For the first time, Ignazio speaks. “You will be of great assistance to us as a lawyer. You’re a man of action.” He says it softly, calmly. His is not a request but a certainty. A truth. His voice is hoarse, like his father’s, and his tone contains no nuance. “The Florios don’t forget those who help them. In Palermo, we can rely on what nobody, Bourbon or Savoy, can. And you know very well what I mean.” He gives him his hand.
The man shakes his hand, then Vincenzo’s.
They have no way of knowing yet that this man, Francesco Crispi, a former rebel, former Mazzini follower, suspected of political assassination, and, in the future, prime minister, foreign secretary, and minister of the interior of the Kingdom of Italy, will become Casa Florio’s lawyer.
* * *
It seems a day like any other. Steamers arrive at La Cala and unload spices, fabrics, timber, and sumac; carts full of sulfur and citrus fruit are standing on the dock, waiting to be stowed. From a distance, the peal of church bells calling to Mass, interspersed with the screeching of the first swallows. Beyond this can be heard the sounds of hammers and presses at the Oretea foundry.
Down the streets, between tuff-and-stone walls, the people of Palermo come and go, with their agate eyes, copper hands, red hair, and milky-white skin. Mixed people, welcoming people.
Past Castellammare, where a new city is forming, the villas of the newly rich rise amid vegetable patches and olive groves. Elegant houses are built on the foundations of old palazzi, which acquire a new life, surrounded by gardens with exotic plants imported from British and French colonies.
There, Ignazio Florio will create the Palazzo Olivuzza, and there another Ignazio and another Vincenzo will be born, and that’s where Villa Whitaker is also to come. But it’s too early to tell these stories, or how, also there, art nouveau cottages will be built, which will then be bulldozed in favor of concrete buildings.
No, it’s still too early for that.
For now, Palermo seems inebriated, standing motionless on the threshold of a future full of uncertainty, waiting to discover what the new rulers, who arrived as liberators, want from her. And yet the city is distrustful: she has known too many conquests.
Palermo, the mistress slave who seems to sell herself to all, yet belongs to herself only. And this city, where the smell of dung blends with jasmine, receives distressing, unexpected news.
Vincenzo and Ignazio are in the office of the new National Bank. Vincenzo is president of the branch, and Ignazio works with him. Right now, he and his father are talking about the export of marsala wine. The Florio marsala has been awarded a medal at the Florence Exhibition of 1861: it’s the most popular after-dinner wine in Italy and is considered a luxury item in France, where it has also won a medal.
Ignazio didn’t twiddle his thumbs when his father appointed him manager of the cellars. “And so, Papà, I was thinking of creating a special reserve to put aside for the next world exhibition. Having a medal on the label is worth something—”
Before Ignazio can complete his sentence, a breathless clerk arrives and bows before Vincenzo. His uniform is in disarray and he looks bewildered. “Here, Don Florio. It’s a message from Duchess Spadafora.”
Vincenzo grabs the envelope; it’s thick, good-quality white paper on which a hesitant hand has written his name. “Ben’s wife? What could she want?” he mutters.
He looks at the panting man again and hesitates, the envelope suddenly feeling very heavy, as though he already knows that the paper will bring him grief. Then he opens it and reads.
* * *
Ben Ingham’s house is heaving with people. They’re on the steps, on the street, and crushed against the front gates. When Vincenzo arrives, a crowd of employees, sailors, ship owners, and traders parts in order to let him through.
Ignazio watches his father walk to the threshold of the bedroom with increasingly heavy, slower steps. He sees his shoulders drop, his head bow. He puts a hand on Ignazio’s shoulder.
Then he, too, looks.
The body has been dressed in English-tailored clothes. Candlesticks have been placed at the foot of the bed, and an Anglican minister is muttering prayers. Nearby, a small group of faithful are on their knees, praying. Ben has always been very religious.
Duchess Spadafora is sitting in an armchair, next to her husband. She looks as though somebody has slapped her: her face is puffy and dazed. She keeps fiddling with her wedding ring; marriage came to her, too, but against the wishes of Ben’s favorite nephew.
A little farther away, Joseph Whitaker, his wife, Sophia, and the third of their twelve children greet those who have come to offer their condolences. Gabriele Chiaramonte Bordonaro, hat in hand, is also here, next to the duchess’s children.
They’re all looking at the bed.
It seems impossible.
Alessandra Spadafora stands up when she sees Vincenzo, staggers, and he goes to hug her. They’re both orphans, in their own way.
“How did it happen?” he asks, helping her back to the armchair.
“A sudden malaise last night. He became red in the face and couldn’t breathe.” She reaches out and strokes Ben’s face. His wrinkles have relaxed and he looks peaceful. Then she shows Vincenzo a dark mark on his temple. “The physician said a vein must have burst in his head. He—he—by the time the physician arrived he was already—” She bursts into tears and clings to Vincenzo’s arm.
He has a lump in his throat.
He can’t look at the body.
Not him, he thinks, stifling his tears.
Ben, who complimented him on choosing to marry Giulia. Ben, who always treated him like an opponent, but never an enemy. Ben, who, with Uncle Ignazio, took him on a steamer about to sail for England. Ben, who showed him around the English countryside. Ben, who introduced him to his tailor . . .
A brother, a friend, a rival, an associate, a mentor.
To all this, Vincenzo must now say goodbye. He is more and more alone.
* * *
The citrus grove of the beautiful villa in the hills of San Lorenzo is stretching before Giulia. It’s just been raining. The leaves, glossy from the rain, are glistening in the afternoon sun, and a scent of humidity she finds reassuring is rising from the earth.
This is not a good time. Vincenzo is in a dark mood, angry about the political situation that has arisen since the annexation of Sicily to the Kingdom of the Savoys, who are acting not like sovereigns but like masters. They’re imposing their laws and officials, won’t listen to those with more experience in dealing with Sicilians, who, granted, may be malarazza and distrustful, but who, if you gave them even a little, would lay the world at your feet. But instead, these people would rather come here and lay down the law without listening, without understanding.
Ignazio is distant, absorbed in the business. Giulia no longer has anybody to take care of: Angelina and Giuseppina have their own families, and her mother-in-law is looked after by two maids who attend to her night and day.
She feels deeply the bite of solitude.
But, above all, what worries her is that Vincenzo . . . seems uninterested in her, in what she wants and thinks. The quarrel they’ve just had is proof of that. The thought of it alone makes her blood boil. How could he have silenced her like that? Why did he say those dreadful things to her?
She goes to the balustrade that separates the veranda from the garden and looks at the trees. There’s a sliver of sun between the mountains. The thunderstorm has cleansed the air of the sand that infiltrates everything.
Giulia doesn’t like living here. It’s a huge two-story villa with a ballroom, guest quarters, stables, and a farming estate. Vincenzo bought it more than twenty years ago, before marrying her. Of course, it’s an elegant abode, worthy of an aristocrat. As a matter of fact, it’s next to the prince of Lampedusa’s villa and the Bourbon hunting lodge, the Palazzina Cinese. It’s a pleasant location, full of citrus groves, with a tree-lined road leading to the sea and Mondello, and cuts the Favorita e
state in two.
Vincenzo, and especially Ignazio, now prefers it to the Quattro Pizzi during the summer. But her heart and memories are tangled up in the nets that surround the Arenella tonnara. It’s part of her life, of her way of being; if only she could, she would pack her bags, leave the two men, and return to that happy place.
She leans against the tuff parapet supported by pillars. A servant appears discreetly behind her. “Donna Giulia, would you like an armchair?” he asks.
“No, thank you, Vittorio.”
The man senses her need for solitude and leaves.
Her anger does not subside. On the contrary, it stirs, becomes solid and tinted with rancor.
Giulia hears the French window open behind her and the sound of footsteps.
Soon afterward, Vincenzo’s hand appears next to hers.
They stand in silence, too proud to apologize to each other.
* * *
Vincenzo is waiting behind the glass door that leads to the citrus grove. He knows he’s gone too far, but what on earth got into Giulia? Since when does she want to discuss politics and economics as his equal? It’s true that she knows more than a lot of men, but still: she’s a woman, after all.
It all began during lunch. He and Ignazio were talking about the issue that had arisen during the frenzied period of Garibaldi’s occupation, when the Casa Florio ships had been requisitioned by the Bourbons.
“They’ve kept three steamers of the five we have. They said they needed them to transport troops. But now, a year later, they’re contesting the fact that the mail distribution service has been interrupted, and even want me to pay the fine for the missed services, as it depended on me.” He put his fork down so hard that it fell on the floor. “Not only did they sink one of my steamers but they also want money!”
While a diligent servant was bringing a new fork, Ignazio dabbed his lips with his napkin. “The agreement made with the Bourbons was particularly advantageous, Papà. The problem—what they’re really complaining about—is the fact that the official forms and stamps didn’t arrive in time. Nobody cares about the letters.”
“They might as well try sweeping the sea,” Vincenzo exclaimed. It’s the postal service, we’re under a new regime. We’re the ones who’ve suffered harm. What gives them the right to impose fines?”
“You could have chartered other ships. I mean, you made a commitment, didn’t you?”
Perplexed more than shocked, the two men turned to look at Giulia.
She continued: “When one signs a contract—”
“We didn’t think it was worth putting ships and crew at risk. We sent out the sailing ships of the firms that work with us, but not steamers.” Ignazio spoke calmly, looking down at his empty plate.
“It’s too risky. Palermo and Sicily have been devastated by Garibaldi’s transit,” Vincenzo added. “The Piedmontese have been worse than the Bourbons, at least until now. They won’t hear reason, they just come here, change everything, and impose their way of doing things. You can’t put a whole steamship at risk just so you can deliver messages between Uncle Peppino and Donna Marianna. I can understand about the forms, but the rest—”
“The fact is, you did put yourself in the wrong.”
Ignazio intervened, preventing his father’s reaction. “I’ll explain it all to you in the next few days, Maman. The situation is much more complex than it appears: it’s not just our interests that are at stake but also those of the people who work for us. That’s why we set up the mail steamer society, last year.” He stood up. “And now, will you excuse me if I go upstairs to work? Papà?”
Vincenzo indicated the upper story, where long reports from the Oretea foundry, now at the service of the steamships, awaited him. “I’ll be along later.”
Left alone, Vincenzo and Giulia exchanged an annoyed glance. “Our son manages to silence me without showing disrespect. I hate that.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, Ignazio has much more sense than you.” He asked the servant to bring him a digestive liqueur. Lately, food had almost become a torment, and digestion a long, laborious process.
“No. The truth is that you refuse to accept what’s happening. You’ve told me so many times that Sicily couldn’t get very far on her own, and that we should become a British protectorate or something, and now—”
“And what do you think the Piedmontese are? They’re turning us into nothing but their colony. On top of that, they’ve seized the Bourbon Crown treasury and taken it up to Piedmont to pay for the expenses of the annexation campaign. Annexation, you hear? It’s a farce, a lie staged by Naples and Turin together. And this is only the beginning!”
“You cannot bear anybody telling you what to do. You’ve always been like this, haven’t you? With me, with your children, and with your business: you always have to have it your way. Instead, why don’t you try seeing the good that could come from being a single nation, from the Alps to Marsala? Does it mean nothing to you? And what have you got to say about all those who sacrificed their lives for this ideal?”
He stood up abruptly, patience draining from his eyes. He leaned over her, flushed, speaking into her face. “Giulia, the tsar of Russia could be ruling over us and I wouldn’t change—do you understand that? Casa Florio doesn’t stop at Messina. What I want is for nobody to touch my world, and what they’re trying to do is to—” He put a hand over his mouth to stop himself from swearing.
Not with her, he thought.
He straightened up and continued in an icy tone. “They’ve told me that I have to alter my mail ships to make them faster or they’ll hand over my contracts—my contracts—to Genoese companies. That’s what they want and I’ll give it to them, but they have to pay me. They know I’m the only one who can ensure the coverage of the coastline they require. I will not allow them to take away from me what I have conquered. And if I have to deal with a bunch of pompous pomaded buffoons who talk in that singsong tone, then I will. So be it. But I have to protect what I’ve created. I will never be dependent on anybody or anything. Casa Florio is mine. Mine and my son’s. And that’s something even you, who’s like one of them, should have understood a long time ago.”
Very pale, Giulia stood up and, without looking at him, left the room.
* * *
What now? Vincenzo wonders.
He approaches her cautiously and calls her. She stiffens. Giulia is stubborn. She has become softer with age, it’s true, but there’s something inside her that even time can’t break down. Because she’s like the dracaena that casts shade over the villa porch: green, luminous, but inflexible.
And it’s also true that he couldn’t do without Giulia, not in this life nor in the thousands to come.
“Don’t ever do this again.” Giulia articulates every word and her Milanese accent resurfaces, as it always does when she’s angry. “Don’t you dare ever again treat me as though I’m stupid.”
“And you, don’t make me lose my temper.”
“We’ve been together thirty years and you still consider me a foreigner. And what about you? Remember who you are and where you’ve come from. The son of Calabrians who came to Palermo with patched-up pants, remember that.” She shouts and points a finger to his chest. “That’s what I can’t bear: that you don’t realize we’re the same, so why do you have to treat me like this?”
They are the same, it’s true, and he knows it. But he will never admit it. A man can’t apologize to a woman. He stands in silence, his forehead wrinkled and his eyes a blend of resentment and endurance: in thirty years—yes, it’s been this long—he’s never been able to tame her. This is his way of apologizing. The only way he knows.
He looks up at the sky. He takes her hand; she wriggles it out but he doesn’t let go.
Giulia pushes him away. “I should have sent you away when my brother brought you to my house. I’ve had nothing but misery from you.”
“That’s not true.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Tha
t’s not true,” he repeats, grabbing her by the wrists. “Nobody would have given you what I have.”
She shakes her head and struggles free. “You’ve never given me respect, Vincenzo. Never that. And if I hadn’t fought tooth and claw for what I needed, you would have silenced me completely.”
She walks away, leaving him in the light of the bronze sun setting behind the trees.
* * *
“Stoke the cufune, Maruzza, it’s a cold night.”
The maid takes quick steps and fills the brazier with coal. A thread of smoke rises, carried away by the draft coming in through the window. The year 1862 has begun with cold and rain. It’s a ruthless February.
Vincenzo thanks the maid and indicates the door. Left alone, he looks at the woman beneath the blankets. His mother’s heart is giving way, beat by beat. Years of hardness, anger, regret, and little love are bringing their work to term.
A little earlier, after the final rites the parish priest of San Domenico administered to Giuseppina, Giulia left. She told Vincenzo to call her if the situation deteriorates.
As if it wasn’t already at its limits.
The breath struggles to find a way through the body and gradually loses its strength, turning into a mutter. On the sheet, her hand is cast of wax and bones.
His mother is alive, but only for just a little longer. For days now she has been alternating between torpor and difficult wakefulness. She doesn’t sleep but keeps slipping into an unconsciousness that is longer every time.
Vincenzo feels a breathlessness weighing on his chest. He wonders why one must suffer so much, why death can’t take pity and simply snap the thread and take people away without inflicting this much distress. It’s like childbirth: a symmetrical, opposite pain to that of birth: a long torment to go into the arms of the Lord. Or whoever in His place, they say.
He slumps in the armchair, leans back, and closes his eyes. He remembers the moment when Uncle Ignazio died. He understands now how merciful fate was to him.
The Florios of Sicily Page 40