“I have no preferences.” Antonia takes her daughter under the arm and gently leads her away from the two men. “Giulia has always been stubborn, and her brother a daredevil. It wasn’t easy raising two children like that.”
Vincenzo’s eyes linger on Giulia. “Yes, but it must have been fun.”
The young woman studies her fingertips for a moment. “We’ve been happy, and that’s all I need.” She lifts her head and gives him a velvety look. “Memories of a happy childhood are the best gift parents can give their offspring.”
After they leave the room, Giulia feels a bittersweet sense of relief. She looks back while her mother precedes her to the kitchen.
“This Florio is an odd sort of man, don’t you think?” Antonia says. “So young and already so wealthy. Your father mentioned he has a reputation as something of a rebel. They say he made a fortune buying land from impoverished aristocrats at reduced prices. There’s even a rumor that he lends money at exorbitant interest.”
“Mon père wouldn’t do business with a bad man, surely.”
“Business is a man’s department, my girl. It follows rules we couldn’t possibly understand—” A violent coughing fit interrupts her, forcing her to sit down. Winter—although not harsh in Sicily—is the hardest season for those who, like Antonia, suffer from chest complaints.
Giulia is immediately by her side. “Are you unwell?”
Her father rushes in from the parlor, breathless. “Antonia . . .”
She rubs her chest and reassures him. “I’m all right.” She strokes her husband’s face. “I’ve been better since we’ve been in Palermo. The physician was right: the mild climate is beneficial.”
Tommaso Portalupi sighs. “I’ve asked Don Vincenzo to stay for dinner.” His voice drops to a whisper. “He has many business contacts, he’s wealthy and well known in the city. We need his goodwill. But if you’re not feeling well . . .”
Giulia puts a hand on his arm. “I’ll take care of everything with Antonietta’s help. She hasn’t left yet, has she?”
Her father’s face expresses regret. “I’m afraid so. You’ll have to do everything by yourself.” He kisses her on the forehead. “I know you’re capable of miracles, so perform one.”
Giulia sighs. When will she learn to keep quiet? She has always done her best to be kind to everybody, only her kindness is all too often a nuisance for her.
Her mother has stopped coughing and clings to her daughter’s arm in order to stand up. The two women go to the kitchen. Antonia lets herself sink into a chair and sighs.
Giulia puts on an apron and opens the cupboard. What can she make for a dinner worthy of their guest?
What would he like? Something strong-tasting, a new flavor? But what?
She moves swiftly, searching among the jars and bowls in the pantry.
She notices the pan with last night’s stew.
Her hands stop.
There. Stew, bread crumbs, eggs: there are some. Spices . . . yes. White cabbage leaves instead of savoy . . . Never mind. There’s no liver mortadella either but you can’t find it here in Palermo, people don’t even know what it is. I’ll use thinly sliced salami . . .
Antonia watches her preparing meatballs. Her Giulia is skillful. She feels a vague sense of guilt toward her daughter, past twenty and still without a family of her own. Moreover, over the past year, her own chest problems have necessitated constant treatment and attention.
Leaving Milan, economic security, and their nice house near the Navigli has been difficult for everyone. And all because of her. Her consumption had reached a stage where she could no longer tolerate the cold and the fog. She needed light and sunshine in order to survive.
Antonia feels guilty because she forced the entire family to turn their lives upside down and move to this city; beautiful, yes, but also very difficult, where poverty lives side by side with aristocratic pomp worthy of a European court. She, too, misses Milan, its calm atmosphere, its streets full of stores and the solemnity of large buildings in the city center. She misses the smells and flavors, and even the morning mist that blurs the edges of the landscape and muffles the sounds. She was accustomed to a more sober beauty with soft edges, not the opulent, vulgar, and excessive life of Palermo.
However, that’s the way things turned out, and her children had to adapt. Naturally, while Giovanni works with his father, Giulia has to stay at home with her and has little opportunity for entertainment. But then, isn’t that what happens to girls who don’t marry? Isn’t it their duty to look after their aging parents?
Besides, business has a little trouble getting started in Palermo: few contacts and much suspicion. It’s a closed shop, in the hands of those who know this market well. This is why her husband has invited that man to dinner.
During the meal, Florio turns out to be a pleasant though not very talkative guest. He speaks chiefly about business with Tommaso and Giovanni. Then he suddenly addresses Giulia. “So you did the cooking?”
The young woman is taken aback by such a direct question. “Yes. I hope you like it . . .”
“It’s all very good. It can’t have been easy to organize a dinner at such short notice. Other women would have been overwhelmed . . .” He laughs softly. “My mother, for instance. Thank goodness we have a cook for these tasks.”
Giulia looks down and thanks him with a smile.
* * *
Giulia continues to smile. But it is a different smile, one that dissolves in anxiety.
Don Florio watched her the entire evening. Quick, stolen glances, never crossing the line of respect but treading at the very edge of it.
She has always lived in a world of men, and learned ever since she was an adolescent to keep her father’s acquaintances and her brother’s friends at a distance.
And yet now she’s confused, because nobody has ever looked at her this way.
She tosses and turns in her bed.
* * *
On the other side of the wall, beyond Giovanni’s bedroom, Antonia Portalupi is also struggling to sleep.
She thinks about their guest: his behavior was gentlemanly, his manner polite, and yet he has made her feel uneasy. Even now, suspended between sleep and wakefulness, she can’t work out what it is that troubles her about this man. She has shared her anxieties with her husband, but Tommaso merely shrugged his shoulders in return.
“There’s nothing strange about it. After all, Giulia is quite pretty, so it’s natural that a man should give her a second look. If he starts courting her, then so much the better for us: thanks to her, we could have better supplies. Besides, Giulia knows she has to look after you.”
* * *
The sea air is a warm breath that filters into the alleys. It advances in slow waves, slipping into the houses through the gaps in the door frames.
It’s dawn but Vincenzo is already at work in Via dei Materassai. He’s in his office. The room is getting too small: he is going to have to rent an apartment and turn it into the company headquarters, the way Ben Ingham has.
The thought of leaving this place engenders others, which become interwoven with the plan of Baron Morillo’s sulfur quarry in front of him.
He remembers standing next to this very same desk, but with Uncle Ignazio sitting behind it. And he remembers a man, his hat in his lap, looking downtrodden, sitting in front of them.
“No point in beating about the bush, Don Florio. I cannot honor the promissory note I signed.”
Ignazio sighed. “What can we do, Don Saverio? I’ve already given you an extension. We cannot carry on like this, you know.”
The other man nodded. “I came from Agrigento especially for this. I have a large quantity of sulfur that I can’t sell because I have no means of transporting it to the sea and I don’t know anyone willing to come and take it away.”
“Why not?”
“Because they know I don’t have the money to pay them.”
“And how did you come by it? I mean, sulfur isn’t that
easy to find.”
The other man opened his arms. “It’s from land that belongs to my wife. You practically find it just by digging with your heel. And you can’t even have goats grazing there: they all die poisoned.”
“Is it good quality?”
“It’s pure and clean. To tell you the truth, it looks freshly spat out from hell.” He begged, his hands clasped together: “If the promissory note goes in front of the judge, I’ll end up in jail. Please.”
Uncle and nephew exchanged glances. And they immediately thought of their French associates.
“I’ll come and take a look at this sulfur,” Vincenzo said. “If it’s as good as you say, I’ll take it and tear up the promissory note right in front of you.”
And that was what happened.
They placed the load in Marseille for three times what the promissory note was worth. After his uncle died, Vincenzo bought that land.
From that moment on, sulfur became an important entry in the Casa Florio balance sheet.
His thoughts wander and get mixed up.
Vincenzo ponders, and turns his uncle Ignazio’s ring.
His uncle. His mother. He wonders what Ignazio would have said about Giuseppina’s dogged determination to find him a wife among these noble young women—barely older than girls—who come from families where cousins married cousins and uncles married nieces, and who never sparkle with intelligence and often not with beauty either.
Their blood is as rotten as the furniture they sit on . . .
“Vincenzo?”
Lost in thought, he did not notice that his clerks have arrived and that Raffaele has not only come into the office, but is standing right there, by his desk.
Vincenzo rouses himself and looks at his cousin, waiting. He knows he must bring him up to date about the purchase of land where he wants to build a wine cellar.
Raffaele silently lays a map of the Marsala coast over that of the sulfur quarry. Vincenzo studies it for a long time. “I like the fact that it has direct access to the sea,” he finally says, “because the roads there are little more than sheep tracks and large wagons can’t get through. We can’t spend money on carts and carritteddi. I want the barrels to go straight from the plants to the hold on the ships.” He points at an area on the map. “Here, between the Ingham and Woodhouse plants . . . This is the most suitable spot.”
Raffaele searches through his notes. “So in Contrada Inferno, therefore. Two tummini of land behind a natural hill. They’re selling it to us for sixty oncie but there’s a tax to pay a certain Baron Spanò . . .”
“Bullshit. Secure it immediately, and give an advance if necessary. There’s too much interest in marsala wine at the moment, and we don’t want to miss out on the opportunity to build a cellar. Wait and see, the price of the land will soon soar.”
At that moment, a clerk announces a guest.
Giovanni Portalupi.
Raffaele greets him with a handshake. Vincenzo, on the other side of the desk, simply nods and indicates a chair. “So, Portalupi, what can I do for you?”
Giovanni puts his hat on his lap. “Your sulfur is proving highly successful with our buyers. My father and I would like to purchase some more.”
Vincenzo rests his chin on his hand. “Let me know the quantity and price and we can discuss it.”
Giovanni speaks and Vincenzo lets Raffaele reply. The two men reach a quick agreement.
“So a week from today you’ll let me know if you can find this quantity, right?” Giovanni finally asks, looking at Vincenzo.
“Yes, of course.” Vincenzo gets up. “Actually, since you’re new to the city, I wanted to suggest something. Have you ever been to Teatro Carolino? It’s not far from the church of San Cataldo and Santa Caterina, quite close to Quattro Canti . . .”
Disoriented eyes stare at him. “No, I haven’t yet, as a matter of fact . . .”
“There’s a performance in a few days’ time. I have a box and I would be delighted to invite you. You and your sister, naturally.”
Giovanni is perplexed but not stupid. He understands immediately. “I am sure Giulia will be very happy to come. I’ll let you know as soon as possible.”
Once he’s left the office, Raffaele exclaims, “You’ve never invited me to the theater!” He says it craftily, laughing.
“I can let you have my box whenever you like. Except that you don’t have breasts, Raffaele. Now let’s go to the Chamber of Commerce.”
* * *
Giulia Portalupi is still water that conceals a troubled soul.
After the performance at Teatro Carolino, Vincenzo has tried to see her on other occasions. It wasn’t difficult: her brother, Giovanni, combines a practical mentality with a strong inclination for worldly pleasures. Vincenzo has introduced him to the members of the Palermo Chamber of Commerce and indicated a ship’s captain to transport their goods—a ship of which he is actually part owner.
Giovanni has also taken Giulia with him when dining in the homes of a few merchants, with the excuse that he doesn’t have a wife, highlighting the fact that his sister has no friends or opportunities to socialize outside her family.
Politely but unequivocally, he has described her as a wretched spinster.
Vincenzo’s impression is quite different.
He sometimes has the feeling that Giovanni is practically throwing her into his arms. Either way, that young man with a foreign accent is always trying to sit them next to each other. Something Giulia clearly cannot stand.
The thought makes him shake his head and give a cynical laugh. Giovanni thinks he’s being clever but he’s just a little boy aping grownups. Using his sister to lure Vincenzo into the Portalupi circle is a fool’s strategy: he is not interested in courting or flirting with Giulia.
Although she certainly is an impressive woman.
She doesn’t cast down her eyes when somebody speaks, is not always muttering prayers over everything, and does not distract herself whenever the men are discussing business, like his mother has always done. Instead, she follows their conversation attentively, and that intrigues him. She’s a woman who is aware of the value of money and wants to learn how this money is earned. Vincenzo can see when Giulia frowns, wanting to say something but forced to keep quiet.
Something else he sees: he makes her feel uneasy.
So much the better, he thinks.
There have not been any significant women in his life since Isabella, only those who have welcomed him into their arms for passion or money. Bodies without faces, images without memories. And even now that his mother is plotting to find him a wife, Vincenzo never wonders what the selected bride will be like. All he can picture is himself, walking into an aristocratic house, head high. He doesn’t care if it’s because of a title he’s purchased thanks to a wife who has brought it as part of her dowry.
And yet.
And yet Giulia Portalupi attracts him, and not with beauty. As a matter of fact, Giulia is not beautiful. She intrigues him with her tight, embarrassed lips, her clenched fists, and her eyes, which, when they’re fixed on you, are never dull but express disdain, incredulity, blame, surprise, or simply interest. She is so transparent, so unlike that fool of a brother of hers who tries to be clever.
Vincenzo toys with these thoughts on his way home, hands in his pockets, his eyes searching for the first evening stars.
As soon as he comes in, the maid takes his hat and jacket, then tells him that dinner will shortly be served next door. In the parlor, his mother is busy darning. “Are you sewing, Mamma?” he asks after kissing her.
“Well, I can’t very well let you go around with holes in your shirts, can I? Besides, these girls you hired can’t darn properly.” Giuseppina moves the fabric away from her face. Her eyes are beginning to play up and she can’t see as well as she used to.
“They’re maids who’ve been in service in aristocratic houses, Mamma. They darn perfectly. It’s you who always finds something to complain about.”
�
�Of course! Nowadays girls can’t do household chores well. They have no idea how to run a household. I used to scrub my brass bed with sand when I was fifteen, and I never complained about my hands chapping, like these girls do.”
Vincenzo grants her the final word. He sinks into the armchair, lets his body relax, and closes his eyes.
He pictures small, agile hands making Milanese meatballs that have a strange name and a strong flavor.
* * *
Giovanni Portalupi is standing outside the box at Teatro Carolino. Next to him, his sister is fanning herself.
The theater is very crowded: everyone, from the nobility to the common people up in the gallery, is chatting loudly. Some people are eating, a gypsy is offering to read palms, and there’s even a water seller.
“You shouldn’t have accepted the invitation without asking me first. You’re always doing this and I hate it.” Giulia covers her nose with a handkerchief. “It’s still very hot and there’s a terrible stench here. Being indoors is unbearable.”
“Oh, heavens, everything annoys you today! The first time you came here with me and Don Florio you were much more obliging.” Giovanni keeps peering through the crowd. “I wonder where he is. The performance is about to start.”
The young woman clutches her fan. It’s not just the heat and the stench of sweat that bother her. “Exactly. And besides, Florio looks at me in an odd way—”
“You should be pleased. He’s rich and you’re no longer a lily in full bloom. You’re twenty-four, and a girl your age is lucky to receive the attentions of a man like him. You should be grateful and, while we’re on the subject, encourage him a little. Not too much, of course—but within the limits of decency. He’s an excellent middleman and Papà is very happy to be doing business with him.”
Anger and humiliation come together in the young woman’s reply. “I’m ashamed for you. I’m not a load of sulfur, Giovanni, and I have no intention of supporting your plan. If Father heard this conversation, he’d be furious. As for me, the reason I stayed with our mother is in order to care for her. Or have you forgotten that? Besides, I don’t like this new friend of yours. He’s venal, he’s . . . greedy. He looks at everyone as if they had a price tag, but we’re not goods. We’re people.”
The Florios of Sicily Page 21