“He doesn’t give a damn.”
The voice that reaches Vincenzo is that of an old man standing at the entrance of the building, perched on a stool. “He only cares about the money.”
They exchange looks. The old man’s expresses resignation and bitterness; Vincenzo’s, curiosity.
Followed by Carlo, he walks into the building. There’s sand and dust around them: the tuff is flaking and the bricks are corroded by salt air. The smell of the sea and algae envelops them, along with the more persistent odor of dried salt. There are dogs loitering in the courtyard and the boat ramps, children flocking around them then running to their mothers for shelter.
However, no sooner have they walked through the courtyard barrier than they’re overwhelmed by an unbearable stench that reminds Vincenzo of the one lingering over Palermo during the cholera epidemic.
“What’s this place? A cemetery?”
“Kind of,” Cordova explains. “There’s a bosco down there, and dead animals, so the blood drains. Over here we have the muciari—the small boats.”
“Yes, I know what muciari are. My father and my uncle were seamen. And what’s over there?”
Carlo watches them, slightly puzzled, trying to keep up with the thick Sicilian accent. “What are you saying?”
“He’s explaining the reason for this terrible smell: over there, in that area they call the bosco—the wood—they leave the tuna to bleed white and the carcasses to rot, while right here in front they have the muciari—the fishing boats . . .”
A man suddenly comes out of the building. He wears a crumpled suit and a straw hat over his flushed forehead. “What are you doing here? Get out! Out!”
The small crowd takes a step back but doesn’t scatter. The man pushes them away, stops in front of Cordova, and speaks to him rudely. “Don Vito, why didn’t you call for me? I would have welcomed our guest.”
The fisherman’s eyes turn opaque. “He arrived just like that, without telling anybody. Just showed up.”
Vincenzo slowly turns. Carlo knows this expression, crosses his arms, and waits.
“He’s right, nobody knew I was coming. And who would you be?”
“Saro Ernandez, at your service. I’m the bookkeeper. You must be Don Florio. My respects.” The man takes a deferential bow. “Did you come just like that? I mean . . . without anybody except your secretary?”
“Why? Is that a problem? Besides, he’s not my secretary. This is Signor Carlo Giachery, an architect.”
The man is disconcerted. “No . . . I really didn’t expect a visit so soon. They told us that . . . Well, I was just expecting you a few days later. Also, I didn’t think you’d come alone.”
“And yet here I am. Come, I need to speak to you.”
The office is a room filled with sun rays, shielded from the nauseating smell from the plant. Ernandez shows him the books.
“So, in this particular mattanza we’ve caught three thousand tuna so far,” Vincenzo comments. “It’s May, the tonnara has only just been lowered into the sea, so there’ll be others . . .”
“Yes, we expect many more. We’ve seen shoals that—”
Vincenzo does not let him finish. He turns his back to him and looks at the rais, who is still standing by the door. “And what do you think, Master Cordova?”
The man nods. “At least as many more. And a lot of sardines.”
The bookkeeper nervously picks up a few receipts. “We also have the salt from your associate D’Alì. Salt from the Trapani pans, you know, of excellent quality and—”
“I’m not interested,” Vincenzo says abruptly. “From now on we’ll use a different system.” He walks up to the rais. They’re almost the same height, perhaps the same age, although the fisherman looks much older. “Let’s change the tune.”
Saro Ernandez clutches the papers. “Change the tune? What do you mean? I don’t understand.”
“We’re not going to have just salted tuna,” Vincenzo explains without looking at him. “You know they say it causes scurvy, don’t you? That’s why much of it is unsold, because shipping companies and sailors are wary. So we’re going to do something new.” He stares into the onyx eyes of the rais and finally detects a spark of wonder. “They’re unloading several gallons of oil from our steamboat as we speak. The tuna is going to be cut and boiled, then preserved in oil in airtight barrels.”
“But—but it’ll rot! And even if it doesn’t, it’ll have to be eaten quickly.”
“Not at all. I’ve been trying this method of preservation for several years now, using tuna from Arenella and San Nicolò l’Arena, with Mr. Giachery’s help.” Ernandez mutters something in protest but Vincenzo freezes him with a look. “We’ve been working on this project for longer than three years. It works perfectly well. We’ll alter the marfaraggio by setting up an area with boilers for cooking the fish and accommodation for seasonal workers. We’ll employ families and not just fishermen.”
“But nobody’s ever done this!” One final protestation. “People here can’t do what you think they can! They’re just miserable wretches.”
“Very well, then. We’ll start by ourselves and they’ll learn. All the families. Together.” Vincenzo turns to the rais. “And not only that: we’ll do it the way people used to in the old days: use the tuna fat to make lamp oil, and the dry bones for the soil.”
A hint of a smile finally appears on the fisherman’s cracked lips. “The families?”
“Yes. They can all work.”
* * *
Seagulls crying, wind rustling, the heat of the sun.
When the carriage stops, Vincenzo hears the lapping of the Arenella sea. His tonnara. An ancestral memory, a call that stirs inside him and mysteriously belongs to him.
Giulia sits next to him, impatient. “Are we there yet?”
He helps her down. There’s another vehicle behind them, with their children, Giuseppina, who is now sixty-five, and the nanny.
Vincenzo turns and lets the sea air fill his lungs and soul with satisfaction. Before him stands the villa designed by Giachery, next to the Arenella tonnara, a place that captured his heart.
I’ve always loved you, he thinks. I’ve loved you from the very beginning.
Terra-cotta-colored walls. A wooden front door opens before him, with Carlo Giachery waiting on the threshold. He hands Vincenzo a bunch of keys. “Welcome home.”
He walks in, followed by Giulia and the children.
The tonnara courtyard has become a front garden with a trellis and trees. Potted plants break up the gray of the cobblestones. The low building has been raised and turned into a house, with large windows and a terrace overlooking the boat ramp. Nearer the sea, there is a square turret.
It looks covered in lace.
Four vertices, four cornerstones, four pizzi—peaks. Gothic lines worthy of an English castle, with mullioned windows opening to the sky. An inlay made from tuff, like lace, with sinuous lines carved in stone.
Vincenzo feels Giulia shiver next to him. “But it’s—”
“Splendid. Yes, I know. That’s why I didn’t want to show it to you earlier.” He takes her by the hand. “Come.” Then he says to the nanny and his mother, “Wait here.”
Carlo watches them go inside. He does not accompany them because he knows this is a private moment: Giulia doesn’t yet know the secret of the tower room, the one Vincenzo has dreamed of from the moment he realized he could be its sole lord.
* * *
Footsteps echo through the deserted rooms. A maid precedes them, opening windows. The sun floods in, spreading over the checkered tiles. The sound of the sea muffles the rustling of skirts and their subdued voices.
Mahogany and walnut furniture reveal their forms: tables, closets, couches, consoles. There are no ornaments but Giulia will take care of that. When he tells her, her face lights up with joy.
Vincenzo walks across a hallway that overlooks the sea, and stops outside a door. He puts a hand on the knob. “Look.”
Giulia goes in.
Above her, a rib vault, tall, slender, like in a church. The ribs, painted in red and gold, chase one another then blend into the window frames.
Beyond the yellow of the gold lies the sea. The Gulf of Arenella and the whole of Palermo.
Her breath catches in her chest. She turns around, throws her head back, and laughs like a little girl.
He hugs her from behind. “Do you like it? No one else in Palermo has something like this.”
She is speechless from happiness.
The children burst into the room at that very moment. There are exclamations of surprise, noses pointing upward, laughter.
Giulia picks up Ignazio, who is four, and points at the patterns. Even Giuseppina, the last one to come into the room, looks around, marveling, pleased.
Standing aside, Vincenzo observes them. It’s what he wanted: a house worthy of his name and his family. He leaves the room and goes to the small salon. There, Carlo Giachery is lighting a cigar. “They’re all delighted.”
“Well, it’s what you wanted, isn’t it? To leave everybody speechless.” Carlo leans against the window. He indicates the boat sheds. “You’re crazy and I was crazy to listen to you. I never would have thought I could pull off such a building at the back of a tonnara. It took you to make me. And in Palermo, of all places.”
“It took me for many things to be done. And you’ll see that when I manage to trade in tuna in oil on a large scale. We’ve been canning it and selling it for years, and the demand keeps growing.” Vincenzo says this without arrogance but mere awareness. “This is what I will reply to whoever calls me a ‘visionary.’ Facts. It’ll be the same with the Oretea foundry I bought from the Sgroi brothers. Everybody told me that a workshop here in Palermo was preposterous, that only putìe survive here. But I know that’s not the case, and that if somebody doesn’t start to think big, this island will always stay in one place while the rest of the world will go forth. You know what they say in Palermo? Dunami tempo, dissi u’ surci a’ nuci, ca ti percio.”
Carlo laughs. “You and your proverbs. You’re more Palermo than some seventh-generation Palermo folk. What does it mean?”
“‘Give me time,’ the mouse says to the nut. ‘Give me time and I’ll crunch through you.’ I’m not the type to give up, you know that, Carlo. As a matter of fact, talking of the foundry, I’d like you to go to the construction site in Porta San Giorgio because the works for the new head office have slowed down. People think I’m crazy, but wait till the ships are made of metal and have steam engines . . . Then having a foundry of your own, which works only for your ships, will lower the cost of spare parts and of so much else.” And Vincenzo remembers the grinder for the bark and the insults the Florios attracted when they had the audacity to sell quinine powder and changed the rules.
“Crazy, yes. And don’t forget also a laborer.”
“Better laugh.” His laugh is more of a grimace. Some things never change. “Especially when I think of the people who hurled these insults at me and what they said . . .”
“I suspect they’ll keep calling you that till the day you die.” Carlo is now serious. “You should be used to it by now.”
“I am.” Vincenzo paces around the room, his hands behind his back. “But I can’t resign myself, I just can’t. What’s insane is hearing people like Filangeri call me a ‘laborer’ and send his broker to ask me for a loan in the same breath. It’s this arrogance, this lack of dignity that makes me angry.” Vincenzo seeks out his anger, which he always keeps beside him, and nurses like a newborn baby.
Carlo Filangeri, Prince of Satriano, is in financial dire straits. Misguided investments, some say; luxury and excesses, others claim. For a long time his creditors have wanted to request that he be declared bankrupt. He’s in over his head. He is going to have to sink or swim. And Vincenzo possesses the rope that can pull him safely to shore.
* * *
Evening comes. They have dinner together in their new home according to tradition: pasta with sauce, fried fish. Potatoes and other vegetables are given as an offering to the house patruneddi to ask for their benevolence and their joyful welcome. Giulia follows the proceedings with a raised eyebrow. As a northerner, therefore naturally skeptical, she finds this attempt to ingratiate oneself with spirits somewhat ridiculous, but so be it.
Late in the evening, the couple take their children to their bedrooms. The girls share one room, while Ignazio has another. Giuseppina’s room is not far from there. At the bottom of the hallway, overlooking the gulf, is Giulia and Vincenzo’s bedroom.
It is not easy to fall asleep: everybody is excited. Even the maids keep walking around on tiptoe, trying not to make noise. Angelina and Giuseppina start jumping on the bed. They are eight and six years old: still children. Ignazio runs, hides, and there’s nothing Mademoiselle Brigitte can do to calm him down. It takes a stern telling-off from Vincenzo before they get under the blankets, from where, however, there comes a cascade of stifled laughter.
Vincenzo then looks in on his mother. She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, eyes closed, holding a rosary, still wearing her cap. “Aren’t you going to sleep, Mother?”
“Prayers first.”
For some time now, Donna Giuseppina has become very religious. It’s not clear whether this is a true change in her, old age, or fear of the unknown after a life with little happiness.
Vincenzo bends over her. “Do you like this house?”
She nods and mutters a prayer in broken Latin. Then she cocks her head. “This place stole Ignazio’s heart and now it’s taken yours.” She smooths the bedspread with her hand. “Do you want to move here forever? I wouldn’t mind. The air is clearer here. It reminds me of Bagnara.”
She doesn’t mention Calabria much anymore. The resentful regret she once had has gone: Bagnara is a place in her memory where the dreams and wishes that have gone forever are stored.
“No. We’ll live here only in the spring and summer, and be in Palermo the rest of the year. Besides, I’ll have to go there often because of the office. Although I’ve had a study set up, so I can work both here and there.”
“I know.”
Vincenzo says good night to his mother and leaves.
Giulia is waiting in their bedroom. He finds her alone, her hair down, an expectant smile on her face. She hugs him.
He kisses her on the lips with warmth and tenderness.
“I’m not sleepy,” he says. “I’m going to take a walk in the yard.”
“I’ll wait up,” she says, getting into bed.
As he walks down the hallway, Vincenzo takes a peek into his children’s rooms; they’re finally asleep. He goes across the salon and down the stairs.
The courtyard. He reaches the front door and goes out.
Everything is quiet. Above him, the sky is starry. Before him, the gulf. Beyond it, the lights of Palermo.
He touches the water. It’s very warm for April.
He walks, his hands in his pockets, his mind free of worries. A wave laps against his shoe.
When was the last time he had a swim?
What on earth are you thinking? he says to himself. As if you were still a boy! His laughter stops, and turns into a lump in his throat.
He remembers the first time he swam underwater: his eyes open, the salt stinging his eyelids, the silence in his ears. The chill of the water. The longing for air contrasting with the desire to stay down, weightless, immersed in green.
Oh, my God. Freedom. What a wonderful feeling.
His desire turns to need. Vincenzo wants that feeling again, even if just for a brief moment.
His hands rush to his buttons. Off with the waistcoat, the pants, the shirt, and off with the shoes. The wind is cool, and he can barely feel it.
He looks at his wide chest: he’s just over forty years old, has acquired something of a belly, and his arms are no longer as strong as in his youth, but he still has all his teeth and doesn’t get breathless climbing stairs.
One foot in front of the other. The sea embraces him, welcomes him. He gets goose bumps when his stomach gets wet.
All of a sudden, his uncle Ignazio appears before him. The memory becomes a presence: he can almost hear his voice and the strong yet gentle grip of his hands. He sees him young, with stubble and the melancholy smile he’d had since Paolo’s death. “Easy does it, Vincenzo, don’t rush: the sea is like a mother. It will always welcome you.”
The memory becomes alive, colorful.
Malta. The year after his father’s death. Ignazio had taken him along: he had visited the island, met merchants, and smelled unfamiliar spices.
That was when his uncle realized that he couldn’t swim—shame on him, the child of sailors—and decided to teach him.
They found a beach and dived in: Vincenzo naked, Ignazio with a cloth around his hips. They bathed in a blindingly blue sea. He could remember the laughter, Ignazio’s arms ready to welcome him; he could still feel the saltwater going up his nose and the subsequent coughing.
And so, after much drinking and choking and laughing and persevering, he learned. And, in the end, he succeeded.
But he has never swum by night. Never.
All right. It’s time to try this, too.
He dives in. The water runs through his hair and wraps around his arms. The sea is welcoming, it’s true.
He resurfaces, breathes. It’s cold outside, but so what? He feels free, light, and wants to shout because, for an instant, his darkness, which he has carried inside him all his life, has vanished. Or at least it’s within the bounds of his consciousness.
This is the moment for lightness, for an unfamiliar joy that explodes within him and makes him laugh and cry.
If this is happiness, it’s strange because he never thought it could be at once so beautiful and so painful.
He goes underwater again, comes back up, shouts: with happiness, liberation, life. He feels he is where he had to come, that everything that has happened in his life has led him here, and it’s right, and he couldn’t care less about insults and envy, because he is what he has chosen to be. It’s his path.
The Florios of Sicily Page 30