The Florios of Sicily

by Stefania Auci

  The arrival of more guests prevents him from continuing.

  Giulia feels a pang of nervousness.

  “Don Florio . . . and you must be Donna Giulia.” Bowing, kissing hands. Giuseppe Lanza di Trabia, followed by Romualdo Trigona, Prince of Sant’Elia.

  The wives, just a step behind them, greet them with a polite nod. Vincenzo kisses their hands and introduces Giulia. “Donna Giulia, thank you for inviting us. This is a very special occasion.” Lanza di Trabia, an educated, broad-minded prince, the owner of Palermo’s most elegant homes, seems to be evaluating with a single glance the prestige of the place he is in. But nothing could be further from the truth. His wife is a Branciforte. Ancient nobility, one of those who founded the city. Giulia feels her eyes on her and tries to muster a smile, something to soften the severity of their judgment of her.

  Stefania Branciforte is a matron dressed in an amaranth-colored outfit. She is of an advanced age, wearing jewels that have probably been in her family for generations. She keeps her eyes downcast, her hands clasped over her stomach. She looks around as though afraid of touching the walls and furniture, and the disapproving looks her husband is giving her serve no purpose.

  Giulia suddenly feels poor and wretched. The lace on her shawl seems to lose all its value and her dress all trace of elegance. She instinctively turns to the wife of Prince Trigona, Laura Naselli. She is younger than the princess of Trabia, and has long hair braided in a splendid style. She reads the same distaste in her eyes.

  They look at her without seeing her, as though she were transparent.

  There’s the kept woman who got to be a wife, they say without opening their mouths. The bourgeoise who spread her legs so she could become rich . . . but still a bourgeoise.

  She bows, as etiquette requires: they are princesses, and she’s a nobody’s daughter with a far-from-irreproachable past. The two women stare at the air next to her head and nod at the greeting that is owed to them, then walk into the salon, looking around.

  “There’s a certain pretense at elegance, don’t you think?” Princess Laura asks. “The clothes, the furniture . . .”

  The other lady shakes her hand and opens her fan. “As you say, pretense.”

  Giulia feels a lump in her throat. Her face burns and sweat trickles down between her breasts. So was all she has done for nothing? she wonders. In any case, it’s not enough, she knows it now, just as she knows that all Vincenzo’s money will not be enough for these people to accept him.

  She goes to stand closer to her husband, swallowing anger and humiliation.

  Trigona greets her with an understated “Enchanté, madame,” then gives the ceiling a lazy look. “An extraordinary house in so many ways, Don Florio.”

  He exchanges a glance with the prince of Trabia, who suppresses a smile. “Times change, my friend. Times and people.”

  Vincenzo indicates the guests. “Come. The other partners are already in the salon.”

  The wives approach their husbands, deep in conversation. They do not even give her the possibility of speaking to them.

  Vincenzo has seen and heard everything.

  Only Giulia has noticed the sudden tension in his back. He, too, understands.

  * * *

  Chandeliers glow beneath the decorated ceiling of the parlor. The Capodimonte china is laid out on a tablecloth of linen and Flanders lace. The Murano crystal glasses are waiting to be filled with the French wines kept chilled in silver pails.

  Giulia follows Vincenzo, converses with the guests, and feels more than a shudder of uncertainty. Will she do something wrong? Will she be able to estimate the correct timing for the various courses? She hesitates; her eyes ask her husband for help but he’s absorbed in conversation with Ingham.

  It’s the thought of those ladies, as noble as they are arrogant, that gives her the courage to act. She throws her shoulders back and looks at the waiters. One of them pulls out a chair and she sits down. At the other end of the table, Vincenzo follows her example. It’s the signal for dinner to begin.

  The diners take their seats. With a nod, Giulia prompts the serving staff to present the dishes to the guests so they may choose. Appetizers, meats in jelly and soups, then first and second courses, both meat and fish.

  A valet serves the wine while another pours water from a crystal carafe. The servants approach the guests. One after the other, they appear with silver trays and dishes of meat roll, ghiotta trapanese tuna, potatoes, vegetables, and lamb.

  The princess of Trabia’s attention lingers on Giulia, her hand clasping a fork with which she has speared a piece of lamb. She seems astonished, annoyed even. Alessandra Spadafora, on the other hand, has met her eyes and, with a furtive gesture, lifts her glass of wine to her.

  Giulia thanks her with a smile concealed by her napkin.

  Standing by the dining room door, the housekeeper is keeping a watchful eye on the procession of waiters. In the kitchen, two scullery maids are up to their elbows in tubs, washing dishes and silver so that the diners may have clean tableware.

  Giulia is tense and hardly touches her food. She has just a sip of water. What she does try, however, is cooked well, served at the right temperature, with first-class ingredients.

  She is so nervous that she doesn’t notice the fleeting glances of her husband, seated at the head of the table opposite her.

  She allows herself to breathe freely only once the pyramid of fresh and candied fruit and the semifreddi are served. Nobody has made any comment and, above all, everybody has eaten heartily, including the two noblewomen, who have sat stiffly on their chairs throughout dinner.

  Giulia then gives the order that liqueurs and cigars be brought, in the English fashion, and is about to withdraw with the women to the adjacent parlor when she notices movement among the ladies. It all happens very quickly: the housekeeper approaches and mutters something; she stands up, goes to Vincenzo, and whispers a few words; he squeezes her wrist; she nods and leaves, closing the dining room door.

  Without moving, she watches the scene from a distance: the two princesses are preparing to leave. They sighed and said they’re tired, partly because the dinner was long and demanding. Once they’re back home they’ll instruct the coachmen to return to pick up their husbands.

  But Giulia does not believe this comedy even for a second. Those two came with their husbands because it was a matter of business, of money. Now, though, they would have to engage in conversation with her. And the very thought horrifies them.

  Go ahead, run off, she thinks. And go gossip. Nothing’ll change the fact that Vincenzo is proud of me. Anyone who came here tonight can only say that the Florios keep a table worthy of princes and kings.

  Alessandra Spadafora puts a hand on her arm. “I must go, too, my dear. It’s very late and I no longer have the energy I had when I was twenty and able to stay up and revel all night. But may I compliment you on this evening?” She draws closer. “You will come to see me, won’t you? After all, we’re neighbors and have much in common.”

  Giulia puts her hand over hers. “I will come very gladly,” she replies with sincerity.

  The princess of Trabia takes her leave with a regal nod. Trigona’s wife, on the other hand, shakes her hand. “A very pleasant evening,” she says in a hiss, as though unable to utter the compliment out loud.

  Giulia’s eyes are shining. She feels she has passed an exam and, most important, that she has not disappointed her husband. She has played her part. Now, relieved, she can retire to her bedroom, and leave the men to their chatter and their liqueurs.

  * * *

  The women have just left when Caldara, the notary, and Carlo Giachery arrive. “Have I missed anything?” the latter asks Vincenzo, who is standing on the doorstep.

  “You mean besides dinner? Not much: only Chiaramonte Bordonaro’s ramblings. He’s severely testing the patience of the prince of Trabia and his noble detachment by telling him about his collection of antiquities.” Vincenzo accompanies him to the bar
and asks for a brandy.

  “He can’t help himself.” Carlo takes a glass of madeira. “Shame about Baron Riso. It would have been interesting to have him as one of the partners.”

  “I think the old rogue is counting all his sins so he can give a detailed account to his Maker. They say he’s got one foot in the grave.”

  Ingham approaches and indicates the bottle of port to a valet, who immediately serves him a glass. “Poor man. I can’t picture him dying in a bed. Maybe it’s all the curses the Turks put on him when he was a privateer. Were he ten years younger, he would have taken the helm of a ship, for all the baronetcy he bought himself. I’ll have the pastor say prayers for him.”

  “It’s not a ship. It’s a steamship. The Palermo.”

  “What are you talking about? Steam?” Gabriele Chiaramonte Bordonaro intervenes in the group and confuses the conversation. He grabs a bottle of marsala and pours himself a drink. “The problem, as I was just saying to the illustrious prince of Trabia, is that we don’t know how to repair it if it breaks down. I’m not telling you this just as a partner but as a treasurer. Do you know any British mechanics who are familiar with these engines, Ingham? Will they send them to you with the steamship? Because all you’ll find here are ship carpenters.”

  “Of course I do.” Ingham is not perturbed. “They’ll come and teach those who live here how to repair the engines and even how to build them. If you don’t pluck up the courage with both hands and take no risks, nothing will ever change in Sicily. Besides, Don Florio and I are not worried, and yet we own the largest share of the company, so why should you be?”

  “It’s we traders who are always interested in this kind of issue. We don’t have our backs covered by an important name or family.” Chiaramonte takes a gulp of liqueur.

  His head down, staring at his own glass, Vincenzo nods.

  The prince of Trigona joins them. “Come now, Chiaramonte. Don’t be unfair.” His tone is lighthearted but he seems annoyed. “If we are also committing to this business it’s because we know that the future waits for no man. Tradition and being cautious are all very well but we must learn to look to the present.”

  “And to the future.” Vincenzo raises his glass. “Gentlemen, a toast. To our enterprise!”

  Glasses clink as the men all shake hands.

  These words remain entangled in Vincenzo’s memory before falling into the void of his consciousness. Engines. Work store. Mechanics.

  A seed that’s going to sprout roots.

  * * *

  At the end, when voices drop and the guests start to feel tired, dark bottles appear on the table, some still with a thin layer of dust on them. Vincenzo proudly picks up a bottle and uncorks it. It’s the marsala wine from his cellars. A special reserve, which, he explains, he has been saving for an occasion like this. The guests approach to sample it. The small, tulip-shaped glasses are filled.

  It’s a good wine, with a sweet, round, but not sickly flavor. You can smell the sea, honey, and the grapes left to ferment. And there’s even a hit of sharpness from the salt pans.

  A cigar in his mouth, Ben Ingham waits for a few guests to walk away before he speaks. “May I be frank?”

  Vincenzo narrows his eyes. It’s not like Ingham to ask permission to speak. And neither is that strange, complicit air on his face. He nods at him to continue.

  “When I heard you were going to marry Giulia, I was puzzled. I mean, for such a long time she’d been—”

  “What Duchess Spadafora was for you?”

  The Englishman laughs. “Touché. In any case, unlike the duchess, you’ll agree that your lady doesn’t have very much experience of social life.”

  “I agree,” Vincenzo replies dryly, abruptly.

  Ben bows his head. An indulgent smile appears on his strict face, marked by years. “I think you made the best choice. I remember your frenzy in trying to find a woman with a title . . . and all that time you had a treasure right next to you. This woman is a pearl, Vincenzo.”

  He nods, eyes fixed on his marsala.

  The forced choice turned out to be the best choice.

  “And something else.” The Englishman laughs out loud, and that is also unusual, for he is always self-controlled. Maybe it’s the drink or the euphoria over the recently signed contract. “You know, when you started building your cellar in Marsala, I thought you would never exceed my or Woodhouse’s production.” He takes a sip. He laughs. “There, too, I was wrong. As God is my witness, you are my biggest error of evaluation.”

  Shoulder to shoulder, Vincenzo answers him in a low voice. “When we began, me, you, my uncle . . . there was nothing here. No factories, no companies, no insurance firms. We didn’t have obstacles or competitors, and everything we did seemed like folly.” He indicates the crowded room in front of him. “And now . . .”

  “Everything’s changed now.”

  “Some things. Not everything.”

  Ingham also looks at the men in the room: aristocrats from some of Sicily’s oldest families, and aristocrats who had purchased their lands and titles at bankruptcy auctions. “The old and the new,” he says almost to himself. “There’s something I never told you. Years ago, when I acquired the Scala estate, I was told I could take the title of baron. Me, a baron!” He laughs, but it is a terse, harsh laugh. “Your uncle Ignazio was still alive. One day I met him and he addressed me by the title. And I told him that if I was a baron then he was a prince, because of the two of us his certainly was the more noble behavior.”

  “My uncle was a gentleman.” A bitter regret.

  “Much more so than some people in this room.” His tone grows softer but only for a moment. “As for me, I can’t forget how I got here. I was a young man following the British army, sent here by a family who traded in cloth, and who had lost everything in a shipwreck. I wagered on this land and stayed here even when my fellow countrymen left. There were times when the only thing that held me together was the thought that I would still be working the next day. I can thank God for that, and for being still alive . . . As a matter of fact, I thank Him every night before I put my head on the pillow. I know this place and your people, and I have learned to love and despise them in equal measure. I don’t need a manor to be Ben Ingham, who sails as far as America and invests in New World railways.”

  Vincenzo does not reply. Because he knows it’s not about money, it’s not about power: it’s about something more subtle, about taking a step back and bowing your head in deference.

  He thinks it but doesn’t say it, that these are notions attached to these people’s bones. Wealth is not enough, nor is experience.

  It’s not enough if you don’t have the title.

  The palace.

  The blood.

  * * *

  “This one. This one’s perfect.”

  Carlo Giachery watches Vincenzo hunched over the plan of the villa he’s building for him. Bright, unusual, full of greenery.

  The architect draws a sigh of relief. It’s not easy to please the illustrious Don Florio. He lights a cigar and offers him one but the other man declines. Then he calmly sits in an armchair at the corner of the worktable. “So you’re happy?”

  Vincenzo sits opposite him. “Happy enough. Although I haven’t come here only to talk about this project.”

  Giachery stretches his legs. “It’s about the Favignana tonnara, isn’t it? Last year, when you rented it from the Pallavicinis in Genoa, I did wonder if you were biting off more than you could chew. I mean, you already had Arenella, Sant’Elia, and Solanto . . .”

  “Favignana and Formica get a bigger catch than the three of them put together. That’s why I picked them.”

  They look at each other. Vincenzo nods. “I’ve ordered olive oil and barrels. They’re already on their way to the Aegadian Islands. I’m about to go there myself and I want you to come with me.”

  * * *

  The next day, they’re already traveling by sea. Nobody knows where they’re going. They sk
irt around the Gulf of Castellammare, sail past the Cape of San Vito. Immediately afterward, the Aegadian Islands appear on the horizon.

  When they arrive, a crowd of fishermen gathers to see the steamship with the metal hull that has invaded the harbor. Their faces are dark from the sun and salt, and their clothes are very loose. Nearby, there are women followed by half-naked, barefoot children. The island is bare, the houses little more than hovels. Poverty has a face and a body here.

  A man comes away from the group: he has a body like the trunk of an oak, curly hair, and a beard that comes halfway down his chest. “I’m Vito Cordova, the overseer—u’ rais.” He bows his head. “Assabbinirìca,” he says, using the traditional greeting.

  Vincenzo studies him. He proffers his right hand. “Don Vincenzo Florio. I’m the new lessee of the tonnara.”

  “You?”

  “Yes.”

  The fisherman half closes his eyes, which are already narrow, imprisoned in a network of veins and wrinkles. He wipes his callused hand, full of scars, on his pants, and shakes Vincenzo’s gingerly. “Nobody from the Genoa lot ever came here. Are you from these parts?”

  “I’m from Palermo. The Pallavicinis have leased me the tonnara for nine years.”

  Surprise flashes on Cordova’s barklike face. The Genoese owners have always sent their stewards and never come here themselves. “What do you want to see? The marfaraggio? The boats?”

  “Possibly. What do you think?”

  Cordova points at the buildings and starts walking a few steps ahead of Vincenzo and Carlo. Behind them, like a procession, comes the entire village. Their footsteps raise the sand and dust while gusts of wind spin a host of dry Neptune grass.

  The tonnara stands in the most sheltered part of the bay. Reed roofs, cracked walls, and heaps of rope in the sun suggest neglect.

  Vincenzo purses his lips and speaks softly to Carlo. “Pallavicini charges more than three thousand oncie in rent for a tonnara that’s one of the richest in Sicily . . . and look at what he gets away with.”