The Florios of Sicily

by Stefania Auci

  His father has always obtained everything he wanted except what he’s been yearning for the most. And it is up to him, Ignazio, to achieve the results the great Vincenzo Florio was not able and never will be able to reach.

  He walks away from the window by which he has been standing until now, takes a glass of champagne, and heads toward the sea and the cliffs. He’s seeking solitude and silence, away from the guests. Of course, he is a Florio and the bride’s brother, but he also wants to keep an ounce of freedom for himself.

  He almost fails to hear his sister Giuseppina’s footsteps as she comes to search for him. “Ignazio!” she calls, lifting the hem of her embroidered silk dress to avoid soiling it. “Mamma is looking for you. She wants to know what’s the matter with you and says the dancing with the newlyweds is about to start.”

  Her brother doesn’t turn around, so she puts a hand on his arm. “What is it? Are you feeling unwell?”

  He shakes his head. A curl falls over his forehead. “It’s not that, Giuseppina, it’s just that . . .” He waves his hand in a weary gesture. “It’s too noisy.”

  Giuseppina, however, does not accept his answer. She looks at him intently. They’re almost the same height, and have eyes that mirror and can read each other.

  “I sometimes wonder what our lives would have been like if we’d been different,” he murmurs. “If we hadn’t had all this but had a choice. Instead, we’re forced to live like this, in full view of everybody.” He indicates the tower behind him.

  Giuseppina sighs and lets go of her dress. The rose fabric gets covered in a film of dust and splashes of seawater. “Then we wouldn’t have been the Florios,” she replies, also softly. Then she looks down at her bejeweled hands. She’s wearing the coral earrings their grandmother gave her a couple of weeks ago, saying her grandfather Paolo had given them to her more than fifty years earlier. They’re not expensive but have great value for her. “We would have been poorer. Perhaps our parents wouldn’t have met.”

  “I wonder if that would have been a bad thing. I don’t mean for our mother and father. Perhaps today we would be celebrating with an ordinary glass of wine and not French champagne.” Ignazio twirls his glass in his hand. Then, as though performing a ritual, he slowly pours his drink into the sea. “Our father chose to do what he wanted, and who he wanted to be. He did it his own way, with a strength that spared no one. While we have been forced to follow the path he traced for us. We’ve all done it, starting with our mother.”

  Giuseppina says nothing. She watches her brother empty his glass, examines his handsome face and sees a strange sadness in it, as though Ignazio is looking at a devastating scene in which he is unable to intervene. And the powerless light in his eyes has the taste of all he has not lived. It’s a melancholy that turns his unspoken words into sighs.

  * * *

  Vincenzo circulates from guest to guest without a moment’s respite. This is a lavish wedding, blessed by a sun that has cast a golden veil over this April 1, 1854.

  He greets the Pojeros, his new shipping associates, Augusto Merle and his family, Chiaramonte Bordonaro, and Ingham, who has brought his nephew Joseph Whitaker along. He jokes with all of them, thanks them, and drinks a toast with his fellow father-in-law, Salvatore De Pace. They talk about ships, business, contracts, and taxes.

  There’s a handful of people standing apart. The servants have been ordered to serve them first, and he has been to welcome them in person. They’re not mingling with the others and their expression is one of detachment, opaque. They are not taking part in the excited discussions at the table, unless they are specifically addressed.

  Everything about their manner and evasive answers, even the slight cocking of their heads, suggests unease. They examine the vault in the Quattro Pizzi hall, ponder the furnishings, estimate their cost, and are unable to conceal a blend of envy, admiration, and annoyance, even though it’s masked by a blasé bearing. And Vincenzo, who has always been a good people reader, sees it all too well.

  Today, anger and triumph taste the same.

  They can’t account for it, he thinks, watching them from the corner of his eye. They can’t understand how I got this far. And how could they possibly understand? They’re aristocrats. They have centuries of privilege behind them. Blood nobility who don’t deign to mingle with those who have become rich, like me; who try to get into commerce. And yet they cannot see me differently. They don’t know that I haven’t stopped thinking about my work, about the sea, the ships, tuna, sumac, sulfur, silk, and spices, for a single second. Or about Casa Florio.

  He orders another round of champagne.

  For all their titles and coats of arms on their front doors, they don’t have what he has.

  He doesn’t pause to think that they, too, have something he can never have. He doesn’t want to. For today, the darkness lurking deep in his soul must keep still and far away.

  * * *

  Only a little later does Prince Giuseppe Lanza di Trabia approach. He’s an elderly man now. He has measured gestures, as though he needs to pace himself, and a calm voice. “A truly magnificent wedding, Don Vincenzo. I must congratulate you.”

  “Only the best for my daughter and son-in-law.” He raises his glass while the couple in the middle of the room is dancing awkwardly, a sign of the intimacy that has just begun to form. A few guests immediately follow their example.

  “You made a good match,” the prince of Trabia says, staring at the wine in his glass. “Adequate. It will be a happy marriage.” Words like drops of poison.

  “Thank you.”

  The other man suddenly clears his throat. “How’s business at your shipping company?”

  “Very good.” Vincenzo waits. A man like the prince doesn’t ask random questions.

  “You’ve shown foresight by organizing things yourself and setting up your own company. After the stroke of bad luck with the Palermo—”

  “Luck had little to do with it. It sank because of the clashes with the Neapolitans. If the revolutionary government hadn’t commandeered it . . . Oh, well, never mind, what’s done is done, and there’s nothing one can do about it.”

  “Yes, but you are actually the only one with a mixed fleet of timber and steam.” His glance speaks volumes. “You’re not the kind of man who stops at the first hurdle. You purchased a steamship in Glasgow, if I’m not mistaken. The Corriere Siciliano, right? I’ve heard good things about it, and Naples is keeping an eye on you. You have ships crisscrossing the entire Mediterranean and meeting delivery deadlines, which is something Neapolitan steamers are not always able to do. In other words, you’re probably the only person who can draw up an agreement with the postal services.”

  Vincenzo turns around, slowly. “Do you mean a monopoly?” All of a sudden, he wishes he were somewhere else, so he could speak freely, and not in a packed room full of loud conversation.

  The prince of Trabia gives a slight nod. “I heard it mentioned at court last time I was in Naples. It’s not just a rumor: the king can no longer guarantee service to our island, so . . .” He takes his watch out of his pocket: a refined object, a French craftsman’s masterpiece. He looks at it and strokes the enameled flat part. “Please understand, I’m telling you this because, as I mentioned earlier, not many people could undertake such a venture in Sicily, and above all because this kind of contract must not end up in Neapolitan hands. It would be an incalculable loss for Palermo and Sicily; money that would stay in Naples but that could be used here instead, to create jobs. And, above all, we’d be dealing with a service that would place the island in an even more marginal position. The consequences would be too many and too negative for us Sicilians. Do you follow me?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “Good.” The prince of Trabia lifts his head and admires the painted vault. “You managed to create your palace in the end, Don Vincenzo. You may not be a nobleman, but this is a house fit for a king.” He squeezes his arm. “Think about what I’ve said. Take the necessary ste
ps.”

  The prince of Trabia walks away amid the dancing couples, past those sitting against the wall.

  Vincenzo puts a hand over his lips and goes to the window. The rumor about the postal service monopoly has been circulating for a while. And that’s all it seemed to be: just a rumor.

  And yet . . .

  He watches the prince go to his carriage and leave. He thinks feverishly, while music plays around him and glasses are raised for more toasts. Above him, the painted vault of the Quattro Pizzi room gathers voices and moods.

  An exclusive postal service by means of his ships could mean a direct relationship with the Sicilian Crown. Not to mention money. A lot of money.

  In other words, an exclusivity that means power.

  Part Seven

  Sand

  May 1860 to April 1866

  Cent’anni d’amuri, un minutu di sdigno.

  A hundred years of love, one minute of anger.

  —SICILIAN PROVERB

  Sicilian revolutionary unrest is smoldering beneath the surface, rekindled by vibrant clandestine publicity and a few—failed—attempts at a popular uprising. The wiser nobility and intellectual middle classes, on the other hand, are inclined to involve the king of Sardinia, Victor Emmanuel II, in the process of freeing the island from Bourbon subjection. Francesco Crispi’s determination will bring these elements together: he suggests to General Giuseppe Garibaldi the possibility of an “external” insurrection, which, by supporting Sicilian rebels, would ultimately aim to unite Italy. In order to persuade him, Crispi tells Garibaldi that an insurrection has already begun in Palermo (the Gancia revolt, steered by Crispi, from April 4 to 18, 1860). Without the king’s explicit support, Garibaldi and his Expedition of the Thousand, volunteer fighters wearing red shirts, sail from Quarto on May 5, land in Marsala (May 11), and finally enter Salemi (May 14), where Garibaldi proclaims himself dictator of Sicily in the name of Victor Emmanuel II. They march on Palermo on May 28 and are welcomed as liberators, then reach Naples on September 7. The meeting between Garibaldi and Victor Emmanuel II, on October 26, in Teano, marks the beginning of the Kingdom of Italy.

  However, after the unification, Kingdom of Sardinia officials extend their legislative, economic, fiscal, and trading system to southern Italy and Sicily without adapting it, refusing any compromise. Discontent spreads among the nobility: they have been unable to keep their privileges intact, and have been stripped of their cultural identity. The people continue to suffer because of an economy that has to operate in difficult circumstances and does not seem to have any possibility of improvement.

  And so Sicily is, once again, a conquered land.

  THE WEST COAST OF SICILY is an alternation of cliffs and sandy beaches. A varied ecosystem with changeable morphology and a very rich landscape.

  It is only around Marsala that the beaches become a steady presence: fine, powdery sand brought in by the sea through the San Teodoro Passage of Isola Lunga, a place of breathtaking beauty. Near Marsala, we have Stagnone, one of the richest lagoons on the island: an old Phoenician harbor, a Greek shelter, and a Roman emporium.

  Thanks to the presence of salt pans—a system of basins used for refining sea salt through the evaporation of water—the climate in Stagnone is almost always constant and the salinity does not fluctuate.

  It is no wonder that marsala cellars sprout near these low, sandy beaches. It is no wonder that the sand comes into courtyards, invades warehouses, and collects on barrels.

  The sea, the limestone in the sand, and the constant temperature have made this wine so dense—a wine created by chance, and which became the flavor of an era.

  Because the sand that comes to rest on the terra-cotta tiles covering the salt is the same that eddies between the bottles laid to rest in the entrails of the cellars. It’s a sand that carries grains of salt and the scent of the sea.

  It’s this salt that gives the dry taste, the confusing uncertainty, and the flavor with a hint of the sea to a wine that, in other circumstances, would be a sweet wine like any other.

  * * *

  Facing each other, Ignazio and Vincenzo look at each other in silence. The father is sitting at his desk while the son is standing. It’s still dark outside.

  Giulia is near them.

  “It could be a good idea, Ignazio,” she says in a conciliatory tone. “You could go away for a few weeks . . . Your sister Giuseppina would be happy for you to stay with her. Besides, I remember how excited you were after visiting Marseille.”

  But Ignazio looks down and shakes his head. “Giuseppina and her husband are very generous, Maman, but I shan’t leave. I’m going to stay in Palermo with you and Father. It’s my duty and Casa Florio needs me now more than ever.”

  Only then does Vincenzo seem to stir from his stillness. He is sixty-one and weighed down by age. The bags under his eyes, the legacy of sleepless nights, make him look older. “So be it,” he says. “We’ll stay right here.” He reaches out to Giulia, and she takes his hand and holds it between hers.

  She can only accept. Something she has learned at her expense: that if a Florio makes up his mind, then nothing and no one can make him change it. They are too proud, and even more stubborn.

  Ignazio leaves them alone. Lost in thought, Vincenzo rubs his beard, which has flecks of gray in it.

  The truth? He lacks the courage to admit he is afraid. Not for himself, of course, but for his son.

  Time is coiling on itself and hurtling into a future nobody can understand. There’s a strange anxiety swelling the air, making everybody suspicious, uncertain, and frightened.

  It all started a month ago, in early April 1860. For too long spirits had been inflamed by Bourbon policies, made up of abuse of power, heavy taxes, arbitrary arrests, and show trials. There had been many signs, many small tremors heralding disaster. First, there was a revolt in Boccadifalco; then, two days later, the rebellion in Gancia, the large Franciscan monastery in the heart of Palermo. The monks had actually given sanctuary to the rebels but then a cowardly friar had snitched and soldiers surrounded the church and the monastery, blocking any escape route for the rebels. Thirteen of them were arrested and more than twenty killed. The bells the monks had rung to call the city to an uprising turned into a death knell. Only two men managed to escape and hide for days among dead bodies in the crypt. In the end, they left through a slit in the church wall, helped by local women who distracted the soldiers’ attention by staging an argument.

  Was this the last of many small rebellions or the advance guard of something bigger? Nobody knew. In the city, some people were putting their belongings in safekeeping and sending their families far away, while others simply waited.

  One thing was certain: nobody could bear the Bourbons any longer.

  Vincenzo stands up and goes to his wife. He doesn’t need to say what he feels because she can read his soul.

  “I’d be much happier if he left,” Giulia says, her voice tense with worry.

  “I know.” Vincenzo slowly shakes his head. “I keep thinking about that boy. The one they killed after the uprising. He came to a bad end.”

  Giulia squeezes his arm. “You mean Sebastiano Camarrone? The one who survived the firing squad?”

  He nods.

  It happened a few days after the failed uprising. To make the risk of defying the Bourbons very clear to everybody, the prisoners—a little older than boys and not yet men—were shot in the square, in front of their families. But Sebastiano Camarrone miraculously survived. He was wounded, of course, but alive.

  Vincenzo was told that the boy’s mother approached, and asked out loud for the king to pardon her son. Because that was the law: anyone who survives the firing squad must be spared.

  Instead, they shot him in the face.

  In the end, the soldiers crammed the bodies into four coffins. The city streets were still stained with the blood that dripped from the cart used to transport the bodies to the mass grave. Nobody wanted to wash away the dark strip.<
br />
  “I can’t bear to think about it,” Vincenzo says in a whisper. “He was like our son, intelligent; he had even studied. And these sons of bitches killed him without conscience or mercy.”

  Vincenzo is not easily outraged, yet this time his sense of revulsion makes a breach in his indifference.

  Giulia covers her face with her hands. “Dogs. I keep picturing that poor mother’s distress. That’s why I wanted Ignazio to go away, because you never know what could happen.” She turns and looks at the door. “We’ve lived our lives, but he . . .”

  Her husband puts an arm around her shoulders and kisses her forehead. “Yes, I know, but it’s his decision.”

  She huffs. “The fact that Ignazio is as hardheaded as you is not something I find reassuring.”

  He disengages himself from Giulia’s embrace and goes to his room to finish getting ready. He sends for his son, tells him to hurry, and asks the stable boy to make sure their vehicle has an escort of armed servants.

  * * *

  At dawn, the carriage that’s taking them to Palermo exits the Villa dei Quattro Pizzi. Once again, Vincenzo has decided to relocate there instead of staying in Via dei Materassai. With its walls and access to the sea, the villa is easier to defend.

  The cold spirals out of the sea and slithers through the two men’s coats, making them shiver.

  Vincenzo sits opposite his son. He observes him in the half-light inside the carriage. With his high forehead and determined jaw, Ignazio looks very much like Vincenzo’s father, Paolo, but doesn’t have his personality. Of course, he is polite and charmant. He’s been admitted to the casino of ladies and gentlemen, he, the only Florio to be accepted by the city’s most exclusive aristocratic circle. He’s an intelligent young man, with savoir faire and a natural grace he has inherited from Giulia. But what his father admires most is his disarming coldness.