Meanwhile, Vincenzo has stopped and is calling them impatiently.
They exchange a look. “Bad news?” Portalupi asks in one breath.
The young man nods. “I’ll tell you later. Let’s not keep him waiting.”
Later comes in the late afternoon, once they have finished checking the books, and calculating the advance payments and the sales orders.
In the main house, there’s a sweet smell of wood and wine. An aroma reminiscent of honey and warmth, slightly pungent, that echoes fall days when the must ferments and the barrels are half emptied so they can be topped up with new wine.
The three men relocate to the small parlor, where dinner is being served.
“We don’t have Ingham’s market shares, true, but we’re almost on the same level with Woodhouse. And production is on the increase despite the British tax.” Caruso sits at the table and places his napkin on his lap.
“Thank heavens for the French market.” Portalupi pours wine. “Try this catarratto: it’s from our latest purchase. I’ve kept one barrel to have with meals.”
Vincenzo clicks his tongue. “Pleasant. Fragrant.”
“Made in the Alcamo winery. It’s an excellent region for white wines.” Portalupi presses his face against his fists. “I guaranteed you only the best and so it is.” He stresses his pride but not as an argument.
Vincenzo looks at him askance. “And you’ve worked well, I grant you that. After my experience with Raffaele, I was reluctant to hire family members for the business. The first profits are finally coming in.”
They do not speak about Giulia. Not after what happened.
And yet it is Giulia who brought peace between them. It was she who persuaded her husband to employ her brother, and asked Giovanni to work hard at managing the marsala production plant.
“And so the forecast for next year is thirteen hundred barrels.” Caruso continues with his calculations. “How many permanent workers?”
“Still seventy, plus the children. Thanks to steam presses we have spare manpower. Besides, Woodhouse produces many more barrels than we do and he employs far more workers.”
A servant comes to serve the meal, a thick fish soup. Its smell spreads through the room. The men put down their papers and notes, and start eating.
“Their production method is somewhat antiquated. You should draw comparisons with Ingham, with the production system of the Casa Bianca courtyard, with its steam-powered lathes.” Vincenzo dabs his lips with his napkin. “Ingham is a friend and an associate but he had no qualms about starting negative rumors about our wine, which means he fears competition. I know this for a fact from our agent in Messina.”
Portalupi sighs deeply. “Ingham is a frigate, Vincenzo. We’re a brigantine.”
“Yes, but brigantines are lighter and faster. Our production output may be smaller but in terms of quality, we’re way out of his league.”
His brother-in-law’s face touches on a smile, the first one that day.
After dinner, once they are full and relaxed, Portalupi hazards a question: “So, how is it going with that Pietro Rossi business?”
“Not well.” Vincenzo tosses his scrunched-up napkin on the table. “Son of a bitch. He summoned me to a meeting the day after I left for Marsala, last month. He wants to force me to resign at all cost.”
Portalupi joins his fingertips. “But you carried out your appointed duties, didn’t you?”
Caruso clears his throat and looks absently into the distance.
Vincenzo toys with a piece of bread, then replies, “They scheduled the days of duty at the cash desk on the departure dates of my steamships and boats. I couldn’t go.” It’s a defense that sounds like a half-uttered admission.
“But you have good people, though.” Portalupi raises his glass, indicating Caruso, who thanks him with a kind of toast.
“That’s not the problem. I wouldn’t have picked you if I didn’t trust you.”
“You just can’t help yourself, can you? Always need to control everything and keep an eye on every single thing. You just can’t be otherwise, right?” Portalupi raises his eyebrows. He’s referring to the business but also to his life and his family, and Vincenzo knows it.
He shrugs. “It’s the way I am.” He says it plainly, as though he cannot help it.
Portalupi pours himself more wine and shakes his head. He laughs. “You’re crazy.”
“Not at all. You have to make others understand that they cannot disrespect you, and for that you can’t be intimidated by them. Rossi thinks he can scare me off with his complaints. If they smell fear on you, then they’ve won.” He pauses. “And I’m not afraid, and let him know that today.”
Caruso lifts a corner of his mouth and his face softens with a grimace. “Your brother-in-law has written to the prince of Satriano asking that Rossi pay the salary owed for carrying out the duties, which he refuses to do.”
“And I pointed out to him that it’s not by chance that the council meetings are scheduled on the dates when my steamships are due to arrive,” Vincenzo adds. “Nothing that doesn’t sound true, anyway.”
“Yes, and I can picture just how you must have pointed that out,” Portalupi says, snickering.
They all laugh. Portalupi asks the servant to clear the table, and Caruso takes his leave. He’s tired and needs rest. Portalupi follows his example. He knows that tomorrow he will need to be up at dawn, to fit in with Vincenzo’s habits.
Vincenzo remains alone in the dining room, plunged in a silence disturbed by the wind thumping against the windows.
He is thinking.
About the first time he came to Marsala and saw this untouched land beside the sea. He remembers the first batch of wine, the trepidation he experienced as he watched the ship setting sail, carrying the first cargo of marsala to France.
His bond with Raffaele was strong then. They could call each other friends and not just cousins. And now he doesn’t even know exactly where Raffaele lives.
Pride becomes a mixture of bitterness, solitude, and resentment. Everything was different fifteen years ago.
* * *
They were here, in this very room. It was decorated plainly—just the basic furniture and a table—and it was daylight.
Raffaele was standing in front of him. “But I—why are you accusing me of not caring about the cellars? I’ve devoted myself to them wholeheartedly, like you and even more so, and given my all to them. How can you say I’m not doing enough?” He opened his arms. His face, peaceful until now, had an expression of wounded disbelief. His skin, tight over his cheekbones, was pale. “Where did I go wrong, Vincenzo? Tell me, because I really think I’ve done everything I could have . . . and this is the thanks I get?”
Vincenzo paid little attention to his protestation. “It’s not about dedication, Raffaele. I don’t doubt yours. I know you’ve done your best, but it’s not enough and it’s not what Casa Florio needs.” He tried to be polite, even though he could feel a wave of acidity rising in his stomach. Why did the man not just accept his decision and be done with it? Why was he choosing to act like a supplicant?
The cousin, however, insisted. He was being emotional, obtuse even—as though Vincenzo were robbing him of something—not grasping the fact that Vincenzo simply considered the cellars as his own. That he had no interest in sharing them and that he’d brought Raffaele in to run them only to prompt him to give more, something Raffaele had not been able to do.
This added to the unease. Vincenzo tried to be patient, made an effort, but in vain. In the end, he flew off the handle. “Enough, there’s nothing more to add. I’ve made my decision, Raffaele. I was hoping your attitude would be different—I mean more active. I urged you on, wrote to you repeatedly, but you just acted like a country priest handling a parish of shepherds. I’ve made up my mind, so there’s no point discussing this further.”
A new emotion then appeared on Raffaele’s face. “What do you mean?” he asked, his anger starting to surface.
But Raffaele started shaking his head. His face turned crimson and his voice high-pitched. “No, that’s not the whole truth.” He clutched the back of the armchair. “You just don’t want relatives you can trust, because I”—he beat his chest—“I’ve never cheated you. What you want is servants. Slaves.” Vincenzo noticed that Raffaele’s cheeks seemed to be dropping, as though he had started to melt. “I believe in these cellars. I’ve put my heart and soul into them and you’re now taking them away from me . . . I don’t deserve to be treated like this,” he concluded, drying his eyes.
It was this gesture that made Vincenzo explode. “Now, don’t start sniveling like a kid. We’re grown men talking business. You’ve been running my company and I don’t happen to like how you’ve done it. So I’m buying you out and that’s it, back to the way it was.”
For a few moments, the room seemed filled with Raffaele’s heavy sighs. Then he raised his head. “Sell my share, give me commission on the sales, but at least let me stay on as a steward. I enjoy working in the cellars and I know the workers.” His voice became embittered and low. “They were right when they said I shouldn’t trust you. You’re just like your father.”
“Whoever told you this knows nothing about work or business. I can’t afford to be as cautious as you: Ingham and Woodhouse are breathing down my neck, they’re sharks, and it would be easy for them to take back from me the little I’ve been able to nibble away from them. And you’re always saying please and sorry . . . You should grab hold of things instead, tear them off with your teeth and your claws without any pity for anybody. There’s a time for being careful and a time for taking risks, and you don’t see these moments. I always have to watch over you.”
“So now I’m a weakling just because I haven’t made you take risks? You’re holding against me the fact that I’ve been too reliable? Instead of thanking me for not getting you into debt unnecessarily? Nice reward!”
“You don’t have the balls for this job, Raffaele,” Vincenzo shouted in his face. “Don’t you understand? You’re just a secretary and what I need is a partner. You’re not capable of doing what I want, you simply don’t have it in you. So just accept it.”
Raffaele took a step back as though he had been struck across the face. “A man should put his heart into things, and not just his money. Put love and passion into them. But what would you know about it? You’re a real dog.” He loosened his tie and slowly shook his head. “Give me my share. All of it and right now. I don’t want to have anything else to do with you.”
And so Raffaele vanished from his life, claiming nothing more than what was owed to him. Even there, he didn’t have enough courage. Vincenzo heard through acquaintances that he had started trading as a middleman and managing vineyards. He chose to stay in Marsala. Good for him.
Then, a few months later, Vincenzo sensed a void that was hard to describe. It was an unusual kind of loneliness. After all, something Raffaele had said was correct: you have to be able to trust people, and, in a way, he trusted his cousin. He wasn’t enterprising, of course, but he was reliable. And, besides Carlo Giachery and, however oddly, Ben Ingham, he had no friends.
He realized he was increasingly alone.
Aunt Mattia and Paolo Barbaro died many years ago. His mother has asked him many times to take her to her sister-in-law’s grave but he keeps postponing. He doesn’t like cemeteries. His family, the one that came from Bagnara, has disappeared. No more roots.
Besides . . .
He raises his glass and drinks a silent toast. Human beings end up disappointing him. Always.
For him, his roots are his companies. The trunk is Casa Florio. Money and prestige have increased tenfold but it’s still not enough for him.
And yet . . .
There’s one person still clinging to him. The only one he truly trusts. For better, for worse, even when she could be no more to the world but a shadow, and a whore to her own family. She resisted, tenacious, when he rejected her. She welcomed him back when he didn’t deserve it. She has never abandoned him. Never.
Giulia.
* * *
Vincenzo returns to Via dei Materassai just before Sunday, in time to accompany his family to church and meet a few traders who do business with him.
In the evening, after the accounts books have been shut and the offices are deserted, he goes up to the apartment. His mother is ticking off Hail Marys in front of the cufune, the copper brazier; the window, half-open to let the smoke from the combustion out, allows in the sound of the rain that fills the gutters with mud.
He kisses her on the forehead. “Are you well?”
She nods. “And you?” She strokes his face with a gesture that has not changed since his childhood, when she had to wash his face in a basin. “You look tired. Does your wife feed you enough?”
“Yes, of course. It’s just that I’ve been working hard. Besides, she doesn’t do the cooking: don’t you remember? We have maids and a cook.”
Giuseppina makes a gesture of annoyance. “A wife must always watch what the servants are doing or they’ll cheat her. Not waste her time reading books, especially in those foreign languages she knows. Now, come with me to my bedroom.”
Vincenzo ignores the dig at Giulia and helps her stand up. There’s no trace of her former strength in this body abused by time. And yet Vincenzo still sees in her the strict woman who would chase him down alleys, and remembers the adoring looks she gave him in his early childhood.
They arrive at her bedroom. The chest is the corriola she brought from Bagnara, and the bowl and pitcher are still the ones she had while she was married to Paolo. A coral crucifix hangs on the wall. There’s a shawl on the edge of the bed: another recollection from Vincenzo’s childhood.
“You still have this?” he exclaims, picking it up. It’s much smaller and more threadbare than he remembers.
“There are things I couldn’t give up, for all the money that you and . . . and your uncle brought to this house. You want to slow time down when you get old, but time doesn’t stop. So you cling to things. For as long as they’re around, it means you’re around. You can’t see, and don’t want to see life ebbing away.” Giuseppina sits on the edge of the bed and presses the shawl to her chest. There’s a regret that gives her a knot in her stomach. “We call them memories but we lie,” she says in a whisper. “Things like this shawl and your ring”—she points at Ignazio’s mother’s wrought-gold wedding ring—“are like anchors to a fleeting life.”
When Vincenzo reaches the master bedroom, he finds Giulia asleep. Unlike Giuseppina, the years have been kind to her. She is still beautiful, even though lately, she has had backaches and trouble digesting. He throws his clothes on the chair. Then he curls up against his wife’s back and, in her sleep, she squeezes his hand and holds it to her heart.
* * *
The steamer slowly pitches and yaws in the Favignana harbor. Beneath the sun, the village houses—small and little more than huts, with walls of drystone and tuff—seem drawn by a child’s hand.
A launch comes away from the ship and reaches the pier at Forte di San Leonardo, the old bastion guarding the harbor. A few men and a boy get out. They brush against the village and head to the right, where there are large warehouses overlooking the sea. The doors are like gaping mouths, closed with gates like teeth sinking into the water.
Vincenzo walks briskly, enjoying the heat of the sun. Ignazio, his fourteen-year-old son, is at his side.
It’s the first time he’s brought
him to the Favignana tonnara. Vincenzo has been managing it for ten years now and has turned it into his masterpiece. It hasn’t been easy: the rent has been and still is very high. He had to set up a network of entrepreneurs, assume all the risks of a new preservation method. And now tuna in oil has spread all over the Mediterranean.
He smiles to himself. Ignazio looks at him and questions him with his eyes. “I was just remembering something,” Vincenzo says. “You’ll see in a minute.”
The boy often goes to the office with him, and often also to the Marsala cellars. But never before has his father brought him to the island.
If Ignazio is excited, he certainly doesn’t show it. He walks at his father’s side, in long, supple strides, and squints because of the glare. “What a beautiful place,” he says. “Clean air, silence. Totally unlike Palermo.”
“That’s because of the wind direction. Wait till you get to the plant.”
As a matter of fact, no sooner do they go past Forte di San Leonardo and the curve that separates the village from the tonnara than a nauseating stench sweeps over them. It smells of rot, of death and decomposition. Some of them, Caruso included, cover their faces with a handkerchief. But not Vincenzo.
Ignazio looks at him and stifles his nausea. He breathes through his mouth and ignores the stench. If his father can, then so can he. He has Vincenzo’s build and features. Now that he has grown up, there’s an obvious resemblance. But his eyes still have Giulia’s softness.
“The leftovers from the process are left in the sun, decompose, and so give off this smell.” Vincenzo points at a wide area beyond the warehouses. “There, you see? That’s the bosco, the tuna cemetery. The workers unload the carcasses there while waiting for them to dry out.”
The boy nods. “What about the boats? Where are they?”
“At sea,” Caruso replies, approaching. “It’s May, so mattanza time.”
They walk into the building. In the courtyard, past the trees that provide a little shade, there’s a stone corridor. The clearing in front of the sea is filled with nets, rigging, and men mending damaged meshes.
The Florios of Sicily Page 35