The Florios of Sicily

by Stefania Auci

  Giulia sees him first. She’s on her way home, carrying a basket. She tries to avoid him but, at the same time, slows down.

  “Good day,” Vincenzo says.

  “Signore . . .” She looks down and tries to walk past him.

  He takes the basket. “Allow me . . .”

  She’s forced to look up. “Allow you?” she exclaims. “You’re practically snatching it out of my hands!” She doesn’t let go.

  This peculiar pulling back and forth is attracting glances.

  Giulia huffs and lets go.

  “Good girl,” he murmurs.

  They resume walking, side by side.

  “You’re taking too many liberties. I think I’ve already told you—your being in business with my father does not excuse the way you behave toward me.”

  “What have I done to you? Have I forced you to do anything you didn’t want to?” He nods at a passing acquaintance. “I’m not the one who writes letters and gets my brother to deliver them.”

  Giulia flushes. He’s right. He deprives her of her peace of mind and stirs her blood. She’s been weak. “You’re—you’re dangerous and unfair, Don Vincenzo. If your intentions aren’t honorable you must never again do what you did last week, when—”

  “When we were interrupted by your father?”

  Humiliated, Giulia picks up the pace. Via della Zecca Regia is not far: just a few more minutes and she’ll be safe. He won’t dare follow her past the front door. “It’s not right that you should feel entitled to escort me home.” She tries to keep a distance from him.

  “Nobody will pay attention to what you do. Besides, you’re with me.”

  “That’s the point: it’s because I’m with you that I’m afraid.”

  Behind them, there’s a sudden commotion and shouts. A carriage lunges past them at full speed. Vincenzo pushes Giulia against the railings of a courtyard.

  However, he keeps squeezing her arm even after the vehicle has gone. “Come with me,” he whispers in her ear.

  “Don Florio, you’re hurting me,” she protests. They’re near Via dei Chiavettieri. “Please,” she begs.

  “No.” He walks ahead, practically dragging her.

  Giulia is ashamed and frightened. She puts her hand on his. “Please . . . Vincenzo.”

  He suddenly stops and looks at her as though seeing her for the first time. His expression is stark, his voice so deep and full of rage that Giulia is upset. “I can’t stand this. You can’t tell me what to do or not do. You can’t beg me. I am not the marble statue of a saint. This thing . . .” he adds, “this thing between us has to end.”

  They quickly walk to the Portalupi home. He pushes the half-open front door and they are plunged into the semidarkness of the hallway.

  Vincenzo drops the basket and snatches Giulia’s hat off. He takes her face and kisses her. She tries to push him away but can only yield. It’s a bullying, physical kiss.

  He pulls away and looks at her as though she were an enemy.

  Disoriented, Giulia takes a step toward the staircase but he pushes her against the wall. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  Once again, they’re crushed against the wall.

  He whispers into her ear. “You’ve gotten under my skin, damn it. I didn’t expect this and now I can’t help it. It’s a matter of desire. To desire and not have is sure grief.” He stares into her eyes because he wants her to hear perfectly, so there may not be any misunderstanding. “You’re no good to me as a wife. It would not be an advantageous match for me: you’re too old, you’re no aristocrat, and I think you realize that, too. But I want you.”

  Giulia can barely breathe. “What do you mean? What are you saying?” He can’t, he can’t mean that. “You want me to . . .” Her brother has told her that there are women who live with men without being married, women considered on a par with prostitutes, but . . . “Are you suggesting I become . . .” she asks, searching his face for an answer. What she sees in it leaves no room for doubt.

  “It’s better than being an old maid, isn’t it? What have you had in your life until now? All you’ve done is care for your mother and nothing else. Nothing. Even your brother is using you, and he’d put you in my bed to sign another contract, if only he could. I know you’re a decent woman, I can see that for myself, so there’s no need to tell me. But you want me, don’t deny it, you’re scared to admit it. I can feel it because the flesh . . .” He puts a hand on her breast. “The flesh doesn’t lie.”

  “So . . .” Giulia’s fingers scratch the wall. “You want me to . . .” Anger, disappointment, desire. “What makes you think I—”

  “Don’t act the shocked ninny. I know you want me.”

  She raises a hand to slap him but Vincenzo is too quick. He grabs her by the wrist.

  “Leave me,” Giulia pants as she tries to push him away. But he’s too heavy, she cannot, but then she does not want him to stop—that’s the truth. What she’s thinking is already a sin. But, while she thinks, she holds him close to her.

  He kisses her again, on her neck this time, and tears the lace on her dress. It’s more like a bite. Giulia can’t fight back because, Vincenzo is right, her flesh betrays her.

  She wants him from her very depths.

  * * *

  Vincenzo has left but she stays in the hallway of the building. She’s still standing against the wall, catching her breath.

  She should go to her father and tell him Vincenzo Florio has been disrespectful toward her.

  No. She can’t even think she could do it. She would die of shame. Besides, she doesn’t want to. Because his words are still echoing in her head.

  Giovanni is exploiting her. Her parents have always taken her for granted and never asked her what she wanted. She’s a steady presence, silent like a piece of furniture.

  The apartment is silent. Her mother’s voice drifts from the corridor. “Is that you, Giulia? I’m in bed. Your father and your brother have just gone out. Come and keep me company, will you?”

  “I’m coming.” She notices her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes are red, her skin flushed. A bruise is forming in the crook of her neck.

  Soon.

  She covers herself with a shawl so nobody sees the mark. Then she goes to comfort her mother and after that to the kitchen to help Antonietta make dinner before she leaves. When she sits down at the table, she can barely eat a bite.

  That night, she touches her neck. The mark he left is there. A brand of possession, a bruise, black like an ink stamp.

  * * *

  A week later, a figure wrapped in a dark cloak walks briskly across Palermo, often looking back. The stores are shut, the owners are bolting the doors.

  At Cassaro, the shadow heads for the Castellammare district and walks down alleyways as narrow as veins. It slows down when it reaches Piano San Giacomo. It stops. Then it moves forward decisively toward Via dei Materassai. There’s a light filtering through the windows of the Florios’ aromateria.

  A gloved hand knocks insistently on the door.

  Vincenzo is alone. He looks up from the receipts he’s checking by the dim light of a lamp.

  Who can it be? he wonders. The store is closed and it’s late. Whoever it is, however, is persisting.

  He goes to the door and sees the cloaked form. He opens. “You?” he says after a few seconds.

  “Me.”

  He stands aside, then locks the door and returns to his office, followed by the rustling of a skirt. The hood falls back and Giulia Portalupi’s pale face appears in the dark.

  “Why are you here?”

  “My mother needs a concoction. The cold weather has brought on a violent coughing fit and now she’s bringing up blood.” She hands him a sheet of paper. “These herbs, here.”

  “You shouldn’t be out so late. Your brother should have come.”

  She lowers her head. “I wanted to come. Giovanni knows but didn’t stop me.”

  Vincenzo’s sarcastic laugh echoes through the offi
ce. “Ah, dear old Giovanni . . . I told you, remember?”

  “Yes.” She keeps her hand outstretched, like an insistent plea.

  Vincenzo takes the sheet of paper. Without looking at it, he puts it on the table. “But you’ve come here for your own sake.”

  He forces her to look up.

  “Yes,” she replies. “Yes,” she repeats, louder.

  She hates herself saying it.

  He puts his arms around her as she closes her eyes and holds him tight.

  Giulia is afraid. Afraid and ashamed. “What will happen to me?” she whispers. “I’ll be ruined.” She wants to cry but cannot because her body has taken control and is teaching her what to do. “I’ll lose my honor. Who’ll want me after this?”

  Vincenzo slips off her cloak. “Nobody’ll want you. You’ll belong to me.” He says it in her ear while unbuttoning her dress. Then he unfastens her corset and takes off her skirt.

  They fall on the floor and make love.

  Because it’s true and Vincenzo is right: the flesh does not lie. Blood cannot be subdued.

  * * *

  Weeks go by. Then months.

  Then everything comes to a head one late October evening.

  Giulia and Giovanni have gone for a ride with Vincenzo along the city walls, at the foot of Palazzo Butera. In the carriage, the men are talking about business and mutual friends. Sitting next to Giovanni, Giulia is not even looking at Vincenzo, and yet she can feel his boot against her ankle, under her skirt, and the feeling of it makes her quiver.

  Suddenly, Giovanni turns to look at a buggy. “Gee!” he exclaims. “That’s Spitaleri, the wool wholesaler on Piazza Magione. I have some business to settle with him.” He leans out the window to catch his attention. The man slows down and gestures at Giovanni to join him.

  “Go talk to him. We’ll wait for you.” Vincenzo’s suggestion sounds like an order. Giulia shifts uncomfortably in her seat as her brother gets out of the carriage and walks to the merchant.

  As soon as he’s out of sight, Vincenzo leans forward and holds her. “Oh, God, come here . . .”

  She closes her eyes and embraces him. They are like fire and straw. With no doubt as to who is what.

  This is how Giovanni finds them when he unexpectedly returns: Giulia, her corset undone, her skirt pulled up to her thighs, Vincenzo panting.

  Giovanni looks at his sister as she’s trying to cover herself up, sees her strands of hair escaped from her bun, and the shame on her cheeks. And he’s horrified by the totally unembarrassed expression on Vincenzo’s face.

  He covers his eyes with his hands, unable to bear this sight. He wants to scream, insult them, hit them. “You . . .” he mumbles to his sister. “You’ve allowed him to—what have you both done?”

  She puts her hands over her face. “Please, don’t shout,” she whispers. “Stop it,” she begs.

  Vincenzo takes control of the situation. “Shut up, boy, and get in. I’ll come and speak to your father tomorrow afternoon.”

  Back home, Giulia is given all the blame at once. She confesses her relationship with Vincenzo and admits to having given in to him. Her brother yells and keeps repeating that he thought she was a pure, respectable young woman, and she has gone and given herself to the first man who turned up.

  She musters the strength to reply, weeping, that it is partly his fault, but Giovanni puts a hand on her mouth to silence her. “Don’t talk nonsense. He took what you offered.”

  “Shame on you!” her mother finally says. Then she approaches and, with surprising energy, slaps her before collapsing on the couch, panting and coughing. Tommaso paces up and down the room, ignoring his daughter’s tears and his wife’s heavy breathing. In a deep, menacing voice, he says he will decide whether to send her back to Milan or shut her up in a convent.

  She runs to her room and throws herself on the bed, burying her head under the pillow to stifle her sobs.

  Anything. She will accept anything as long as they don’t take her away from Vincenzo.

  The following afternoon, Vincenzo arrives at the Portalupi home for a meeting with the two men. They shut themselves away in the study.

  Waiting in the parlor, Giulia and Antonia stare at each other in silence.

  But the young woman can’t bear it: those three men are in the process of deciding her future without bothering about what she may want or desire, and she has to know. She stands up, goes to the study door, and stares at the timber until the molding showing through the cracked paint is etched in her memory.

  She listens.

  Vincenzo presents the facts as calmly as insolently, stating that he will not marry her, because he has other plans on that front. However, he wishes to keep her under his protection and is relying on their discretion. “This is how it is. I like your daughter and, yes, I did seduce her. I take full responsibility, if that’s what you want to hear. Since the damage is done,” he says with some smugness, “I’ve asked to see you in order to inform you of my conditions. I will not abandon Giulia to the street, and I don’t want you to throw her out of the house.”

  Tommaso Portalupi’s anger, generated by his astonishment, explodes in a cry of rage. “You’re without honor! You forced her to give in to you and now you want to make her your whore?”

  Giovanni steps forward and threatens to demand compensation for his sister’s honor.

  Vincenzo freezes him with an abrupt reply. “Don’t be such a hypocrite. You were aware of everything.”

  “I thought you were being kind to her because she was my sister, an old maid—”

  Vincenzo’s laugh is a slap across the face. “And I think you did it on purpose. You thought that if I became interested in her, I would make you privileged customers for my goods, didn’t you? You greenhorn. How many times did you leave us on our own? How many times did you look the other way? I made her my mistress because it was her—and not your money—that I wanted.”

  “You have allowed . . .”

  Her father’s emotional tone gives Giulia a pang in the stomach.

  Once again, Vincenzo replies calmly. “Think about it, Signor Portalupi: I don’t know if he had your approval, and it doesn’t matter. But your son often left me alone with Giulia; he’d always find a way to get me to sit next to her, and I’d never asked him to. You know what we say here? A’ pagghia vicino u’ foco appigghia: if you put straw next to a flame it catches fire. And that’s what happened.”

  A chair falls to the floor.

  Giulia takes a step back.

  Giovanni shouts, “Enough! Never mind what happened. Now you have to make an honest woman out of her!”

  Giulia doesn’t believe her brother is genuinely indignant, she cannot believe it. He’s probably just uneasy about being found out and humiliated by Vincenzo, who has revealed his schemes to his father.

  “No.” Abruptly.

  “In that case I’ll shame you in front of everyone. You won’t get away with it: I’ll make sure your name is dragged through the mud. People need to know that you take advantage of innocent young women—and don’t even marry them! Everyone must know what a scoundrel you are.”

  Vincenzo replies in such a low voice that Giulia can barely hear him. “Are you threatening . . . me?”

  “Yes. For God’s sake, act like a man!”

  There’s a long, strange pause.

  Giulia pictures Vincenzo staring at Giovanni until the latter casts down his eyes. “Half the traders in Palermo are in my debt,” he says, finally, “and I am a guarantor for the promissory notes of all the others. I am a receiver, a member of the Chamber of Commerce. I own shares in the main ships that go through Palermo. A word from me to the right people and you’ll be on your knees.”

  “Nonsense. You don’t have this much power,” Giovanni says, although his voice is trembling.

  “Actually, I do. I have it because of my money. Your father will do nothing of the sort and neither will you. You’re foreigners. A wrong word and nobody will do business with
you, either in Palermo or anywhere in Sicily.”

  Silence falls over the room.

  Standing behind the door, Giulia no longer knows what to think.

  At long last, Tommaso Portalupi speaks. His voice is firm but frosty. “I understand your meaning fully, signore. It appears that what I’ve heard about you is true: you’d step over the dead bodies of your own relatives to get what you want. You have no moral fiber or any respect for anyone. Your decision puts our backs against the wall. Now let me say my piece: you’ve wormed your way into our home like a snake. You’ve ruined my Giulia forever, since no man will sit at a table after another man has already eaten there. At least be honest and tell me: will you take care of her? I can’t bear the thought that one day you may abandon her to a fate of poverty. As it is, she’s without honor, a woman’s only wealth.”

  “I imagine my word is worth nothing to you,” Vincenzo replies in a tone that sounds laced with pity. “But, yes, I will take care of her.”

  Immediately afterward, the door is thrown open. Giulia sees him right before her.

  He takes her face between his hands. “Get your things ready,” he says very softly. “A week from now you’ll leave this house.”

  It’s the worst week of her life. Her mother barely speaks to her; her father ignores her except when he gives her deeply disappointed looks. Giovanni openly treats her like a good-for-nothing.

  She eats alone in her room, swallowing food and tears. It’s a welcome release when Vincenzo comes to pick her up.

  He’s found her a small mezzanine apartment that looks out onto the same courtyard as the Portalupi home. He’s had it emptied, whitewashed, and furnished.

  Seven days later, Giulia steps into it as the mistress of the house, followed by a maid Vincenzo has put at her disposal.

  She feels odd in this apartment. At the same time, guilty and painfully happy.

  Vincenzo has been clear: he will never marry her. And yet she loves him. She loves doggedly, with the madness of a first love that’s foolish and blind, and the full knowledge of being without hope. And she feels grateful to this love, which has turned her from someone to conceal to a daughter to be ashamed of. She’s happy to feel this way.