“Are you so sure?” Giovanni points out a woman dressed in China silk, looking out of a box. She wears a mourning locket around her neck. “Look at her. That’s Duchess Alessandra Spadafora. Widowed, abandoned by her husband, she found herself penniless overnight. Ingham pawned her family jewels and she has agreed to be his mistress in order to redeem them.”
“What . . . What do you mean?”
Giovanni seems amused by her shocked expression. “Everybody has a price, dearest sister. Even you, who wishes you could spend all your time reading French books . . . Even you have a price.”
“I apologize for being late.”
They turn.
Vincenzo has been standing behind them long enough to hear their conversation.
“Oh, at last.” Giovanni’s smirk is concealed by the dim light. “I was afraid you might have changed your mind. It would have been embarrassing, particularly since you invited us to your box.”
“I was detained longer than necessary by a matter in the store. Come.” He leads the way up the stairs, to the box he acquired also aliud pro alio—although he will never openly admit it—over a debt, and shows them to their seats. Then he approaches the railing. “The whole of Palermo really is here.”
“Indeed. But they’re running late. There’s been a tiff in the dressing room, and one of the singers is going to play female roles for the rest of his life.”
They laugh. Giulia, however, sinks into the chair, sealed by an obstinate silence. Yes, Giovanni is right at least in this: she does wish she were at home, reading, and not here, in this place that’s more like a cattle market than a theater.
Giovanni takes a seat to his sister’s left, while Vincenzo sits on her right and brushes the knuckles of her gloved hand, resting on the armrest. She pulls it away.
A voice rises from the stage and the curtains quiver. The performance begins.
* * *
The opera is not to the audience’s liking. The shouts drown out the voices of the singers.
“Too hot and too much wine for too many members of the audience.” Giovanni indicates the corridor. “Shall we leave?”
Vincenzo seems to agree. “We could take a stroll, provided your sister isn’t tired. I have a carriage waiting in the square outside Martorana Cathedral.”
Giulia tries to say, “In truth, I would rather—”
But Giovanni does not listen to her or else chooses to ignore her. “Excellent. Yes, let’s go. The air here is unbreathable.” He leaves the box.
She did not see the glance the two men exchanged.
A complicit glance, man to man.
“Wait, Giovanni—” She tries to stop him but her brother has already gone.
Vincenzo offers his arm. “I’ll escort you, if you will allow me.”
Giulia is angry. Because Giovanni has abandoned her and because she doesn’t want to be left alone with a man she barely knows, especially not someone like Florio. “I don’t understand why my brother has left me alone. It’s your carriage, so it was up to you to ask for it to be made ready.”
“I’m not a lackey, whatever many people might still think.”
“Neither is my brother.”
Giulia walks around the armchair ahead of him. She wants to leave and would succeed if only Vincenzo’s hands did not stop her at the exit. His fingers, which he puts on her bare shoulders, are rough.
She flounders but cannot speak. She should turn around, slap him, and scream. She should but cannot, and not just because she is afraid of him.
Vincenzo drags her into the darkness, away from prying eyes.
What does Giulia feel when Vincenzo’s lips brush her neck? When they forcibly part her lips and his teeth bite her?
“No,” she says. “No,” she begs.
She puts her hands over his to stop him. But hers is a fragile no. Giulia knows she doesn’t really mean it, though she couldn’t explain why. And yet she does know, and is ashamed because now she is responding to his kiss and his caress.
He’s the one in charge. It’s Vincenzo who decides when to let go of her. He opens his arms and she slips out into the corridor.
“Allow me.” Vincenzo precedes her on the stairs, while Giulia, flushed, walks down, holding on to the banister. Together they reach the carriage, where Giovanni is waiting.
She walks head down. She feels naked, exposed to the world. She doesn’t notice her brother’s smile this time either.
* * *
The tramontana wind sweeps down the street on the seafront. Opposite the Marsala coast, the Aegadian Islands are like lumps of iron against the sky. Sprays of saltwater are soiling the carriage windows.
Before Vincenzo’s eyes, workers are erecting walls, standing on scaffolding that shakes with every gust of wind.
He knows what he wants and can even visualize it: not just a house with an inner courtyard, a farm like so many scattered in the Sicilian countryside, but a factory like those British ones, with a large central courtyard and warehouses all around.
“Have they finished the storerooms?”
Raffaele walks ahead of him to the courtyard. “Come see for yourself.”
Everywhere there are bricks, tiles, timber, and builders mixing mortar. Wooden beams and mounds of rocks force them to turn off from their path several times; in front of them stands the main house, where the factory administrator is going to live.
Vincenzo confidently walks into the first of the two side buildings. Carpenters are driving into the ground supports for the wine-refinement caskets. The workers stand up and tip their caps. He makes a gesture for them to continue and heads to the middle of the hall.
The light is flooding in through the portals and the dormer windows; above him a very high ceiling is punctuated by tuff arches. The air is impregnated with sea and salt.
This will be the heart of the cellar.
Raffaele joins him. He, too, like the others, has trouble keeping up with Vincenzo. “The purchase of the grape crop has gone much better than hoped. Naturally, Woodhouse and Ingham had already grabbed a large portion of the harvest, but I managed to find some ansonica, grillo, and damaschino must in Alcamo. Oh, and a load of catarratto, too. The wine that’s already fermented will be transferred here next week.”
“So everything as we expected.”
“Yes, we planned well. And you were right: the price of land in these parts has soared dramatically, and that’s not all. The farmers are removing grain in order to plant vines. They’ve worked out that they can make some money from this rocky soil.”
“Everybody needs money, Raffaele. In any case, the casks of sherry for refinement are arriving next week. Oh, and I had a memorandum prepared for you, with the names of a few coopers in Palermo. One of them is willing to move his workshop here.”
Vincenzo touches the plastered wall. Yes, it’s a job well done. He wipes the dust from his hands, then gestures at Raffaele to follow him. Still rushing around. “You have shown remarkable commitment. By September, we can formalize our agreement.”
“Agreement?” Raffaele’s perplexed question is lost in a gust of tramontana wind.
“A partnership. Between Raffaele Barbaro and Ignazio and Vincenzo Florio.”
The man freezes, so strong is his surprise.
Vincenzo is also compelled to stop and turn back. “I don’t need someone to look after my business and not give a damn about the rest. I need someone involved with its money. Besides, you’ve already put money aside to buy this land. It’s a matter of continuing in the same way: a third for you, two thirds for Casa Florio. How about it?”
Raffaele torments the goatee he has grown in the past few months. He has gotten to know this difficult man, and that makes him anxious about accepting; however, it’s a precious offer as well as rare, and it would make him into an important person in the little world of Marsala, whereas in Palermo he’s just Don Florio’s cousin, one of his factotums. “Very well.”
“I knew you’d say yes.” Vincenzo taps him
on the back. “You know it won’t be easy to manage the cellar, don’t you?”
“What, with the British here in Marsala acting as if they owned the world? Of course not!” He brushes his hair away from his eyes. “I didn’t expect you to offer me this opportunity.”
“I did it because I mean it.”
They head to the main building.
Vincenzo is here and, at the same time, in the future: the courtyard is full of wagons, barrels stacked up in pyramids, and bottles with the label FLORIO. He sees it all and feels that, yes, he will be the one to have made it happen. “Our quality will make us stand out,” he explains. “They produce a wine for soldiers and only a few top-quality barrels. Whereas we will focus on quality and target different markets: France, Piedmont . . .” Before walking in, he stops in front of a stack of plating. “One more thing, Raffaele: the workers. Talk to them, look them in the face. This isn’t a cellar like the others: it’s an honor to work here and they must know it.”
* * *
The following day, Vincenzo returns to Palermo.
In the solitude of the carriage, he takes a letter out of his pocket. He received it through the intermediary of Giovanni shortly before leaving from Marsala. He recognizes the slender handwriting, the faint signature. He reads calmly.
I cannot accept letters like the one you sent me, it starts, and he imagines her voice: indignant, shuddering with shame. I cannot because there is no bond between us. You are one of my father’s business associates, you have no claim on me. I should not even read what you write to me, and yet I do. Your behavior and your attentions toward me also all too often overstep the limits of decency. It is also partly my fault because I am unable to avoid your demands, to which, I am reluctant to admit, I am not indifferent. Even though I am not a loose young girl—I can assure you I am not!—your proximity is a source of great agitation to me.
I beg and implore you: if you really have feelings for me, do not write to me anymore the kind of words you did in your last letter. Do not contact me again unless your intentions are honorable. Do not take advantage of my politeness or I shall be forced to speak to my father, and I would rather not. If what you have in mind is a sincere, devoted friendship, then very well—and this is where Vincenzo bursts out laughing—but do not overstep the limits of acceptability or I shall be forced to give up on our correspondence. Then, the signature: Giulia.
Pressing his elbow on the door, Vincenzo thinks. He has known for some time that Giulia is confused, that she wants him and is afraid of him, and this letter confirms it. Besides, how many men have given her a second look in the past? he wonders. Has anyone ever tried to discover what’s concealed beneath that severe pose and those clenched fists?
Giulia has never experienced desire. Neither her own nor that of a man. So Vincenzo decides that he will not spare her in any way when he writes back to her. He will tell her of the craving she triggers inside him; of how he lies awake at night, thinking about her; of how much he wants to touch her, to see her hair cascading down her naked shoulders. He will tell her because he knows perfectly well that she will not report his words to anybody, let alone her father. He will tell her because Giulia cannot resist the dizziness to which he is certain she has fallen prey. It’s a feeling he knows only too well: he has it when he finally manages to get his hands on a precious cargo or when a complicated deal is successfully closed. Except that she’s not a load of sumac or a cellar . . . A load is sold off and you move on to something else: a deal is signed and then you also move on. But he seems unable to move on from this woman, and he’s losing his head over her, as though intoxicated by her.
He’s dying to have her in his bed, damn it!
They have met several times, in Portalupi’s house or on the street, along the Cassaro; she was with her mother or brother and had darted embarrassed, languid glances at him. There have been few other real meetings since the night at the theater during this winter of 1833.
One afternoon, at dusk, using the excuse of picking up a document, Vincenzo went to the Portalupis’. Tommaso was somewhat surprised, to say the least, when he appeared at the door, but had let him into the parlor and gone to his study to get the receipts for the loads of sulfur. Since Antonietta had already gone home, Giulia was sent to take Vincenzo some lemonade.
When she saw him sitting on the couch in the room plunged in semidarkness, the glass and carafe clinked on the tray she was carrying. Giulia stood still in the doorway, motionless in her severe brown dress, frowning, her lips half-closed on a question. Vincenzo took the tray from her hands, pushed the door, and put his hands on her shoulders, then slid them down her arms and brought his face close to hers.
“I was looking for you.”
This time, Giulia did not lower her gaze. In her eyes, he saw clear desire but also a kind of opposition, perhaps because she wanted to push him away but could not. Vincenzo raised his hand, stroked her lips with his thumb, caressed her chin, and even ran his fingers along her throat. He took the top button of her collar between his fingers and unfastened it.
Then he moved to the next one down.
But Giulia stopped him. She held his wrist tightly and pushed him away while swallowing air.
“No.” She said it with force and determination.
Tommaso Portalupi arrived a few seconds later and dismissed his daughter. She left with an intense look in her eyes, her hand on her throat, as though trying to keep her buttons fastened.
Remembering that scene, Vincenzo feels his whole body aflame. He shakes his head and, trying for the umpteenth time to find a reason for his desire, tells himself that this is a real woman, and she’s not even aware of it. She has a sensuality few people see. And this makes her dangerous, since she has no idea of the effect she can have on a man; she certainly has no idea of what she is doing to him.
He thinks that with spring on its way, now that the days in Palermo are growing longer and the sun is warming the narrow streets of the Castellammare district, Giulia will have more opportunities to go out alone.
Giulia is afraid of him, is resisting him, but at the same time yields to him whenever he takes her time, her eyes, and her lips. She doesn’t refuse his passionate letters, although the notes she sends in return are full of words that say one thing but mean another. The Giulia who writes these notes is a girl from a good family, who keeps her eyes averted and says she doesn’t welcome his forceful attentiveness, but there’s another Giulia transpiring, one who looks him straight in the eye, sighs, and gets his blood all in turmoil. Vincenzo feels she wants him, her sense of guilt, and can smell both her fear and her desire when they are close. Giovanni Portalupi doesn’t realize that his sister has become much more than bait. Vincenzo huffs. He’s annoyed with Giovanni for using his sister in order to draw him in. Neither he nor Giulia are the kind of people who like being used. Quite the contrary. Vincenzo is taking advantage of the situation and carrying on the relationship because it’s the first time he is acting with his flesh and not with his anger or brain. And Giulia feels exactly the same. He knows it.
They both want to.
* * *
The day after Vincenzo’s return from Marsala, Tommaso Portalupi welcomes him very warmly. Portalupi personally pours him a glass of madeira and invites him to make himself comfortable while he himself sits behind his desk.
“So, tell me about your proposal for the new consignment of sulfur.”
“A quarter of the production is reserved for you only.” Vincenzo crosses his legs. “I already have sales agents in Naples and Marseille. I like having solid contacts in the northern market, such as in Piedmont and Lombardy.”
“There are already many competitors on the market, and not just in sulfur. You have a very, very large business. I hear you’re now planning on becoming a wine producer.”
Vincenzo is unperturbed. “That’s correct.”
Portalupi rubs the leather pad on his desk. He’s looking for the right words. “May I be frank, Don Florio? I’
m surprised by this decision of yours: entering the marsala market at this time seems risky to me. The British practically have the monopoly on both the production and sales fronts.”
“You’re not the only one to think that.” Vincenzo stands up and paces around the room. “But I have my sights on a different market from the one exploited by my respected colleagues Ingham and Woodhouse. I’m thinking of wines fit for aristocratic tables. Even royal tables.” He walks to the window and looks at the city walls and, beyond, at the blue of La Cala. “Your clients were very satisfied with the sulfur I supplied. There are very important tanneries in England who buy sumac only from us. It’ll be the same for our wine.”
“We’ll see,” Portalupi says, darkly. “It’s your money and your decision.”
They say goodbye. They bump into Giulia and her mother at the door.
Vincenzo greets both with detached politeness. Antonia is pale, and still in her robe. Giulia is wearing shoes and gloves, a sign she’s about to go out.
Vincenzo leaves the Portalupi house but does not go too far. He has goods to pass through customs, and Palazzo Steri is nearby. He could send the aromateria manager, since they are spices, or else his secretary, but no, he will go today.
He laughs. He knows the real reason for this exception. And it’s not the first time either.
Unlike many Palermo young ladies, Giulia goes out alone. Her mother often stays at home because of her chest, and her daughter takes over the domestic chores. This has raised many eyebrows: to walk around without even a maid . . . Strange foreign attitude.
Therefore, with a bit of luck, he’ll see her in the street.
* * *
Vincenzo spends only a few minutes at customs.
All he needs is a gesture and an employee comes to serve him. He jumps the line, ignores the grumblings of people who have been waiting a long time—including Saguto’s son—and points at the sacks of tobacco to be carried to Piano San Giacomo.
Then he heads to Cassaro, where he’s certain he will find Giulia, with her dark blue hat and brisk walk.
The Florios of Sicily Page 22