La Masa presses him, almost talking in his face. “You, Don Florio, who are enlightened, who are one of the few entrepreneurs on this island. Will you collaborate with our cause? Will you help us build our new world? With your resources and your intelligence, we could create a new Sicily. What do you say? Are you with us?”
* * *
The May sunset already has a sense of summer. And yet it doesn’t linger long enough to be watched, like in the summer: the sun is a fugitive that flees the mountain to dive into the sea. And the world immediately sinks into the night.
During that splinter of time, Palermo is bathed in a soft light that emphasizes even more the destruction caused by the rebellion: the city walls, overlooking the sea, have been shelled and destroyed, and the alleys are blocked with remnants of barricades erected to stop the advance of the Bourbon soldiers. The barracks, like the one in the Noviziato, have been devastated. Porta Felice has been shielded by a huge canvas to block the view of the sea from Cassaro and prevent an exchange of signals between the Royal Palace and the Bourbon ships at sea.
More things happened in those first few months of 1848.
Alone in his study, with the brazier lit and the window half opened, Vincenzo can draw breath after a terrible day.
A sound.
The door opens. Giulia stands before him, in a robe and slippers. “Vincenzo, it’s almost midnight!”
He massages his temples. “What’s the matter?”
She comes in and shuts the door behind her. “You haven’t eaten. You hardly sleep. What’s wrong?”
He shakes his head. Nearly fifty, he feels the weight of responsibility, and it’s becoming so heavy, his knees are buckling under it. “Go to bed, Giulia. Don’t worry, it’s not woman’s business.”
But she doesn’t stir. She stares at him, her mouth twisted in a reproachful grimace. “You also thought that when I told you I’d read La Masa’s book. Being a woman doesn’t mean being stupid, and that book helped me to understand many things, especially the reason he and many others, like Rosolino Pilo and Ruggero Settimo, are trying to set up an independent Sicilian state. Of course, whether or not they succeed is a different matter . . . You may disagree with their opinions, Vincenzo, but you can’t deny that they have the passion to carry them forward. As for me, I’m neither your mother nor one of your daughters. Talk to me. What’s on your mind? It’s got to do with the new government, hasn’t it?”
“Yes.” Vincenzo starts to pace up and down the room. “I did something today that I may well live to regret. I bought, on behalf of the revolutionary committee, a large consignment of rifles from England. They’re proclaiming the Kingdom of Sicily but they haven’t found a king who wants the crown: not the son of Carlo Alberto, Duke of Genoa, nor anyone else, partly because the British are against Sicily splitting from the Bourbons. Last March they staged that charade with those parliamentary elections and picked up four noblemen and people with money. They wanted to apply the 1812 constitution again . . . except that we don’t have a point of reference. You see? There is no king of Sicily because nobody wants to set foot on this island. It’s crazy!” He sinks into the armchair. “As if having the ships requisitioned and practically being forced to give them a loan wasn’t enough.”
“It’s a revolution, Vincenzo. It’s chaos and we have to be prudent.” She goes to him, caresses his face, and Vincenzo immediately takes her hand and kisses her palm, he, who seldom indulges in gestures of affection. “Everybody has to make sacrifices.”
“I know. But I can’t stand the fact that they’re waging war with my money: it’s taken me a lifetime to create . . . this.” He indicates the documents strewn on the table. “Trading has dropped by half since the revolt began. The merchant bank, the foundry, the ships. . . . The Sicilian Steamship Company vessel, the Palermo, was working at full capacity, then Ruggero Settimo and the revolutionary regime took it for transporting troops. You were right when you talked about passion. Settimo, for example, as president of the Sicilian government, firmly believes in what he’s doing but he’s willing to reason. He understands that Sicily is not ready for a republican government, that the nobility would never accept it, so he’s trying to mediate and find a solution . . . On the other hand, there’s that pontificating Pasquale Calvi, even more stubborn than a republican. I’ve lost count of the damage they’ve done to me with their proclamations and claiming that we, the middle classes, also have to support the revolution. And now . . .”
“Have they paid you, at least?”
He rolls his eyes. “Oh, yes. With silver from the churches.”
In spite of herself, Giulia laughs. “You mean chalices, pyxes, and censers?”
“That’s right. It’s not funny: unless I have them melted down, which I can’t do, I’ve no way of turning them into coins.”
“If your mother knew that you were thinking of melting these things down she’d have you excommunicated.”
Vincenzo does not smile, however. He twists one of the ties on his wife’s robe around his fingers. “Even if the revolutionary government seems solid in Palermo, there are too many people on the side of the king and the Neapolitans. We’re on the edge of an abyss, Giulia. It would take very little for us to fall.”
“But people are happy. The new government is doing its best . . .”
He puffs. “People don’t care who governs them if there’s no food on their tables. Do you want to know the truth? It’s in the nobility’s interest that Neapolitans don’t set foot in Sicily again. This way, their privileges remain intact and they can occupy the most prestigious positions. There are many members from rich families in the government, you know? People who have studied, traveled, of course, and who have high ideals. But poor people can’t eat ideals for breakfast. It’s them the government should think about, otherwise . . . And since the government has no money, it comes to me or Chiaramonte Bordonaro, and decides to rope me into the Civil Guard.”
“You won’t solve these problems by staying up all night or skipping dinner.” Giulia closes the files on the desk. “The chalices can wait and the loans will still be there tomorrow.” She leans down and kisses her husband on the forehead. “Come to bed,” she whispers.
He looks at his papers, then shifts his attention to his wife’s breast, white under the muslin. It has been so many years since they first met, and yet he still wants her.
He unties the ribbons on her robe. “I’m coming.”
Their subdued voices get lost in the silence of the villa.
* * *
The Quattro Pizzi tower is before him, plunged in a honey-colored dawn. The windows of the villa are shut, and the front gate is also closed. The village of Arenella seems dead: there is no one in the street or on boats.
Ignazio closes the telescope a sailor has lent him and swallows air. He feels a new fear, different from the one he experienced when he nearly died. He’s had to grow up in a hurry. The past year’s events forced his family to escape first from the house in Via dei Materassai and then from the Villa dei Quattro Pizzi. At the age of ten, he realizes how fate can snatch away everything you’ve been taking for granted until then: certainties, comforts, well-being.
It was a complicated year, 1848, that much he understood. The Bourbons were driven out, there was a new government in which his father and some of their acquaintances were involved. During all that time, his father was even more tense and quick-tempered than usual. But 1849 wasn’t any more peaceful. Ignazio heard that Taormina, Catania, Siracusa, and Noto surrendered at the beginning of April, and now it was Palermo’s turn. He found this news confusing, but nobody bothered explaining these things to a child.
The whole family relocated to L’Indépendant, the steamship Vincenzo bought a few months earlier for his new shipping company, Ignazio and Vincenzo Florio, which complemented the Sicilian Steamship Company: a new venture for which he had sole responsibility, collecting its proceeds. They’ve taken shelter here because it’s a safe place. He heard his fat
her reiterate that to his mother for the umpteenth time last night. The cabins are next to one another, the walls thin. “I’ve already told you, don’t worry, L’Indépendant is registered as French: I didn’t get the flag changed when I bought it, and that’s a good thing . . . Nobody, neither the rebels nor the Neapolitans, will attack it for fear of provoking the anger of the French.”
In the night silence, Ignazio heard the rustling of his mother’s dress. They must have embraced because everything was suddenly silent. A harrowing silence where he’d heard the beating of his own heart mingling with the lapping of the waves against the side of the ship.
Then, a whisper: “Be careful tomorrow. No matter what happens, just make sure you save your own life.”
This sort of prayer deeply distressed him, suddenly revealing the fear his mother always managed to conceal so successfully behind her reassuring eyes.
That tomorrow is now today. A launch is taking his father to the shore, and, as he gradually moves further away, Ignazio feels fear gripping him between his stomach and his heart.
The sailors of L’Indépendant walk around in respectful silence. They keep glancing at him, that serious little boy whose clothes cost the same as their annual wage. They look at him and think that he doesn’t look at all like his father. He doesn’t have his hardness or his impetuousness.
Ignazio senses their curiosity, their envy, and their amazement but he doesn’t react. He turns to look at his mother, at the prow. She’s like a plaster statue wrapped in a cloak. That’s when he notices the dark rings under her eyes, the wrinkles around her mouth, and her lined forehead. He’d never seen any of this before. How can she have aged so much? When did it happen? What does life do to human beings, and how can its passage make a mark on their skin?
Too many questions for a child. Questions for which there’s just one answer, which he cannot, however, give himself: his mother’s face, at this moment and for some time now, is the face of fear.
With the revolution’s fate already compromised, a delegation of prominent Palermo citizens met the commander of the Bourbon army, Carlo Filangeri, Prince of Satriano, at Caltanissetta, and handed him the surrender of the city.
Except that . . .
Except that the people did not want to surrender. They rose and erected barricades against the city guard. “No concessions to the Bourbons, never!” they shouted. Not even hunger could overcome their hatred of the Neapolitans.
Except that the people were abandoned to themselves. The heads of the government fled—even Ruggero Settimo and Giuseppe La Masa—and the aristocrats shut themselves away in their country villas and courtyards, as though they were indifferent to the fate of their city. A city that was now in disarray, starving, exhausted, destroyed, and in flames.
Ignazio doesn’t know these things but his mother does. And she’s never been so afraid for her Vincenzo, who has now gone to Palermo in the hope that the king—as Filangeri promised—might grant a general amnesty.
He goes to her and takes her hand. “Don’t worry. Papà will be back soon.”
He says it with a child’s pure courage.
Giulia stands staring at the boat, squints, and watches as the small vessel heads to the Arenella marina, where she can see their house. “I hope so, Ignazio,” she says in one breath. She squeezes his hand and the child has a sense of willpower akin to hope. “Absolutely. That’s how it will be.”
He hugs her. “Yes, Mamma.”
“My little prince,” Giulia says, smiling, also hugging him.
She loves her withdrawn son. Vincenzo is brusque and coarse; Ignazio is calm and placid. He has taken much after her. Patience. Those calm eyes. Generosity. From his father, however, he has inherited determination and that indomitable intelligence that leads him first to understand, then want, and finally obtain what it is he wants. Without rush or tantrums. He doesn’t need them.
At that moment, Giuseppina’s face emerges from below deck. Her hair is pulled back in a tight bun that highlights her pale, angular face; she, too, is wearing a cloak against the humidity. Angelina is still asleep in their cabin, curled up against the wall.
“Has Papà gone?” she asks.
Giulia says yes and gestures at her to come closer. She puts her arms around both children. “We must pray that the king may grant a pardon to your father and all the others.”
Giuseppina looks up at her mother. “Papà didn’t do anything anyone else didn’t,” she protests. She has a proud frown, emphasized by a large nose, like her mother’s.
Giulia kisses her forehead. “I know, darling. But your father, like Baron Chiaramonte Bordonaro, Baron Riso, and Baron Turrisi, is wealthy and has been”—she hesitates, trying to find the right word to explain what is happening—“forced to finance the revolutionary government. The king, however, needs money, so I wouldn’t be surprised if he decided to punish them for collaborating by asking them for compensation or, worse, by expropriating part of their belongings to make up for his losses.”
While his sister grumbles something in protest, Ignazio is thinking. He has always heard his parents talk about business. In his mind, he understands that the government, which everyone hates but has to submit to, is not their friend. “You can’t say no, right?” he asks.
“Your father would rather get himself killed than see his name compromised. He won’t allow anybody to say that the Florios have no honor. He’ll do whatever he has to do.”
But he won’t do it without putting up a fight, Giulia thinks, her eyes fixed on Palermo emerging from a sea of mist. For him, honor is money, it’s the factories he owns, the spices, and the ships. And he will not allow anybody to take his wealth away.
* * *
When Ignazio goes down below deck, he finds Angelina awake, putting up her hair. He sits on the blanket on the berth. “Papà has gone.”
She doesn’t answer but keeps securing her braid on the top of her head with hairpins. The little boy gets up and stands next to her, looking at the items on the travel dressing table. He picks up the painted ceramic hairbrush and starts swinging it by its brass handle. His sister snatches it out of his hand. “It’s mine!” she hisses, full of rancor. “You always have to take everything for yourself, don’t you?”
Ignazio is disconcerted. He takes a step back, his arms hanging down his sides. “Why?”
“Do you really have to ask?” Angelina slams the brush down violently. The ceramic back cracks.
He shakes his head and retreats further.
“If it weren’t for you, it’s possible we could go back home. But since your father is so concerned about you, we have to stay here.” Red blotches have appeared on Angelina’s face, a sign of rising anger. “You still don’t get it, do you? We’re not here because he cares about me or Giuseppina or our mother.” She points at his chest.
It is not so much Angelina’s words as her clenched fists that shock him. He looks at them and senses in her hands a resentment he doesn’t think he deserves, because he’s asked for nothing and would like to return to Palermo like the rest of them.
He moves his little hands up to his chest, shaking his head. “I want to go home, too.” As he says this, he feels tears pricking his eyes. “It’s not my fault. There are soldiers and I don’t—”
“Shut up!” Angelina jumps to her feet, grabs and shakes him. “Don’t you understand that your father would get himself killed just to protect you? He doesn’t care anything about us, you’re the only one who counts. You, because you have his name and you’ll work with him. Because you’re a boy.” She lets go of him, practically pushing him against the wall.
Ignazio leans against the doorjamb so he doesn’t fall.
“Me, Giuseppina . . . we’re girls. And you’re a boy.” It’s her turn to cry. Small, raging tears she wipes away with the back of her hand. “Until you were born, he wouldn’t marry our mother. That’s right. She stayed with him even though he didn’t want to marry her. It’s only after you were born that he asked her t
o be his wife.” She goes to the door. “We’re nothing to him. We could all die for all he cares,” she says before going out.
Ignazio is alone now. He drops on the floor and sits with his knees against his chest. Many things are much clearer to him now. Like some of the servants’ remarks. His mother’s bitterness and tenacity. Angelina’s hard looks and Giuseppina’s sad ones. His father’s harshness and his grandmother Giuseppina’s protective, almost jealous attitude.
At that very moment, an awareness comes over him, which lasts just a second.
He’s still too young to understand what it really means. It’s a chill that makes him quiver, causing a tightness in his stomach, but which immediately disappears, absorbed in the muddy bottom of his consciousness.
His life does not belong to him.
* * *
Vincenzo Florio is waiting in the Via dei Materassai office. Nobody knows he came back just a few hours earlier.
He disembarked in a nearby part of the city. Giovanni Caruso, his secretary, was waiting for him with a carriage and a small escort. They went through the countryside, bribing the guards.
The streets and alleys bear the open wounds of devastation: damaged buildings, front gates pulled out, furniture used as firewood, abandoned weapons, blood. Palermo people feel betrayed, certain that aristocrats and storekeepers had sold the island’s independence in order to save their riches.
The truth is, they are right.
Vincenzo shudders. Giovanni Caruso is slumbering on a couch opposite him. He has stayed with him, showing a loyalty that goes beyond professional duty.
Vincenzo is fifty years old and feels the weight of every one of them. He tried not to get too involved but the circumstances were such that he had to take a job with the National Guard after the leaders of the revolution fled and the city collapsed into disarray. He didn’t want to, but had no choice, and distanced himself from the revolutionary government’s actions as soon as he could. He hadn’t taken a single wrong step in managing his business.
The Florios of Sicily Page 33