The Florios of Sicily

by Stefania Auci

  And how could he describe to a stranger, which, after all, Filangeri is, why he is so upset today? Why the feeling of unease has returned? How could he explain that he has inside him a clot of darkness that pushes him, even now and always, to accumulate, grow, and find new enterprises? Born rich, Filangeri could never understand.

  However much he loves her and considers himself her son, Palermo treats him like a stranger. He tried to be accepted, has courted her with wealth, has created jobs and brought comfort.

  Maybe that was what she could not forgive him: work. Power. Having his eyes open to the world, while Palermo keeps hers firmly shut.

  * * *

  This is how Ignazio finds him, with his fist pressed against his mouth, face drawn and fierce. He knocks gingerly and waits in the doorway.

  “May I come in?”

  His father nods, and the young man enters tentatively. He looks at the ink-stained floor, with papers strewn all over it. He bends down to pick them up but his father makes an abrupt gesture without even looking up. “Leave it. Let the maids pick it up.”

  Ignazio tidies the papers he’s still holding and puts them on the table. He goes to the chair in front of the desk and sits down. He looks at his father in silence for a long time. “Mamma wishes to know if you’re coming to eat,” he finally says.

  Vincenzo shrugs. Then he suddenly stares at Ignazio as though only just registering his presence, and remembers Giulia’s words. “They don’t wrong you,” he says. “They don’t speak badly of you even though you’re my son.” His voice loses its angry tone and grows calmer, almost gentle.

  Ignazio listened to the row and knows the reason for his mother’s fury. He realized some time ago that his peers treat him with a respect and deference nobody affords his sisters, especially Giuseppina. “I’m a boy, Papà,” he says cautiously. “Nobody dares.”

  There’s truth in his words, the only truth. He is male, he is the heir to Casa Florio.

  The corners of Vincenzo’s mouth lift in a part-defiant, part-spiteful smile. He stands up and sits opposite Ignazio. “Once, when you were little, I found you looking through an atlas bigger than yourself. There you were, reading about harbors and the boats mooring in them . . .”

  Ignazio nods. It happened shortly after the accident in Arenella, when he had nearly drowned.

  “From that moment on, I made sure you learned not just Latin and other stuff priests teach, but also English and French, and also how to act in society. I had you educated like a nobleman’s son and not that of a trader.”

  Ignazio smiles. He remembers the riding lessons, etiquette classes with his sisters, and especially dance lessons with the music master, and remembers how he’d make his mother spin, and how she would laugh, happily. Giulia had never learned to dance well. But his father snatches him away from his reverie and gives his shoulder a squeeze. “I never had all the things you had. None of them. Naturally, I did learn: my uncle Ignazio would drive me crazy with books, as your grandmother can still tell you. But I never learned to ride or dance because I didn’t need them for working at the aromateria.”

  He looks at his ink-stained hands, and leans his elbows on his knees. Even though he’s nearly fifty-five, Vincenzo still has strong hands, albeit marked by work. And yet it’s not enough, he thinks again. Working yourself into the ground, damning your soul, none of it was enough to get you accepted by those who have true power: political power, the one that counts.

  “You can go where I didn’t manage to.”

  He says this so softly that Ignazio worries he hasn’t heard. Vincenzo leans forward so the heads of father and son are almost touching. “Being able to ride and dance will be as useful to you as traveling and seeing the world, because Sicily mustn’t be enough for you. It’s what aristocrats do, those with a coat of arms on their front door . . . And that’s where you need to get to, do you understand? They will open their doors to you because you can buy the lot of them, with all their clothes and palaces. You already have the money, you’re not like me, who started off with what my uncle left me. You have the possibility to make Palermo and its residents say that the Florios aren’t inferior to anybody.”

  Ignazio is puzzled. “But Angelina and Giuseppina also have—”

  “Forget them,” Vincenzo says abruptly. “They’re women.” He stands up and makes his son do the same. “You know what they used to call me? A laborer. Me!” He laughs, and in that laughter so full of anger and resentment Ignazio senses ten, a hundred stab wounds still bleeding and making his father act like an injured animal. It’s a thought that breaks his heart.

  “All—all those who showed me contempt have come to me cap in hand, sooner or later.” He takes his son’s head in his hands and stares into his eyes. “You have to take everything they refused to give me. They have to give it to you, and if they don’t, you just go and take it. Because power is about having a purse full of money and proving it to those who think they’re better than you. People must act with deference when they see you. Do you understand?”

  Ignazio is perplexed. He’s only fifteen, and these words make him feel uneasy and confused. His father has never spoken to him like this, and never allowed him to see past the wall of his frowning face.

  Why are you telling me all this? he wants to ask but all he can do is stutter another question. “But—but isn’t it better to be respected? A frightened man can never be loyal—”

  “People are honest with those who have the power, Ignazio, because they know they’ll be in trouble if they’re not. And money is one of the paths to power. That’s why I’m telling you: keep all your cards close to your chest, and never ever trust anybody. Keep your own counsel. Just concentrate on saving your own skin, no matter what it takes.”

  Ignazio hesitates. He doesn’t want people to fear him the way they do his father. Whenever Vincenzo Florio walks into a room, there are those who see him and are afraid, and those who look at him with contempt.

  He wants to be respected for what he is and not for his money or lands. He tries to explain this to his father but all he gets in return is a heavily bitter laugh.

  Vincenzo stands up and goes to the door. “Ah, the result of an easy life! You say this because you’ve never had to prove anything, my son. Because I built everything you have, and you don’t know—you have no idea—what it cost me.” He shakes his head and looks around. “If only these walls could speak, there’s so much they would tell you . . . But that’s enough for now. Let’s go eat.”

  Ignazio notices with some dread that his father’s hair is turning gray. He watches him walk away and disappear beyond the door. He runs his hands over the desk.

  You don’t know—you have no idea—what it cost me.

  He can’t get these words out of his mind. He clenches them between his teeth and lets them drop into the pit of his stomach.

  Ignazio doesn’t know what his father was like before he was born. What a man is before he has a son is often a mystery that a father decides to keep deep inside him and never reveal to a living soul. There’s a clear, impassable boundary between before and after.

  Ignazio has no way of knowing how much having a son can change a man.

  * * *

  “What are we going to do, Your Excellency?” Vincenzo asks, while a cup of coffee is served to him by a servant in livery. “You are aware of what Rossi is putting me through and yet you do nothing.”

  Minister Vincenzo Cassisi, with broad whiskers on a bony face, looks askance at Carlo Filangeri, as though he is responsible for that outburst, and indulges in an ironic little smile.

  Vincenzo has decided to resolve his dispute with Rossi by going to Naples and requesting an audience with Cavalier Cassisi, who has been the minister for Sicilian affairs for a decade. An audience obtained quickly thanks to Filangeri.

  The minister shrugs his shoulders. “And what are you doing, Don Florio? If you were more conscientious in fulfilling your duties—”

  Vincenzo’s laugh is bitter an
d heavily sarcastic. “Me? What about . . . me?”

  “But, Your Excellency,” Filangeri softly intervenes, studying the tips of his polished boots, “this is one of the most important businessmen in the realm. We can’t expect him to drop everything whenever somebody snaps his fingers—”

  “That’s the problem, Your Excellency,” Vincenzo interrupts. “Not only do I have my governor duties but I’m not exactly a loafer surrounded by stewards who cater to his every whim. You do understand, don’t you?” Vincenzo leans forward, almost touching the minister’s arm. Uneasy, Cassisi pulls away. “I pay more taxes than anybody else in the country, I guarantee wealth with my imports and supply the army with medicines and sulfur. And you’re putting me on the spot like this. You’ve even confiscated the silver that the revolutionary government had awarded me in lieu of payment in 1848 . . .” He stops, takes a breath, and sips his coffee.

  The other two men look bewildered, but neither of them speaks.

  “The government owes me a great deal,” Vincenzo concludes. “You both owe me a great deal.”

  The minister stands up abruptly in an attempt to distance himself from this impudent man. “Now, this is too much . . . Not only did you subsidize the rebels but you have the audacity to demand payment, and in such a tone! Rossi has a point when he demands your resignation.”

  Vincenzo does not bat an eyelid. “I have the audacity because I know I can.” He leans back in his armchair, his fingers interlaced over his chest. “What would become of the Bourbon reign without Casa Florio? Just consider my fleet of ships, the service I render the Crown, and all the times I’ve acted as intermediary between you officials and the large banks because the king was in a difficult situation and you needed a loan. Now tell me: what has Rossi done for you?”

  Minister Cassisi takes another step back.

  Filangeri cannot repress a grimace.

  Cassisi returns to sit behind his desk, clears his throat but says nothing.

  Vincenzo uses the silence as a lever to ease his words into the minds of the men, and lead them where he wishes them to go.

  “So?” the minister says at the end.

  “I would like to ask for three things.” Vincenzo raises his fingers. “First and foremost I want Rossi to leave me alone. Then I want him to give me the service certificates and, finally, pay me. Not because I need the pittance I receive for being a governor, but because I am who I am and he is nothing more than a paper pusher. He is nothing to me, but I must be someone to him.”

  And so it was.

  * * *

  “Hooray for the bride and groom!”

  “Congratulations!”

  The small orchestra strikes up a dance, and the cheer drowns it out.

  The newlyweds walk close to each other. Luigi De Pace, the son of a wealthy Palermo ship owner and an associate of the Florios, greets people, takes jokes on the chin, and reciprocates. The bride, Angelina, is petite, shy, with a calm expression. She’s wearing a satin dress and a long lace veil her father had made in Valenciennes. Her sister, Giuseppina, is at her side. She adjusts her veil and hugs her.

  Giulia looks at her eldest daughter. She’s happy for her, proud, but also somewhat sad. Angelina has what she herself was not able to have: a real wedding ceremony. A celebration. A dowry. She gave everything up for Vincenzo’s sake. And even after they were married, he didn’t register anything—not even a pin—in her name. Never mind. What matters now is that her daughter is happy.

  “She’s so elegant.”

  “A bridal veil worthy of a queen.”

  Giulia, both pleased and sad, keeps the compliment to herself.

  It was not easy to persuade Vincenzo to agree to the match. It was Luigi’s mother who requested a meeting. After tea and chitchat, the stout woman with thick eyebrows and pudgy hands looked at her and said, “May I ask a direct question, Donna Giulia?”

  “Of course.”

  “My husband hears that yours, Don Vincenzo, is trying to get your daughters married. Is that so?”

  Giulia grew wary. “Yes.”

  The other woman folded her hands over her belly and studied Giulia with a slight frown, assessing every possible reaction. “We have a son you may find suitable: Luigi. He’s a good boy, serious, respectful, and a hard worker. He’d keep her like a baroness. Would you like to mention it to your husband?”

  Giulia discussed it for a long time—but not too long—with Vincenzo.

  He could be stubborn but was also practical: the De Pace family are ship owners and have an extensive trade network. They are not as wealthy as the Florios but possess that entrepreneurial spirit he values above all else. And so, after a short space of time, a dowry was agreed upon and a date fixed for the wedding.

  Giulia nods to herself. Angela, her little Angelina, has found a man who will take care of her. Luigi is just over thirty and seems kind and patient. As a wedding present, he has given her a parure set in gold and emeralds.

  There’s only one cloud hanging over this marriage, as far as Giulia is concerned.

  A few days earlier, Angelina was taking off her wedding gown with the maid’s help after her final fitting with the dressmaker. Giulia was watching her in the mirror, lovingly following all her gestures, trying to store them in her memory. These were her beloved and much-wanted daughter’s last days at home with her.

  The girl met her gaze. “What is it, Mamma?” she asked, seeing her mother’s eyes glistening with tears.

  Giulia waved her hand as though to dismiss a thought. “It’s nothing. You’re beautiful, you’re a woman, and—” She swallowed air. “I was thinking of how I’ve watched you grow up, of how you were after you were just born, a tiny little thing always clinging to me. And now you’re getting married.”

  Angelina grabbed her robe and immediately got dressed, as though embarrassed. “I remember that time. I was always clinging to you because my father wasn’t there and, whenever he was, he would push me away. I hardly knew him.” She spoke without looking at her. “Giuseppina and I have always been a nuisance for him.”

  Giulia rushed to hug her. “Of course you weren’t. How can you say that? You know your father has a bad temper but he loves you and would give his life for you both.”

  Angelina put a hand on her arm. “My father loves money, Mamma, and perhaps you. But not Giuseppina and me. There’s only one person who’s dear to him, and that’s Ignazio.” There was no regret in her voice but the simple acceptance of a fact that could never be altered. “And if I have to be completely frank,” she added with a sigh, “I’m glad I’m getting married because this way at least I can have a family and children of my own who will love me for who I am.”

  Giulia’s smile fades when she remembers this. She knows Angelina has agreed to marry so she can leave this house. She has traded love for the hope of a better life.

  And yet . . . She glances at the newlyweds. Luigi is attentive, he gives Angela a glass of champagne and doesn’t let go of her hand. She’s laughing and seems genuinely at peace. Giulia hopes that there may already be some tenderness between them. Not love: that—if it ever does—will come in time. They will be good life companions, she tells herself. At least she hopes so.

  She turns and looks around for her husband. He was constantly nervous in the days preceding the ceremony. She finds him in conversation with other men in a corner of the courtyard. Business, no doubt.

  She gestures at the housekeeper to invite the guests into the villa, so that the wedding banquet may begin.

  Everything has to be impeccable, as always.

  * * *

  Ignazio, fifteen years old with a mass of dark hair, also watches his sister and brother-in-law. He raises his half-filled glass to Angela and she responds with a smile, and sends him a kiss with her fingertips.

  He hopes she might be happy, and wishes it with all his heart. Angelina has always been jealous of him, they have been squabbling for years, and she has often accused him of being their father’s favorite. S
he’s been angry and unhappy for a very long time. Too long.

  May you finally be contented, he wishes her with his eyes. May your husband be a good business associate of Casa Florio, just as his father has been.

  He takes another sip. French champagne. Crates of it purchased through the mediation of Monsieur Deonne, his father’s trusted man in France. There are baskets of lilies, roses, and frangipani—a flower that practically symbolizes Palermo—in the salon and along the row of rooms, giving off a heavily heady scent.

  In the salon where the buffet has been laid out, the silver is glowing as though with a life of its own. Everywhere, there are waiters ready to pour wine.

  The Florios have spent a lot on this wedding. “I want people to talk about it for months,” Vincenzo said while Giulia, tight-lipped, was drawing up the guest list. “The Florio celebrations must become legendary.”

  And, once again, Ignazio heard the quiver of his father’s rancor through his triumphant tone.

  He almost doesn’t notice Carlo Giachery coming up to greet him. “Hello, Ignazio. Congratulations on the party. For once, your father has spared no expense!”

  They shake hands. This man, with a loud voice and penetrating eyes, has been a constant presence in his life, and is probably the only person who can be called a friend of his father’s. Because Vincenzo Florio has business associates, but not friends, something Ignazio learned very early on. “You know what he’s like: everything has to be perfect or not at all.”

  They walk across the rooms, chatting about the guests and the new sumac mill Vincenzo had built behind the tonnara. Giachery laughs. “Only your father could put a mill right next to a villa! For him, Casa Florio comes before anything else.”

  It’s true that the mill strikes a discordant note on this gulf. A building nobody wanted, starting with the Arenella residents and ending with Giulia, who hates the sumac dust drifting into the house.

  But, with a stubbornness edging on anger, his father had it built.

  His father is always full of anger. Even now.

  He studies him. No, he thinks, correcting himself, biting his lip. He is disappointed—he can see it in his face: the crease between the eyebrows, his lips pursed into a stiff wrinkle . . . Angela married with his blessing, true, and Luigi is a good match. But not the best.