The Florios of Sicily

by Stefania Auci

  And, at the same time, there’s a hope worming its way in.

  A boy. An heir.

  He turns on his side. Giulia hugs him, her chest against him, her belly pressing against the small of his back. This is home, he thinks in the zone between sleep and waking. Vincenzo falls asleep and almost doesn’t notice the light taps from a child knocking at the door of life.

  * * *

  January in Palermo can be mild and have a light that seems to speak the language of spring. But then the north wind starts to blow, reminding everyone that winter has its time to reign and won’t yield it to anybody.

  The sea says it. Here at Arenella, the spring sea is clear and deep. But in the winter, the water becomes murky, bubbling from within. In this January 1837, deceivingly bright, two men are now walking beneath the tonnara walls, dodging the spray of the waves.

  “So the court hasn’t decided yet?”

  “The prince of Castelforte has opposed it once again. The son of a bitch doesn’t want to let go.” Vincenzo puts his hands in his pockets and shudders when a gust of wind eddies under his coat. “All I need is his share of ownership and the tonnara will be mine. Even the prior of San Martino delle Scale has assured me that he will also sell the warehouses. It’s just this damned Paternò who won’t give in.”

  Walking beside him is perhaps the only person he trusts, and who is more than just a colleague. Carlo Giachery, all curly hair and bushy mustache, opens his arms. “It’s still the story about the legacy to his wife, right?”

  “A wife he’s never given a damn about. The truth is he doesn’t want to be humiliated by a storekeeper like me.”

  “Or a laborer, to be exact.” Giachery can allow himself to speak frankly.

  “Heck.”

  They’ve been acquainted for almost two years, since shortly before Angelina, Vincenzo’s daughter, was born. They met at a dinner at the duke of Serradifalco’s house. A gathering where aristocrats—few of them—and middle-class guests—in large numbers—sat side by side with artists and scholars.

  Vincenzo was struck by his quick delivery and Roman accent. “In Rome, funeral architecture is a fast-growing sector. All in all, we must thank Bonaparte for his idea of putting cemeteries outside the city walls.”

  “There are many things Bonaparte should be thanked for,” the duke, an enthusiastic historian, added. “Not least for allowing us to discover the magnificence of Ancient Egypt and Greece. Of course he did annihilate entire armies, but look at how much culture he brought to our knowledge!”

  Vincenzo was observing the young architect, who was becoming enthused speaking about commerce and art that can and must adapt to everyday life, using the examples of French and British industry. “So you’re abreast of the latest British and French architectural trends,” he said, “which demand that a factory should be not only productive but also organized in a rational manner.”

  Carlo nodded energetically. “Yes. I spent my youth between Paris and the Veneto. I’ve traveled, so I know what I’m talking about. Operating with a specific purpose doesn’t mean erecting four walls and putting machines between them, like some factory owners seem to believe. It’s all right if you build a mill in the countryside, but in a city you must work out where and how to build it, and who is going to work in it. Factories are becoming part of our cities, so we’d better start thinking about them in that context. As a matter of fact, my brother Luigi and I are working on this, on how to make mills into places that are both beautiful and functional, and make them part of the place where they are built.”

  By their second meeting, they were on first-name terms. From then on, they continued their discussions and their arguments. For a month now, Carlo has been lecturing on city architecture at the University of Palermo and working directly with Vincenzo. He’s the person Vincenzo trusts the most in business, perhaps because, just like him, Carlo does not entirely belong in Palermo. Giachery has the power of attorney and manages the purchase of property and some business. But he is above all a friend.

  Vincenzo throws his head back and embraces the buildings with a yearning eye. He loves this tonnara so much. “Do you know why I brought you here?” he asks, resuming his walk.

  “As a matter of fact, I’ve been wondering. We’ve been walking around it for the past half hour.”

  “What I want is a villa.” He turns and points at the walls. “Right here.”

  Walls flaking because of the salt air, stockrooms carved out of the tuff, a few tamarisks bent by the wind, and stone.

  Carlo looks at the building. “I don’t understand.”

  Vincenzo gestures at him to follow. He follows the perimeter of the plant, explaining.

  “Forgive me, Vincenzo, but I still don’t understand. Why here? It’s a tonnara! You could afford a villa anywhere. I mean, the best properties are in Bagheria and San Lorenzo. Besides, barely a month ago, you were saying you wanted to buy the notary Avellone’s house. Have you changed your mind?”

  “Not at all. That’s an investment.” He seizes Giachery by the arm, as though trying to make him see through his own eyes. “I don’t want the usual villa, with pillars, balconies, and statues. I want something nobody has ever imagined building, and I want it here because I want it to express the way I grew up: it will have to be different. I don’t want a villa, but a house that will also be my home.”

  That is when Giachery sees.

  The horizon, both metaphorical and real, opens up.

  “The sea . . .”

  “That’s right, the sea. And the world beyond it, and the wealth that comes from it. You’ve traveled throughout Europe, you’ve lived in Rome, but you’ve chosen to come here because you know that Palermo is the place for you. Now you know what I want. Give it to me.”

  An entire world is enclosed in these words.

  * * *

  In the carriage, they discuss other things: the cotton mills in Marsala—“I haven’t found the right land yet”—the management of the cellars by Raffaele Barbaro—“It could be more profitable but he lacks the initiative”—and about the board of directors of the Chamber of Commerce.

  “I think it’s the only place where some people agree to deal with a storekeeper like me.” Vincenzo speaks with a mixture of detachment and pride. “Not many, but some, like the prince of Torrebruna and Baron Battifora, realize they have to get their hands dirty if they don’t want to sell everything, including their titles. When all’s said and done, there are few tradesmen and storekeepers who really move money around, here in Palermo, and even fewer aristocrats who are willing to do business with us.”

  “Intelligence is rare goods,” Carlo says, sighing. “They don’t have the mental capacity to understand that the world is changing.” He takes a notebook out of his pocket and reads his reminders. “So shall I continue negotiating with the duke of Cumia over the villa in San Lorenzo? It has good land, you could earn some revenue from it.”

  Vincenzo is staring at the road. His forehead is furrowed with lines that make him look older. When Giachery calls him he rouses himself. “Sorry, you were saying?”

  Carlo puts a hand on his arm. “It’s this evening, isn’t it?” he asks, even though he knows Vincenzo does not allow intrusions into his personal life. Perhaps that’s why he asks. “Why don’t you go? After all, she’s your daughter.”

  “I don’t know.” Vincenzo is torn, much more than he shows. “I won’t give her my name.” He speaks with irritation and obvious regret. “A girl. Another one. It’s not just the damage, it’s the mockery of it.”

  He points at the paper in Giachery’s hand. “Let’s proceed ahead with Cumia. Avellone doesn’t want to sell his estate directly to me, but he won’t say no to Cumia.”

  Carlo agrees. “Especially since he’s the chief of police.” He thinks. “And no one says no to a police officer.”

  * * *

  Why don’t you go?

  Carlo’s question keeps knocking at the door of his conscience. All afternoon, at th
e aromateria, where he calls in to sign some orders, and in the office of Casa Florio.

  Via dei Materassai is now shared between him and Ingham. He has much more money and power than he could have imagined when his uncle died.

  But what is it all for if he can’t decide what to do with his life?

  * * *

  Vincenzo received the news of Giulia’s second pregnancy with resigned calm. After their first child, Angela—Angelina, as everybody calls her—was born, their situation stopped creating talk: other, juicier scandals were animating the city salons. Their living together now triggers only indignant—and hollow—reproach.

  His mother found it hardest to stomach the news. It’s difficult to explain to her that she can’t stop him from marrying, even though the law requires that she should grant permission for her son to marry. He’s almost forty but . . . No, Giuseppina doesn’t want to be reasonable.

  One afternoon, she appeared right in front of him. She had run to the office, as pale as the gray dress she was wearing.

  “So you’ve gotten her pregnant again, have you?”

  The secretary, standing in the doorway, made a forlorn gesture, as if to say: I just couldn’t stop her. Then he closed the door.

  “And a good afternoon to you, Mother. Yes. Giulia is pregnant again.”

  She brought her hands to her face. “What a misfortune! Doesn’t this woman ever miscarry? Am I the only one to whom it had to happen?” She rocked back and forth on the chair where she had sunk. “Doesn’t she understand you won’t marry her? And you, don’t you know how to—”

  “Mamma, don’t you even think of finishing that sentence! Is that clear?” he said, hands on his hips. “In any case, if it’s a boy this time I’m going to marry her. Let that be clear.”

  She leaped up, furious. “Rubbish! Marry that chambermaid! Are you out of your mind?”

  “I’m being practical. I’m thirty-seven and there’s not much else I can do. Frankly, I don’t want a wife if she’s like the dog-faced widow you suggested to me three months ago.”

  Giuseppina became the picture of the outraged mother. “You’re marrying her. Remember, I have to give you my permission, and I won’t. That woman never came to see me, never showed me respect, and now you want her to come here and act the mistress in my house?”

  “Why, would you have let her in?”

  “Never!”

  “There you go, so you’re even.” A weariness came over him, a resignation he felt only when he had to argue with his mother about Giulia and the other way around. There was no emotion more troubling than this unease that made him feel as though he were being pushed and pulled from both sides, and had no choice in the matter.

  Vincenzo’s thoughts now rush ahead, to the moment he heard news of the labor, to the afternoon of waiting. To the announcement that he was a father again.

  Of a girl.

  Immediately after the birth, Giulia asked him to marry her. She asked gently at first, then firmly. He refused.

  He was sent away.

  The unease solidifies. She is hard, inflexible. She wants her honor, her dignity back. Vincenzo thinks of Giulia and realizes he’s managed to find a life companion even prouder than he. He keeps toying with his uncle’s ring. More than ever, he longs for his advice.

  He takes out his pocket watch, grabs his jacket and coat, and goes out.

  Giulia’s apartment is not far.

  * * *

  In the small parlor of her apartment, Giulia Portalupi is holding a newborn baby in her arms, and there’s a priest who’s come to christen her. Next to her stands her brother, Giovanni; a few steps behind them, the servant with another little girl. It’s been a week since the birth, and it’s not appropriate to wait any longer before having a child baptized.

  It’s been a week since she and Vincenzo had an argument.

  The priest paces around the room. He feels uneasy, as though he doesn’t know what to do. He puts the chrism on the table and lights the candles while muttering prayers. Preoccupied, Giulia is barely following his acts.

  It was like that with Angelina, and the same with her second daughter. She is hers and nobody else’s: Vincenzo doesn’t want to acknowledge her. Giulia is now struggling to tolerate this state of affairs. The solitude and the growing contempt are heavy burdens.

  And now, once again, this furtive ceremony, with a priest come to the house in a rush, without even an altar servant. A clandestine ritual celebrated at home, the way it is with illegitimate children. Even her parents refused to come to the christening.

  “Mammaaaa,” the little girl calls, agitated.

  Giovanni goes and picks her up to keep her quiet. “Shh . . . there’s a good girl. Your mamma must have your baby sister baptized. Did you know, your grandma has made some sweets?”

  Hearing this, Giulia sighs. She would rather her mother were here and not shut up at home, baking cookies for an occasion nobody considers to be a celebration.

  The priest starts to chant in Latin. His sharp voice resounds between the furniture and the ceiling. “What name are you giving this child?”

  Giulia uncovers the baby’s head. “Giuseppina. Like her grandmother.”

  The parish priest gives her a sidelong glance. He knows Giulia’s mother’s name is Antonia, just as he knows who is the father of these two girls. It’s the second bastard she’s borne that godless man Vincenzo. And barely two years apart. She behaves shamelessly, as though she were his wife and he refuses to take an ounce of responsibility.

  At that moment, there’s a jangling of keys. The front door creaks then closes with a thud, and a shadow in a dark cloak appears by the door to the parlor.

  Vincenzo.

  The room plunges into silence. Giulia freezes. She wants to ask him to stand beside her. But she looks at the priest again and gestures at him to continue.

  Giovanni has seen him, too. “Shall I tell him to leave?” he murmurs.

  “No.” He came. That is more than she expected.

  The priest anoints the baby’s chest with consecrated oil and wets her forehead with holy water. She cries and wriggles. At the end of the ceremony, the priest writes the little girl’s name on the baptism certificate.

  Giuseppina Portalupi, born of Giulia Portalupi. Godfather: Giovanni Portalupi. The godmother is Lucia, the servant girl.

  There’s nobody else who can take on that role.

  While the priest extinguishes the candles and picks up his things, Vincenzo walks into the room. Giovanni blocks him. “Where are you going?”

  “I want to see my daughter.”

  “She doesn’t have your surname, and neither does Angelina. You refused to acknowledge either of them, remember?”

  “I don’t owe you any explanation.” He walks past him with bad grace.

  Sitting on the couch, Giulia is dressing Giuseppina again. The baby wriggles and whimpers from the cold.

  She greets him with a faint smile.

  He kneels beside her. “I heard the name you chose. Thank you.” He reaches out to touch the child, who keeps moving, restless, searching for her mother’s breast. He pulls away.

  “I wish it would help in some way,” Giulia says, wrapping the baby in a shawl. “But it won’t, will it?”

  He sighs impatiently. “No.” Giovanni and Angelina are standing behind him. He can feel their eyes on his back. “I want to speak to you. Alone.”

  Angelina breaks free and runs to her mother. She hides under her arm and, from this shelter, stares at Vincenzo with distrust. To her, this father is a figure with blurred edges.

  “All right.” Giulia stands up and holds Giuseppina against her breast. “Even though I already know I’ll be sorry.”

  She sees the priest out. Next to her, Giovanni gives him a donation. “For the parish orphans.”

  The man nods with a serious expression, closes his fingers over the coins, and slips out.

  A hand on the doorjamb, Giulia looks at her brother. “I need to speak to Vincenzo. A
lone.”

  “You’re out of your mind. Either that or you’re stupid. What do you think he’s going to say to you?” Giovanni indicates the parlor. “Why debase yourself further? What do you think he’s going to tell you? You’ll never have anything good from a man like that. No family and no respect. You’ll always be . . . what you are.”

  Giulia knows that’s true, that her brother’s right, that she should have fled to Milan as soon as she got pregnant with Angelina. And yet she opens the door and indicates the stairs. “Please,” she insists, and her request brooks no refusal.

  Giovanni opens his arms. “Your life couldn’t get any worse.” He calls Angelina. “I don’t want her to hear you two arguing, poor child,” he mutters.

  Giulia purses her lips.

  The little girl, who’s been watching her father askance, runs to her uncle and giggles when he picks her up on the fly. Vincenzo follows her with his eyes as she disappears past the threshold. A moment later, he hears the door close and the sound of Giovanni and the girl laughing.

  Angelina has never laughed with him.

  * * *

  Giulia returns to the parlor in her robe, the baby sucking vigorously at her breast.

  “Your other daughter barely even looked at me.”

  “And I’ll bet you’ve never asked yourself why that is. You should, you know,” she replies sharply, then motions at him to follow her. She goes into the bedroom and sits on the bed so she can nurse the baby. Vincenzo looks at her shyly and keeps watching her for a long time. He had not realized earlier that the pregnancy has softened her features.

  “Are you sure you don’t want a wet nurse?” he murmurs. “It’ll ruin your breasts.”

  She shakes her head. “Why did you come back? I told you not to until you’d spoken with your mother.”

  Vincenzo unfastens his cloak and sits on the edge of the bed. “She refuses. She simply refuses.”

  “And you don’t want to choose between me and her. I guess there’s nothing else to add.” Her voice is sharp. “Funny how Don Florio, the tradesman without scruples, famous for his ruthlessness, becomes a scared little boy with his own mamma.”

  “She’s my mother. And she’s old and lonely.”