Light from a lamp is bathing the tablecloth, the crockery, and their hands. Olimpia, too old—and too common—to serve in Casa Florio, has been replaced by a girl with a freckled face and her mother, who cooks and does the heavy work.
Giuseppina starts cautiously. “I wanted to speak to you, Vincenzo.”
He looks up from his plate. The furrow between his brows grows deeper. “Problems?”
“No, none. But there could be, so it’s better to prevent them ahead of time.” She feels a worm eating into her flesh but she must be brave. It’s about something that goes beyond her life, so it must be faced. “You’re over thirty.” She pauses. “You must think about the future, and not just yours.”
Vincenzo puts his spoon down. “Are you talking about a wife?” he asks without looking up.
Giuseppina takes a deep breath. “Yes.” A woman who will share this house with her, sit at the same table, and sleep in her son’s bed . . .
It will not be easy.
Vincenzo picks up his wineglass and takes a sip. The memory of Isabella Pillitteri’s neck is a flash. “You know, there was a time when I was hoping to hear you say this. But that moment’s gone.” His onyx eyes stare into his mother’s brown ones. But it’s just for a moment. He gets up and kisses her. “You take care of it. Find me a suitable bride to your liking, from a good family and with an adequate dowry. Then let me know.” Before walking through the door, he adds, “Don’t wait up for me. I have an appointment.”
“With whom?”
“You’ll see. It’s a surprise.”
* * *
There are a few men on the steps of San Giovanni dei Napoletani. They are mainly merchants of Calabrian and Neapolitan origin, with their children. They share origins, profession, and the place where they live. Prayer is an excuse, and the aim is to look one another in the face, talk about work, and gossip.
There’s no politeness in their glances. Vespers appears not to have had any effect on them.
The sacristan mutters, “These people clearly have time to waste,” and shuts the church door, bequeathing the echo of a thud.
Vincenzo is deeply absorbed in conversation with a man who has a square jaw and a thick Calabrian accent. They appear to be intimate, and that attracts the curiosity of the other merchants. Unlike Uncle Ignazio—recamatierna—who was always affable, Vincenzo Florio has a difficult character. He keeps the world at arm’s length.
But, damn it—they all think—he’s a shrewd one.
Vincenzo hears their voices: background noise, echoes of envy mixed with admiration. His attention is focused on the man in front of him. “As you can see, there are Bagnara folk and Neapolitans galore trading on the coast. But I’m not interested in them. I look farther.”
The other man, shorter and stockier, looks around. “You mentioned it in one of your letters. So what did you . . .”
An observant eye would notice that the two men have similar traits. A high forehead, large, powerful hands, and a dark coloring. However, the cut of the new man’s clothes and his slightly unsure body language suggest that he is not as well off as Vincenzo Florio.
Vincenzo takes him by the elbow and leads him to Palazzo Steri. “This is the Customs House,” he explains. “But it hasn’t always been that. It was originally a nobleman’s palace, then it became a courthouse, then a prison for heretics, murderers, and thieves.” He stops. The palace, a black, stone shadow, weighs over them. “I don’t want a Cain in my house. Do you still resent me for what happened when we were children?”
“Perhaps, in the past,” the other man replies sincerely. “What I remember about that time is my mother’s despair, the hunger, and the humiliation of having to ask relatives for money. We sold the house and moved to Marsala . . . I was angry with your father and your uncle, yes, and partly because everybody was telling us how well you were doing.”
“But then you started receiving small sums of money, right?” Vincenzo drops his voice. “It was Uncle Ignazio who sent them without telling anyone. I found the remittances in the books from years ago. I still remember when you and Aunt Mattia came to Palermo. My father was dying. It felt strange to find out that I had a family. I often thought, afterward, about what it would have been like if we’d been closer. But that’s not how things turned out . . .”
The other man nods. He understands. “My mother loved you all. She always thought about you and always said a prayer for your father and your uncle.”
A feeling rises in Vincenzo and gets caught between his stomach and his throat. He pushes it away. “I am not Uncle Ignazio, remember that. I’m a man who doesn’t want to stop at what he has.”
“So am I.”
In these words and determined tone, Vincenzo finds what he was looking for.
“Come to Via dei Materassai tomorrow. I’ll introduce you to Ignazio Messina; he’ll show you everything. He is elderly, experienced, and you’ll need to be by his side.” He puts out his hand. “Then come to the house. My mother doesn’t know anything yet but she will be happy to see Mattia’s son.”
Raffaele Barbaro, the son of Paolo Barbaro and Mattia Florio, finally smiles.
* * *
The narrow street is calm and quiet even though it’s near the city walls and the Customs House. Via dell
a Zecca Regia is made up of narrow houses that partly look out on Via dell’Alloro: peaceful houses for small storekeepers. No connection with the surrounding aristocrat palaces.
In the study of the second-floor apartment, darkness is superseding the light of the setting sun. Fall 1832 is coming in large strides, shortening the days and bringing gusts of tramontana wind.
Four men.
“Imagine the desert in black Africa. Arid, desolate, hopeless. There is the odd oasis, with a water hole and two crooked palm trees. It’s exactly the same thing here: whenever you find an enterprise, it feels like a miracle.”
Vincenzo opens his left hand and counts on his fingers: “There are a few cotton mills, a couple of harquebus factories, and a brass and an iron one. The others are just putìe, workshops with a master builder and fifteen workers or so, if they’re lucky. Now, my business, Casa Florio, has no factories: it trades. We bring together manufacturers and buyers, either in our own name or on behalf of third parties.”
Across the desk, Tommaso Portalupi, a Milan trader arrived in Palermo just a few months ago, listens attentively. The hair on his temples is thinning; he has hazel eyes and a prominent nose, marred by dark veins. Next to him sits Giovanni, his much younger mirror image.
Portalupi puts his elbows on the desk. “I am also a middleman, Signor Florio, and the reason I’ve come to you is because I specifically asked around for the best supplier in Palermo. My job is to find raw materials to then be processed in Lombardy. I’m interested in wine, oil, tuna in brine, sumac, and sulfur. I don’t want to go to British merchants, because they would bring in their own production, and nor am I interested in the low-quality produce some have tried to palm off on me. Which of these goods would you be able to obtain for us and on what terms?”
Vincenzo exchanges a glance with Raffaele, sitting next to him. He leans back against the chair. “Ask away. I can get you everything that is produced in Sicily. Everything.”
They are interrupted by the tinkling of glass against metal. The door opens. “May I come in?”
A young woman in a brown dress walks in, carrying a plate of biscuits. A delicate aroma of vanilla spreads across the room. “Mamma told me to bring these in. They’re straight out of the oven.” She takes a step back and looks at Vincenzo.
Vincenzo, who was accepting a glass of liqueur from Giovanni, turns. He sees her.
She must be one of Portalupi’s relatives, he thinks. Perhaps his niece or his daughter. She has the same coloring, the same intonation, and even the same prominent nose. She moves in an understated way, holding back. He does not often fall prey to feminine charm, and yet this girl makes an impression on him: a straight back and a gentle face.
Palermo women do not have that clear, fearless look.
Tommaso Portalupi gives her a pat. “Thank you, sweetheart. Now go.”
He waits for the door to be closed before he resumes. “Sulfur, Signor Florio. Wine and sulfur.”
Vincenzo crosses his hands on his lap. “Of course. How much sulfur and by when?”
* * *
That evening, Vincenzo notices that his mother is particularly attentive. She serves him personally at dinner, pats him, and inquires about his work.
He eyes her with suspicion.
He’s tired. He has removed his jacket and tie; his waistcoat is unbuttoned, his hair tousled. After a hectic day he can finally be himself.
Afterward, Giuseppina pushes her plate away. “Listen, son. I’ve found a young woman who may fit our requirements.” Her use of our does not escape Vincenzo’s notice. It’s as though his mother, too, is going to be married. But he needs neither a companion nor a housekeeper: he just wants a woman who will give him strong, healthy heirs. Giuseppina will take care of the rest, as usual. “Yes, Mamma.”
“It’s a young woman from a good family, brought up by nuns: she’s responsible and respectful. It was they who brought her to my attention.”
Vincenzo presses his face against his closed fists. “Then what are you worried about? Because I can see you’re worried.”
Her nervous fingers rub the tablecloth. “Her family is distantly related to the prince of Torrebruna. It would be a prestigious match. They have intimated that they would be happy for you to marry her. Of course, there’s the problem of the dowry: they don’t have much besides their title, a warehouse near Enna, and a house here in the city.” Giuseppina is choosing her words carefully.
Vincenzo’s sense of alarm grows. “Nothing that can’t be solved. But—?” Because he can feel a but hanging between them.
“They state a condition. They would like you to stop running the business directly yourself, to hire a steward and not manage the aromateria anymore. They don’t consider it decorous given their title.” Giuseppina falls silent and waits for a sign or a word.
Vincenzo does not move a muscle. Then he covers his face with his hands. He speaks softly, as though not fully believing what he has just heard. “You would like me to abandon my work . . . for a woman?”
“A woman? She’s a girl.” She tries to minimize the situation. “You marry her to start with, then we’ll see. Once you’ve got a firm foot in the house there’s nothing they can do. You’ll be the one holding the purse strings.”
But Vincenzo throws his head back, laughs uproariously, and slams his fist on the table. “Now? Now you say this to me?” The coarse bitterness in his voice alarms Giuseppina. “Do you remember what happened when I wasn’t even twenty?” He looks up and his eyes are lava rocks. “Do you remember Isabella Pillitteri? Do you remember when you told me I had to forget about her because she was penniless? You do remember, don’t you?”
Giuseppina expected everything but this. She leaps to her feet. “What’s she got to do with this? That was the daughter and sister of debauchees who were after money.”
“And what do you think these people want?” He follows his mother, who has started clearing the table. “Not only are they after my wealth but they’re also trying to dictate to me how to live my life!”
“Nobody can dictate anything to you. She’s a pious soul, a little girl attached to nuns’ petticoats. She’ll obey you whatever you say: you’re the man of the house and you’re in charge. You’re the one with the money.”
Vincenzo points a finger at her. “My answer is no—to them and to you. I asked you to find me a wife, not to marry me into a family of wretches who feel rich just because they have a title, and who even go stating conditions.”
Giuseppina is furious. She thought it was a done deal, and now . . . She abandons the dishes on the table and faces him, hands on her hips. “You can’t forgive me for what happened fifteen years ago even though I opened your eyes? You should thank me but no, it’s all my fault. And what did I do? You saw how her mother treated you. Yes, son. I know all about it. People told me about that shameful scene in the middle of the street. The truth is you’re as vindictive and heartless as your father. It’s no use. There are things that you Florios have in your blood.” She twists her mouth in a grimace. “You carry on like this and you’ll end up alone as a dog.”
Vincenzo has to restrain himself from smashing something. Giuseppina sees it in his face and takes a step back but he grabs her by the arms and talks into her face. “Better to be a mangy dog than spend your life going after a woman who doesn’t want you.”
He lets go of her. She staggers and clutches the chair.
She looks at Vincenzo and does not recognize him anymore. She blinks and fights back her tears. She stays like this even after he has left the room. Never has she wished for Ignazio to be at her side so much as now.
Her awareness of having been cruel to him bites at her rib cage.
She thought she would make her husband’s life unbearable, that the hatred she harbored for the Florios would keep her away from them. Moreover, she thought she had an ally in her son. Instead, tonight she has discovered that the mother’s milk laced with hatred she fed him has resulted in poison. Hatred has been etc
hed into him.
* * *
Handshakes.
The clinking of glasses.
The maid serves liqueurs and cookies.
“Your sulfur is the most competitively priced we’ve found on the market, in terms of value for money.” Giovanni Portalupi is having an animated conversation with Vincenzo. He drums his fingers on the contract. “I heard you own a quarry.”
“I’ve taken over one of Baron Morillo’s mines.” Vincenzo takes a sip of port. He likes to speak with this straight-talking man. “His Grace, the baron, doesn’t like to soil his hands with work but he needs the rent money, so . . .”
Giovanni shrugs. “Pecunia non olet, the Romans used to say. A maxim that’s particularly appropriate to sulfur.” They laugh.
He’s about to continue when a middle-aged woman comes in, walks up to Portalupi, and whispers in his ear. She has strong features and a warm expression, a strange blend of strength and gentleness.
“Mamma,” Giovanni says, “allow me to introduce Don Vincenzo Florio. We’ve just signed a contract for sulfur supplies. This is my mother, Antonia.”
Vincenzo greets her formally. “Signora.” Then his eyes shift slightly to where he has seen the movement of a shadow. He indicates discreetly. “And who is she?”
At first, Giovanni does not appear to understand, then sees his sister standing in the doorway. Nobody pays attention to her, usually. “Oh, that’s Giulia.”
The young woman turns when she hears her name. Accustomed to a house overrun by businessmen talking about goods and calculations, she soon learned to keep her place.
“Yes, you. Come here.” He reaches out with a hand. She joins him. “My elder sister, Giulia.” Giovanni cocks his head. “This is Don Vincenzo Florio.”
Vincenzo glances at one, then the other. “Really? I would never have thought you were older.”
“Just by two years. Not enough to mother him but sufficient to hate him for being a boy and younger.”
Giovanni laughs. “It’s only that I’m our mother’s favorite.”
The Florios of Sicily Page 20