The Florios of Sicily

by Stefania Auci

  * * *

  At eight a.m. on January 12, 1848, the calm of a day like any other is interrupted by a cannon shot.

  It’s a bang that makes the windowpanes shake and the Casa Florio servant girls, in Via dei Materassai, cry out.

  Angelina, who’s twelve years old, hugs her sister, Giuseppina, who has started to scream, while Ignazio sits in the middle of his bed, his little face disconcerted, still sleepy.

  At the second blast, Ignazio jumps off the bed and runs to his mother. “Mamma! Mamma! What’s happening?”

  Giulia kneels, takes his face in her hands. “It must have something to do with the king’s birthday . . .”

  But she’s not entirely sure herself, and Ignazio can see her fear and confusion. “Really?”

  His sisters come in. They’re talking over each other, saying they looked out the window and saw armed people running in the streets.

  Another blast. Screams.

  They cling to their mother as the walls tremble and the maids yell from terror.

  When the noise ceases, they hear other bangs, this time more subtle, more abrupt.

  Gunshots.

  No, these are not celebrations. Giulia suddenly remembers the notices in Via Toledo, eventually clumsily torn off by Neapolitan soldiers. Notices instigating rebellion.

  She mentioned it to her brother, Giovanni, who a few days earlier had brought her news of their mother, bedridden because of a fever. She asked what he thought of these bills that had appeared all over the city during the night. Should they worry?

  “It’s the fire smoldering beneath the ashes,” he said. “Remember the rebellion in 1837, the year of the cholera? The issue has been escalating since then. First the leaders of the rebellion were deported and sentenced to death. Then King Ferdinand gave the order that all the city administrators should be Neapolitans, and this did not go down well with Sicilians. You don’t realize this because you lead a sheltered life,” he added, opening his arms to indicate the luxury of the house in Via dei Materassai, “but there are women out there who suffer abuse at the hands of Neapolitan soldiers, and if their husbands protest they end up in the Vicaria jail. Not to mention the double taxation on grain. The Bourbons don’t care about their own people. So it’s natural that people try to change this situation, even by resorting to violence. From what I hear, it’s not much better in Milan: the Austrians keep the city on a leash and the Milanese hate them.”

  “But this isn’t Milan. Palermo and Sicily don’t have the circles of thinkers like in Milan. What I mean is—” Giulia quickly waved her hands, as though to dismiss a frightening thought. “The nobility never even doubts its privileges or would ever consider giving away part of their lands. Here everybody does what they can to protect themselves, and poor people stay poor because there’s no one to open the peasants’ or factory workers’ eyes . . .”

  “That’s what you think.” Giovanni leaned forward, keeping an eye on the door. He knew Vincenzo didn’t like that kind of talk and saw no point in it. “There are those who want to change things in Palermo, too. There are intellectuals among the nobility as well as the middle classes, who hope to be able to lead the people of this land, who want to take their destinies into their own hands. But they are few, too few of them.”

  “But then . . .” Giulia’s eyes were open wide, more from surprise than fear.

  Giovanni sighed. “Trust me, Giulia, I don’t know what’s going to happen but there are a lot of persistent rumors around. The proclamations posted in the city, urging people to take up arms, are just the final signal. Of course, the royal guards tear them down, trample them in the mud, and have a good laugh. They say that if Palermo folk rise up, they’ll greet them with rifle shots and, if there aren’t enough gallows, hang them from the navy frigates. But this time it’s different, you can feel it in the air. People look at soldiers and defy them, they spit on the ground when they pass by. Palermo is tired of taxes and tyranny. The Bourbons have pushed too far.”

  Giulia covers her mouth with her hands because she now realizes that Giovanni was right, and that the time for rebellion has come. It’s January 12, 1848, the king’s official birthday . . . “Shut the windows!” she cries. Then she looks at her children and her fear rises. “Get dressed!” she commands in a trembling voice. “Get dressed and ready to leave.”

  * * *

  Vincenzo has been at work since dawn in the office overlooking Piano San Giacomo—a building he has recently acquired and where he has set up the finance headquarters of the company. He looks up from his papers at the first shot. Giovanni Caruso, his secretary, is in front of him. “What was that?”

  Another bang.

  Caruso opens his arms. “I don’t know. Celebrations for the king’s birthday, perhaps. Isn’t it today?”

  “Yes, but . . .” There’s an explosion, this time followed by a volley of shots. “What—with rifles?” Vincenzo goes to the window. In the square, a crowd is marching toward Porta Carbone, to the harbor. Some of the men are armed.

  “There were bills posted in Cassaro a few days ago mentioning an insurrection and calling on people to take part . . .” Caruso says. “But I don’t believe it. It’s probably the usual handful of lunatics trying to—”

  A cannon blast. A battery, this time.

  “A handful of lunatics, you say?” Vincenzo slams his open palms on his desk. Screams drown out the shots. “That’s the batteries at Castello a Mare. They’re firing at the city from the sea!”

  Caruso goes to the window. Yes, the sounds are coming from La Cala. Are they knocking down the walls? “Minchia, it’s true.” Vincenzo grabs his jacket. There’s no time to waste. If there’s a revolt, there will also be commotion and looting. Better ensure everything is safe. “Make sure everything is shut and go home, you and the employees. I’m going to the aromateria. I’ll send you a message to tell you what to do.”

  “But you’re not going there alone, Don Florio? Wait!”

  He’s out already. He runs to the aromateria and bursts in. Employees and clerks are hiding under the counters, like snails in their shells. Vincenzo borrows a cloak so he won’t be recognized, then goes out, immersing himself in the alleys. He must reach the Oretea foundry and order the workers to bar the gates and put away the most important tools. If either the rebels or the soldiers decide to target it, it will be a disaster. But no sooner does he reach Via Bambinai than he has to stop. And he’s not the only one.

  A barricade. On it, men are shooting at the Bourbon troops. Next to it, still partly legible despite being torn, there’s a bill.

  SICILIANS, THE TIME FOR USELESS PRAYERS

  HAS PASSED . . .

  TO ARMS, CHILDREN OF SICILY:

  THE JOINING OF EVERYBODY’S STRENGTH

  IS ALL-POWERFUL.

  THE DAWN OF JANUARY 12, 1848, WILL MARK

  THE GLORIOUS ERA OF OUR UNIVERSAL

  REGENERATION . . .

  “If you have a weapon, come help us defend your land!” a rebel shouts, brandishing his rifle. “Or go back and take shelter at home and—” His call becomes a scream of pain: he’s been shot in the arm.

  Vincenzo is forced to turn back, his head down, his heart in his throat. The Oretea foundry—his foundry, his challenge, created as a workshop but now on its way to becoming a proper factory for processing iron—is not far from the city walls, near Porta San Giorgio. Now, with the ongoing battle, it might as well be on Malta. Four years ago, he had a new plant built; it’s crammed with iron and coal, and it is full of flammable material. He doesn’t even dare imagine . . .

  “They’re storming the Royal Palace!”

  “They’ve burned down the barracks! Some soldiers are dead!”

  The voices of Palermo residents are all around him, slapping him in the face. They say it all started in Piazza della Fieravecchia, and there are already casualties. “They’re going to burn the houses of the aristocrats! They want a republic!”

  “To arms, Palermo!”

  He fol
lows the crowd, listens to its voices, picks up news he tries to process. He goes to Via Pantelleria and runs to Via della Tavola Tonda. Once there, he’s just a stone’s throw from home.

  He finds his mother sitting in an armchair in the middle of the room, holding her perennial rosary.

  “Are you all right, my son?” she exclaims when she sees him.

  “Yes, yes. Where are the children?”

  “With her. You must take care of them, my darling Ignazio especially.”

  Giulia has dressed the children in warm clothes and is also wearing a travel outfit. As soon as she sees Vincenzo, her mask of anxiety dissolves into relief. She goes up to him. “Good God, what’s happening? I was worried about you . . .”

  He hugs Ignazio, the first one who gets close to him, before his daughters also cling to him, scared.

  “The city is up in arms against the Bourbons. There’s a rumor that the garrison has put down its weapons; others are saying that General De Majo and his troops have barricaded themselves in the Royal Palace, and others that the king is about to yield. It’s total chaos . . . Naturally, the soldiers weren’t expecting such a well-organized, united revolt. It’s not a bunch of youngsters this time . . . Even the rebels from the country are here, and there’s probably an entire contingent from Bagheria. I heard accents from the province, and nearly everybody has a weapon.” He looks down at the palms of his hands. He doesn’t own a weapon and has never wanted to learn to use one. He’s always thought he has the most powerful of weapons: money. And that’s what he will use if necessary. “There are already some casualties. The soldiers are retreating to the barracks, to Palazzo delle Finanze and the Noviziato. There’s fighting in the streets and the Palermo people have taken some of the city gates.”

  “That’s what I thought. I figured something was going on when I heard the shots.” Giulia lifts her hands to her lips and mutters, “What are we going to do?”

  “We’re leaving the city. Take the money, the silver, and the most valuable things. Let’s go to the Villa dei Quattro Pizzi. It’s outside the city walls, so easier to defend.”

  Giulia gives instructions, opens closets, and shuts trunks. The maids run around the house. The girls obey without protesting, especially Angelina, who picks up the valuable lace shawls and hides them at the bottom of a bag.

  Ignazio follows her around. “Can I bring my wooden horse? And the books?” he repeats incessantly while the housekeeper orders that the windows be closed and barred. The only person still sitting still in her armchair, mumbling, “These people have no fear of God . . .” is Giuseppina.

  Vincenzo quickly writes various messages and tells a servant boy to take them to his associates, in particular Carlo Giachery. He takes documents and a purse with coins from his office. He already knows he’s going to need them to get past the barricades and roadblocks.

  “The carriages are ready,” a maid announces.

  Running footsteps on the stairs, cases and chests wobbling. Giulia checks that nothing falls out. She then takes the most valuable jewels Vincenzo has given her and conceals them in her petticoat pocket.

  Her husband is waiting for her at the front door.

  He gets into the first carriage with his mother and the housekeeper. Giulia is in the second one, with the children and the baggage.

  Moving forward is torture: the streets are crammed with carts, barrows, and vehicles that force them to slow down and often stop. There are dead bodies on the ground. Giulia feels a knot in her stomach at every stop; all she can do is hug her daughters, who are clinging to her.

  Ignazio, on the other hand, looks through the curtains with a suddenly grown-up expression, even though he’s only nine years old. There is more curiosity than fear in his eyes. Above all, there is an intense desire to understand what is happening to him, his family, and his city. He pulls down the curtains and looks at his mother: naturally, she is frightened but she is not muttering prayers or breaking down into tears. On the contrary, she chides his sisters when they start to whimper. When his father got into the carriage with his grandmother, he, too, was calm and his face expressed no emotion whatsoever.

  If his parents are strong enough not to show their fear—he tells himself—then he, too, will be strong.

  * * *

  Vincenzo is silent. Sitting next to him, his mother is absorbed in her latinorum lament.

  The carriage comes to a sudden halt. It seems assaulted by a chorus of excited voices.

  Vincenzo tries to hear.

  “Nobody can get through here, is that clear?”

  “Since when? Get out of my way and those coming behind me.”

  The coachman argues and asks again for the two carriages to be let through. Immediately afterward, there’s the sound of a scuffle. Vincenzo opens the door and comes face-to-face with the barrel of a pistol.

  “Don Florio—Assabbinirìca,” says a young man, the light shadow of a beard on his face. One can tell by his clothes that he comes from a good family. He’s no wretch, or at least doesn’t look like one.

  Vincenzo keeps still. He’s afraid. “God be with you, too,” he finally answers. “Why won’t you let us through?”

  “Because we can’t. This city needs aristocrats and wealthy people.”

  Vincenzo slowly gets out of the vehicle and is immediately surrounded by a handful of men of all ages who have barred the road to Monte Pellegrino. There are bundles and baggage strewn on the cobbles; somebody has abandoned their possessions in order to run away. “Why can’t we go through? Who gave this order?”

  “Nobody’s going in or out of Palermo until the city is completely in our hands.”

  “I see. And who might you be, if I might ask?”

  “Free Sicilians fighting for the independence of our land.”

  Frightened voices come from the carriage. A hand protrudes from the passenger compartment and a sharp little voice protests, “Mamma, no!” Then Giulia gets out, composed, and comes to stand next to Vincenzo.

  “What do you want?” she says forcefully, with such adversarial body language that the rebel instinctively wants to lower his pistol.

  “Go back into the carriage,” Vincenzo commands.

  She pays him no heed. “There’s fighting in the streets of Palermo. We want to take our children to safety. Please let us through.”

  “What about poor people’s children? They also have the right to be protected. We’re all children of this city and have to stick together. Come now, signora, go back home.”

  Indignant, Giulia is about to give an appropriate response when Vincenzo puts a hand on her arm. “I don’t suppose a donation to your cause would make a difference.”

  The young man laughs with anger and contempt. “I understand. You rich people think you can go wherever you please and order everybody about just because you have money.” The barrel of the pistol comes closer to Vincenzo’s chest. “Go back, I tell you.”

  There’s the clip-clop of horses’ hooves.

  Everybody turns around. There are other armed men coming. Their faces are tired and dusty. They stop and one of the riders parts from the group. “Michele! What’s going on here?” he asks. “Is this how you treat people? Like bandits?”

  “Don La Masa . . .” The young man aiming at Vincenzo puts his pistol into his belt. “He wanted to flee the city.”

  “And you threaten the owner of Casa Florio?” He has wide whiskers and narrow eyes beneath a forehead with a very receding hairline. He proffers Vincenzo his hand. “Don Florio. Signora . . . I’m Giuseppe La Masa, and I’m a patriot. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  Vincenzo hesitates. He’s heard of La Masa, and seen his portrait in various newspapers that describe him as a rebel and crowd agitator; he knows he’s one of the most famous—and wanted—enemies of the Bourbon government.

  Giulia replies to his greeting first. “Signor La Masa . . .” she says with a nod. “I’ve heard of you. I even had occasion to read your book some time ago. Actua
lly, a manifesto more than a book, but it was very useful.”

  Vincenzo turns to look at her, eyes agog. He’s angry more than surprised. Has she really read that book? The pamphlet of an insurgent? How did that book find its way into his home? It must be that idiot Giovanni Portalupi’s doing.

  Giulia responds with a fierce glance. They can argue about it later.

  Following his wife’s example, he proffers his hand. “If you’re a patriot, you can explain to me why we’re being forbidden from going to our house in Arenella.”

  “He offered us money!” Michele exclaims with disgust. “He tried to bribe us! What good can come from someone trying to run away?”

  La Masa squints, his eyes becoming two narrow slots. It’s not indignation that tickles his interest. “Really?”

  “I only meant to make a donation to your cause, signore.”

  “Ah.” The man looks toward Palermo. Beyond the road, the coastline is marked by cannon fire and clouds of smoke. “They’re breaking down the city walls. It’s of no use.” Then he turns to Vincenzo again. “Because the city is on our side. People are sick and tired of being abused by these Neapolitans who come to command here, take away our wealth, and lord over us. And if you’re not interested in how they oppress us or how much freedom they deprive us of, I trust that—being a merchant—you’re aware of how much they tax us.” He turns to Giulia and looks at her intently. “Signora, do you know how many young women have been dishonored by Ferdinand’s soldiers? Many, and not much older than your daughters, subjected to the vile desires of men without pity. They send us the lowest soldiers, and the king treats us like a colonized land, a land to conquer and exploit, and not like subjects to rule. He speaks with passion, with courage. He indicates the city once again. “We Sicilians deserve a better life. Because it’s not just Palermo that’s rising up, it’s the whole island.”

  Vincenzo is alarmed by what he reads in La Masa’s face. He sees at a glance that nobody has lowered their weapons and men on horseback have surrounded his children’s carriage, too.