Part One Cognac

March 1894 to March 1901

Abballa quannu a fortuna sona.

When fortune plays, dance.

—Sicilian proverb

Cognac is a matter of soil, wood, patience, and sea. Like whisky. Like marsala wine.

It is first mentioned as early as the seventeenth century, but since May 1, 1909, by government decree, the rest of the world

has had to resign itself to producing ordinary "brandy," because cognac's one and only cradle is identifiable with the département of Charente, in South-West France. A chalky soil rich in marine sediment, covered in vine varieties like Ugni Blanc (a clone

of the Trebbiano grape, planted in France after the devastation wrought by phylloxera in the late nineteenth century), Colombard,

with its delicate yellow fruit, and Folle Blanche, with its compact clusters. In order to be considered cognac, at least 90

percent of the wine must come from one of these three grape varieties, either singly or in combination. The remaining 10 percent

may be constituted by other grapes: Montils, Sémillon, Juran?on Blanc, Blanc Ramé, Select, or Sauvignon.

But that's not enough: there is a specific window for the harvest, usually from October to the first frosts. Then there are

the barrels: the timber must be sourced from oaks in the Limousin and Tron?ais forests. The staves mature in the open air,

then are riveted just by iron hoops, so that neither nails nor glue may alter the flavor of the wine. Finally, they are toasted,

in other words overheated on the inside, carefully and for a long time. Moreover, before the wine is poured into the barrels,

it must be distilled, rigorously and at least twice, in the traditional Charentais alembic, first at 77 to 81oF, then at 158

to 162oF.

Only then is the wine left to rest, because all that is lovely and precious requires time, calm, patience. These ingredients may not be written down, but they are essential. You must wait, then wait some more, because nothing good can come into the world before its right time.

For cognac, that's at least two years but can be as much as fifty years or more. In these cellars, steeped in the smell of

the Atlantic, in which the evaporation process is slow, blending the aroma of the alcohol with those of wood and sea air,

the cognac assumes its characteristic flavors of vanilla, tobacco, cinnamon, and dried fruits, and turns amber, with a silky

texture. Naturally, it decreases in volume by 3 to 5 percent year over year. The French recognize this as la part des anges , the angel's tithe. In the cellar, there's also a place called Paradis, named for the demijohns that hold cognac aged at

least fifty years.

***

A girl, unfortunately.

Ignazio's smile waned when the midwife gave him the news, and he accepted the compliments and good wishes with a mere nod.

Then Diodata opened the door to Franca's bedroom, let him in, and placed in his arms a cusuzza nica , a tiny little thing, all red and bawling, wrapped in blankets to shield her from the November chill.

Franca was lying in bed, eyes closed and hands over her belly. The labor had been long and difficult.

She opened her eyes when she heard his approaching footsteps. "It's a girl. I'm sorry."

A wave of tenderness swept over Ignazio at these heartfelt words. He sat down beside her and kissed her forehead. "Our daughter Giovanna," he replied, handing her the baby. They were a family now, and no longer a couple struggling to find its equilibrium.

Three months later, Giovannuzza has conquered his heart. Franca is still its queen, but the baby its princess.

The boy must come. It's just a matter of time. Casa Florio needs an heir. The doctor has said that Ignazio can soon resume

spending time in his wife's bedroom, and that is one of the few recent pieces of good news.

January 1894 has been a difficult month. Few parties, barring those within the family, few opportunities for entertainment.

They've been shut in at home, suitably guarded so that no one comes to bother decent folk .

Palermo is no longer safe.

Early in the new year, a state of siege was declared on the island. It was the result of riots incited by the Sicilian Fasci , the organization that drew farmhands and factory workers, men and women, all equally unhappy with the heavy taxes and the

injustices they often had to bear. As unstoppable as contagion, the protests have spread from the city to the countryside

and turned into actual insurrections. In Pietraperzia, Spaccaforno, Salemi, Campobello di Mazara, Mazara del Vallo, Misilmeri,

Castelvetrano, Trapani, and Santa Ninfa, people have burned down the tollbooths and, brandishing weapons, assaulted public

offices and jails, setting the prisoners free.

The island was in the grip of chaos, so much so that military intervention was required to restore order. The Piedmontese, as old people call them, came when ordered to by General Morra di Lavriano, granted full powers by the government, took out their rifles, and shot at everybody, women included. Nothing has been done against those who have tormented the farmers and factory workers, driving them to hunger and despair—far from it: every protest has had its share of dead and wounded, arrests and subsequent trials. Disappointment has added to disappointment, seeing that the current government is run by Francesco Crispi, a Sicilian and a former Garibaldi supporter, who took over from Giovanni Giolitti after the Banca Romana scandal.

There is a heavy calm at present, dictated by fear, maintained thanks to constant arrests and harsh sentencing. It is tempting

to agree with Donna Ciccia, who grumbles that that man can't be trusted, that it feels like being back under Bourbon rule.

It is the evening and there is little light in the rooms or in the garden. A warm glow kindles the cognac in the glass Ignazio

has just been holding. Its spicy, vaguely honeyed aroma fills the room.

A knock at the door. "Come in," he mutters, snatched away from his reading: a rundown of the Britannia , the Prince of Wales's cutter, being completed in a Glasgow shipyard and against which Ignazio's Valkyrie will compete next June in the Channel Race.

The door opens, revealing Franca's face. "Aren't you ready?"

"Not yet, my dear," he replies, putting his papers aside. "But how's Giovannuzza? Why was my picciridda crying so much this afternoon?"

"The nanny said she had a nasty colic. She spent a long time massaging her belly."

The thought of that soft, fragrant little body fills her with a tenderness she never imagined she could feel. In the beginning,

after the pain of childbirth, she feared she would develop a kind of rejection of her daughter: the pain had been too much,

the recovery too grueling. However, the baby conquered her with just a glance, instilling a warm, total love that eclipsed

the rest of the world, shielding her from all unpleasantness.

Franca appoaches Ignazio. Since Giovannuzza's birth, her body has only become more voluptuous—if that were possible. Ignazio

can't resist. He embraces her, kissing her neck. "You're a goddess," he whispers into her skin.

Franca laughs and lets him nuzzle her, even though it took Diodata nearly two hours to style her hair. Ignazio has been too tense lately, and she feels unable to provide the peace of mind he needs. But she wants to prevent him from seeking it in someone else's arms.

All sorts of things happened after that Banca Romana scandal, of course. For days stern-looking men poured in and out of the

Olivuzza office, and Ignazio spent even more time on Piazza Marina than usual. Franca even heard that, after Credito Mobiliare

closed its doors, Ignazio was obliged to pay five million lire, a figure she alternately perceived as both staggering and

trifling. But what would she know about that? The dressmaker and the milliner first addressed their invoices to her mother

and now directly to Ignazio... She did try to ask, but both Ignazio and Giovanna dismissed her with vague excuses and a

general prescription "not to worry."

"Do we really have to go?" he asks, his face buried in Franca's hair. "Can't we go up to your bedroom?" He slips his hands

under her robe, finds her corset, and caresses her breast.

She wriggles free, laughing, and pushes him away. "I never would have thought that I'd have to persuade my husband to go to

the theater and a reception!" She closes her robe, flashing him a sidelong glance. "I'm going to finish getting ready...

and so should you."

Ignazio smiles. "We'll talk about it on the way back," he says, releasing her only after kissing her wrist.

***

On the afternoon of March 4, 1894, the carriage of the Lanza di Trabias makes a stop outside the entrance to the Olivuzza. Pietro is the first to alight, followed by Giulia and a man with dark, wavy hair, a broad forehead, lively eyes, and a bushy mustache. The butler welcomes them before motioning them to the red marble staircase decorated with cascades of flowers. Franca is waiting at the top. She immediately stretches her arms to Giulia and Pietro, kisses them, and tells them to make themselves at home in the winter garden. Then she smiles at the other man. "Welcome, Maestro. You honor us with your presence." Lifting the hem of her skirt, she adds, "Please come with me. Our guests can't wait to meet you."

Giacomo Puccini follows Franca, ogling her curves as discreetly as he can. He is in Palermo for a performance of Manon Lescaut , which premiered last year in Turin, and the city has given him a magnificent welcome: applause while the curtains were still

up, calls for him and the singers to come up on the stage, and a final ovation that made the entire Teatro Politeama quake.

Franca and Ignazio met him last night at a dinner in his honor at Palazzo Butera and have invited him for tea, just to make

his triumph complete.

Franca slows down, walks closer, and says, "Your Manon is a work that truly touches the soul, Maestro. I couldn't confess it to you last night, but it made me cry my eyes out."

Puccini appears confused, moved by her earnest compliment. He stops, takes Franca's hand, and kisses it. "Signora, your words

mean more to me than last night's applause. I am honored and touched."

Franca hesitates, then says in one breath, "Why does great music make us suffer so?"

Puccini's large, dark eyes widen. He draws closer to Franca's ear and murmurs, "Because it takes up where words end. Just like beauty... I'm sure you know what I mean." He kisses her hand again.

Franca blushes, smiles, takes his arm, and carries on walking.

***

"Ignazio!" The meaning behind Donna Giovanna's softly voiced call is unmistakable.

She also witnessed the scene: twice now Puccini bowed to kiss Franca's hand, and even whispered something in her ear. Familiarity—an

intimacy?—that would surely cause Ignazio to lose his temper, as he waited for their guest by the door to the winter garden.

She knows him only too well: he is jealous, possessive—never mind that he's unfaithful—because, just like a spoiled child,

he can't bear to share his toys.

Franca and Puccini are now in front of Ignazio and he manages a smile. "Welcome, Maestro," he says, his voice a little too

high-pitched. He then steps between his wife and the composer, ushering the latter to Giovanna, who, with Donna Ciccia, is

entertaining a group of elderly women dressed in black.

Giovanna has prepared this afternoon's reception in every detail: she chose the flowers, table linen, silverware, china, the

wide variety of tea blends in wooden boxes, and even the cakes. Everything is so perfect and elegant, it looks like a painting.

She still doesn't trust me , Franca thinks, taking it all in.

She is roused from her thoughts by a giggle. It's the unmistakable voice of Tina Scalia Whitaker, the wife of Joseph Isaac Whitaker. Known to everyone simply as Pip, Joseph is the grandson of Ben Ingham, a crucial figure in Ignazio's grandfather Vincenzo's life. Possibly the most famous couple in Palermo, Pip and Tina could not be more different: he follows in the family tradition of producing and selling marsala wine, supplementing it with his true passions, archaeology and ornithology. Tina, on the other hand, the daughter of a general who supported Garibaldi, is a highly educated, intelligent woman who lives and breathes high society: no one is spared her barbs and sarcasm.

Franca turns to the women of the Whitaker family, who chat in a blend of English and Sicilian, and meets Tina's eye. The two

women hold each other's gazes for a moment, and Franca catches in Tina's expression something between compassion and mockery.

She knows Tina considers her beautiful and rather foolish, like an elegant doll on display, and nothing else. She purses her

lips, thumbing her pearl-and-topaz necklace to summon courage, and greets Tina with a simple nod.

She is distracted by Ignazio's voice.

"The Teatro Politeama is very fine, but the acoustics aren't ideal," he is telling Puccini and the small crowd gathered around

them. "I trust Teatro Massimo will soon be ready. I say this with a degree of pride, since even the roof over the building

is made by my family's foundry."

"Then let me thank the patron of the arts who's creating a temple to opera in Palermo... and your foundry!" Puccini exclaims,

amusing everyone.

In the ensuing silence, a stern-looking young woman steps forward. "Maestro... it's such a privilege to be able to speak

to you... May I ask you a question?"

"Please do," Puccini replies with a smile.

"How—how do you write your music?"

"A musician's calling isn't like a proper job," he muses, "and it certainly has no breaks. Rather, it's like... a compulsion of the soul. Even now, standing with you, in my mind... in my soul, notes form and connect. It's a stream that finds no peace until it reaches the river. For example..." He goes to the piano little Vincenzo tortures twice a week during his music lessons.

The chatter ceases, cups are put down, even the waiters freeze.

In the unexpected silence, Franca approaches the piano and stares at Puccini, as though to encourage him.

His hands come to rest on the keyboard and a melody suddenly fills the room.

Che gelida manina, se la lasci riscaldar.

Cercar che giova?

Al buio non si trova.

Ma per fortuna è una notte di luna,

e qui la luna l'abbiamo vicina...

Puccini plays and sings, and the air, fragrant with vanilla and tea, catches the notes, seemingly reluctant to let them vanish.

Then he stops, his fingers hovering over the keys, his face flush with emotion.

As applause breaks out, he stands and bows to Franca. "I'm glad you've heard a fragment from my next opera. Remembering this

moment will make it easier for me to complete it."

Franca blushes as Ignazio orders champagne to toast "Maestro Puccini's future triumph, hoping he will come back and have it

performed in Palermo!" The men nod while the women sigh, thinking that this is indeed divine music.

But after drinking the toast, Puccini walks up to Franca again.

"You were splendid," she says, moved. "Thank you for this unhoped-for gift."

In response, Puccini takes both her hands and lifts them to his lips, to the hungry looks and insolent commentary of those present. Isn't she allowing him to be too familiar? Does she think she's above the rules?

"Thank you to your family for inviting me into your splendid home," he replies. "And thank you, Signora. You have an extraordinary

light inside you, a precious light. I hope you may guard it forever."

Franca smiles, but her eyes momentarily mist over.

One person notices.

Her sister-in-law Giulia.

***

Palazzo Butera, the Lanza di Trabias' home, stands against the city walls, a stone's throw from Porta Felice. The winter garden

looks out over a steely sea that mirrors the gray clouds of a day that's unusually dark for early May. The scent of dry leaves

hovers in the air, of damp soil and budding flowers. Sitting in the willow-clad parlor, amid potted lemons and small banana

trees, Franca and Giulia can speak freely while the children—Giulia's offspring and Vincenzo—play nearby, under the watchful

eye of their governesses.

"So? Why did you want to see me?'

Franca grips the handle of the Sèvres china cup, imprinted with the Lanza di Trabia coat of arms. She wonders when Giulia

became so curt, so different from the young woman who wrote her affectionate letters when Franca first joined the family.

She doesn't want to judge her, though: she's been hardened by her tense relationship with her mother-in-law and the death

of little Blasco. That was a tragedy whose magnitude she can only grasp now that she's a mother herself.

Somewhere from among the tress, Vincenzo shrieks and Gi useppe, Giulia's eldest, responds with a giggle. There's a patter of small feet, and the sound of a bouncing ball. It's odd to watch two boys, eleven and five, and know that they are uncle and nephew.

Giulia gives a faint smile, the first since Franca arrived, then looks at her, as though inviting her to speak.

"I want some advice," Franca says. "Honest advice, as though you were my true sister."

Giulia raises an eyebrow, then looks down at Franca's trembling fingers. She takes the cup away from her and places it on

the coffee table, then leans back. "Why are you trembling?" She lowers her voice. "You're still scared of everything, aren't

you? Scared of everyone judging you."

Franca blinks and nods, surprised, then casts her eyes down onto her bejeweled fingers.

"I was wondering when you'd finally realize that you can't carry on like this. You look like a soul in purgatory."

Franca clutches her skirt and her voice breaks. "Don't think I'm naive. Ignazio... I always assumed he was the one at the

center of all the gossip, and I forced myself not to listen because, in the end, it's me he comes back to, it's me he's in

love with. But people criticize me, too. I hear comments, little remarks whenever we go out... Last night, for instance,

at the De Setas' house, he flirted in a truly vulgar manner with the lady of the house. I was mortified! At home, I feel like

a guest, because I don't even need to talk: everybody turns to your mother. I feel even the servants find me odd. And your

mother, even though she's a real saint, won't let me have a say in anything." Her outburst is like a dam bursting. A sob escapes

her lips. "She always finds something to chide me for, and it's not just her but the whole city! Either I speak too little,

or too much, how I dress... whatever I do it's wrong and I no longer know which way to turn."

Giulia shakes her head, while her face betrays emotions Franca has trouble interpreting, then raises an eyebrow. "You're too good, my dear Franca. Too good. You need to grow balls, or they'll tear you to shreds. And that also applies to my mother."

Franca's green eyes open wide. Giulia is using crass language that's almost archaic in its brutal sincerity. "Really?" she

asks with a sob.

"Of course." Giulia stands up and walks to the windows. "You think I haven't noticed how you are?" She doesn't wait for her

sister-in-law to follow her, and Franca has to rush after her.

"You are Donna Franca Florio now. Not my mother, who's a widow and thinks only of having Masses held in my father's name.

You are Ignazio's wife, he's the head of the family, and you must commandeer what's yours, starting with respect." She seizes

Franca's arms and speaks to her just inches from her face. "When I got married, my father told me that nobody should ever

get the better of me. It was up to me to defend myself first and foremost, or my husband's family would stifle me. And it's

what I'm telling you now." She stares at her intently. "I love my brother, but I know him: he's not always very bright; too

many women prance around him. He's self-absorbed and doesn't realize you have troubles, that people criticize you partly because

of him. I know him, he's not a bad soul, but he's so... so superficial. He couldn't begin to understand how you feel, l'antisi puru ju chidde ca ti sparlano —he doesn't even notice what's being said behind your back . "

Lifting Franca's downcast face, which is pale from shame, Giulia ignores her tear-soaked eyelashes, grabs her by the shoulders,

and shakes her.

"Look at me! It's up to you to protect yourself, because I know what the world says about us Florio women. That we spend too much money on dresses and jewels, that we depend on the family fortune, but that our heads are empty. And that we're too arrogant to stay in our place." Giulia clenches her hands into fists. "I don't care what they say. You shouldn't either; if you listen to them, you give them power. They're wretches who just prove they're envious by saying what they do. We have everything that they don't—that's why they malign us and will continue to do so."

Giulia is blunt. Fierce.

Franca has little idea of her sister-in-law's tribulations. She doesn't know that she, too, had to endure terrible humiliation,

especially in the beginning, when her mother-in-law constantly threw Giulia's middle-class origins in her face before everyone.

Then, for years, she never missed an opportunity to remind her that her marriage was little more than a contract. As for Pietro,

he never stood up for his wife or supported her in any way.

Still, all those years taught Giulia not to give in, never to bow her head. They fueled in her a rage like the one her grandfather

Vincenzo carried all his life, and while he had channeled it to dominate an entire city out to humiliate him, she channeled

hers first as a shield, then as a weapon, to win the respect of the Lanza di Trabias. And now she truly is the lady of that

house and family. She has achieved this partly by remembering her father's golden rule: there's nothing more precious than

lucidity and self-control. Her father, Ignazio, also repeatedly told her, "Listen to your head, not your heart." She projects

the image of a haughty, unapproachable woman, an image built for protection.

No, Franca has no way of fully knowing the price her sister-in-law had to pay to become what she is: a proud, determined,

untouchable woman.

And that's precisely what Giulia wants to show Franca. That she has to earn her place among the Florios and in Palermo, because that's how it must be. There are no alternatives. And she can only achieve this by finding within her the required strength and detachment. She must let all that has hurt her wash over her, and erect fortified walls around her soul.

Franca looks into Giulia's face, nervously wipes her cheeks, and ponders.

To her mother-in-law, being a Florio means supporting her husband in every way, never giving him any reason to blame her or

complain, shining at every social event, rising to any occasion. And when he makes mistakes, it is her duty to forgive him.

Giulia's depiction of reality, however, situates Ignazio in the background. There is only her, Franca, distinct from—free

from?—her role as a wife. She must, first and foremost, be herself. She must be proud, rise above everything. Be untouchable.

No criticism must ever hurt her, and if it does, her wound must heal instantaneously.

She loosens herself from Giulia's grip and takes a step back. This is all so far removed from what Giovanna has told her,

from the way she was brought up: she has always been the obedient daughter, the respectful wife, and now... "But I—I've

behaved well. I haven't protested, I haven't cried when he..." she murmurs in a voice steeped in grief. "Even when I found

out that he was cheating on me, I—I've been a good wife, or at least I've tried to be."

"And that's where you've gone wrong: you've tried to please everybody. You shouldn't behave well: you should take what belongs

to you by right and do so without fear of being judged. You're not a picciridda seeking her mother's approval anymore. Having a famous surname isn't enough. And giving your husband a son isn't enough to

gain his respect either. Nor should you hope that my mother will step aside of her own volition. She'll do it once she sees

that you measure up to the name you carry, and trust me, that won't happen easily or quickly. Remember, chi po 'fari e 'un fa, campa scuntento —he who can do something but doesn't do it ends up unhappy." Her voice softens, becomes a caress. "In Palermo, you don't get anything for nothing." She indicates the city beyond the palazzo walls, toward Cassaro. "In this city, everybody, from carters to princes, lives on bread and envy. Some would rather be killed

than admit their mediocrity. Whenever you hear a criticism, remind yourself you're a Florio and they're not. If they say your

jewels are garish, tell yourself that theirs are worth half the value of yours. If they pick on you for the way you dress,

tell yourself that they don't have the figure, let alone the money, to wear your clothes. Remember that whenever you hear

them talk behind your back. Keep it in mind and laugh, laugh at them for their mediocrity."

Franca listens.

Giulia's words open doors to unexplored rooms and give her a new outlook. It's like seeing herself in a mirror for the first

time and discovering assets she never imagined she possessed, that reveal the infinite possibilities life can offer her.

Giulia watches her, understands, takes a step back, and smiles. She has seen true self-awareness light her face, something

that will finally make her sister-in-law like her. "You mustn't be afraid. You were born to be a Florio." She pats her face.

"You're not only beautiful; you also have intelligence, charm, and elegance. You have so much strength, the world won't be

able to ignore it. Don't be afraid to be what you are. But remember: a child is always good, but a son is a blessing. You

must get pregnant as soon as possible." Her voice drops, heavy with intimations. "With a son, it'll be easier. And you'll

be freer."

Franca leaves Palazzo Butera with a spring in her step, followed by the governess and a still skipping Vincenzino, excited

after playing. She looks ahead, indifferent to the sky that threatens to pour a spring shower down on her.

Yes. She has been silent, discreet, patient, compliant. But now she must learn.

Not to have doubts.

To claim what belongs to her.

To become Donna Franca Florio.

It's such a new thought, it makes her dizzy.

To become myself.

***

A thunderclap in the distance.

Ignazio looks up from his papers and goes to the window. The sirocco winds of recent days are giving way to a gray sky bloated

with sand that threatens La Cala and the black, glossy carriages heading to Foro Italico. Men in frock coats and women in

their faille, taffeta, and muslin dresses crowd the final stretch of the Cassaro to show off and be seen. This is a new Palermo.

In his childhood recollections, Palermo was elegant and discreet; now it has become brazen and irreverent. It used to peer

through the shutters and make comments in private; now it stares you in the eye, ready to slander your clothes, your vehicle,

and your social circle. Ignazio finds this insolence deeply irksome.

His gaze pauses on a washerwoman carrying a heap of laundry in a basket, dragging along a barefoot little boy. There are still

hovels with very poor people at the margins of the corso , with haggard-looking women forever waiting for their men who work in factories or aboard ships. Palermo prefers not to see these people. He doesn't want to see them either, although his mother insists on him undertaking charity work. Yes, he knows it's important to the family name: the Florios actually have a soup kitchen, and Franca is a member of the Congregazione delle Dame del Giard inello, and is always generous, especially toward abandoned, unmarried young women... He is an entrepreneur: he provides jobs and bread to those employed by NGI and those who work at the Oretea and in the slipway — not to mention all his other businesses outside Palermo...

Lost in thought, Ignazio runs his fingers through his hair, then stops to avoid ruffling it. He looks at his reflection in

the window: his waxed mustache, the carnation in his buttonhole, the perfect knot in his tie, clipped with a diamond pin.

Impeccable.

But the papers on his desk, waiting to be signed, read, and acted on, ruin everything.

Sometimes, when he's alone in this office, he thinks he can hear sounds, as if the building is moaning in pain, or as if cracks

are slowly opening behind the wood paneling. He knows it's absurd, but it makes him feel uneasy.

He steps away from the window and turns to admire the painting of the Marsala winery, which his father commissioned from Antonino

Leto. There, before the building, the water is green and calm, the light warm and mellow.

He could do with that calm right now.

The Florios owe their fortune to the sea. It's a thought he has been wrangling with for weeks. He was asked to radically modernize

his passenger steamers as a condition for the renewal of the conventions. He objected but said he would see to it, then put

it off. And now he can no longer avoid that demand.

But where to find the money? The Credito Mobiliare issue— Damn them! he thinks—forced him to make a dent in the company's cash deposits. In order to save the Florio name, he honored the savings and checks of the bank's customers, covering them out of his personal pocket and shouldering all the losses. He also carried out the necessary procedure to get into Credito Mobiliare's deficit and recover the money, as well as the shares of personal capital he had invested, but it was hopeless. He saved the family's good name, true, but now he has practically no capital left, only a stack of useless credit instruments.

Papers, papers, papers. Nothing but papers.

There's no solution: he will have to ask the Banca Commerciale Italiana for credit, so that he can have the cash for these

immediate expenses. He who has never stooped to ask for anything, be it money, trust, or credit.

And that's not all. There is something he deeply resents, even if he will never confess it to anyone. He is too proud to admit

even to himself that he made an enormous error in judgment. Many people, starting with Domenico Gallotti and his brother-in-law,

Pietro, advised him to be more cautious and not trust the reassurances of the bank's management.

And yet...

He thinks about his father, about what he would do in these circumstances. But Ignazio has to admit that his father would

not have reached this stage. He would not have blindly trusted others, as Ignazio has done.

He almost feels relief that his father isn't here to witness his failure—relief, but equally a burning sense of bitterness,

because he knows that, were he alive, he would shoot him an accusatory look and show him the door.

This is too much for Ignazio. He paces around the room, searching his memory for the person who drove him to make these decisions,

encouraged these commitments—because it can't be his fault, oh no—and gives this error a first and last name.

Giovanni Laganà.

***

Giovannuzza gurgles, mumbles, looks up, and giggles. Her mother, kneeling in front of her on the carpet, holds out her arms

to her. The child takes a step, then another, held up by Mademoiselle Coudray, the nanny. This is a new experience for her,

and she's giving it her all; you can tell by her look of concentration and her pressed lips.

"Come here, my dear heart, cori meu ," Franca says encouragingly, clapping her hands.

As soon as she senses that the little girl is sure of her footing, the nanny lets go of her. Giovannuzza waddles to her mother,

displaying tiny, pearl-like teeth.

Franca hugs her and showers her neck in kisses. "Well done, picciridda !"

"You shouldn't be on the floor. It's undignified."

Giovanna has suddenly appeared behind her, like a ghost.

Franca instinctively holds the child closer and glances up at her mother-in-law. "I'm in my daughter's room," she replies

calmly. "We're playing, and no one's looking."

Giovanna lifts her chin at Mademoiselle Coudray, who blushes and makes to leave, but Franca stops her and places Giovannuzza

in her arms. " S'il vous pla?t, emmenez-la dehors, qu'elle puisse respirer de l'air frais ."

"You're indulging her," Giovanna mutters as soon as Mademoiselle Coudray and the child have left. "Girls need a firm hand.

Even more so than boys."

With a hollow laugh, Franca stands up. "A firm hand? Your son has always done whatever he pleased and still behaves worse

than a spoiled child!"

Giovanna tilts her head, taken aback by the outburst. "What do you mean?" she replies with irritation.

"Your son, my husband, is a spoiled child oblivious to the consequences of his actions. And don't pretend you don't know—everyone in Palermo is talking about it. Ever since that chanteuse "—she pulls a face—"arrived with her low-cut gowns, he's been going every night to the Alhambra, a café chantant in Foro Italico. He sits in the front row and waits for her after the show."

"Ah."

A single syllable.

Franca stares at her mother-in-law with rebellion in her eyes, but Giovanna does not avert her gaze. "I've already told you

once, my girl, you must learn to look the other way."

"As a matter of fact, I have looked the other way. But that doesn't mean he has the right to act like this. Nor does it give

you the right to criticize my daughter's upbringing."

Giovanna shudders. She is not used to being contradicted. "You should let yourself be guided by those with more experience

than you, even as a mother—"

"By a mother who encourages her son's freedom to trample the bond of marriage? I'll never fail to show respect to him or this

family: let that be clear. But I want my daughter to feel loved and to learn from the outset how important it is to defend

her dignity. The honor of the family name comes later."

Giovanna is too stunned to reply immediately. She looks down at her wrinkled hands and caresses her husband's wedding band,

held in place by her own. "Sometimes a name is the only thing that allows one to survive," she murmurs.

But Franca can't hear her: she has rushed out and left her here, alone in the middle of the room.

That's how it is , Giovanna thinks. The Florio name, which defines their social role, their importance, their power, was the anchor of their

marriage, its raison d'être . And still is, even though when Ignazio died a void opened before her, which she can only barely fill with prayers.

Her black dress catches the light from the window and traps it. The scent of the last flowers and the clip of the gardeners'

shears cutting off dried branches come in through the window.

Giovanna looks at the door through which Franca left and thinks: You still have a lot to learn, my girl.

***

Franca leans against the doorjamb with her forehead, one hand on the key, the other over her heart, trying to soothe the tension.

She takes deep breaths.

Diodata looks out from the wardrobe and gives a little bow. "Does the signora need me?"

"No, thank you. I have a headache and want to rest for a while. Don't let anyone in."

Diodata nods. "Would you like me to close the balcony doors?"

"Yes, please."

Alone at last, Franca kicks off her shoes and lies down on the bed, one arm over her eyes. The room is plunged in semi-darkness

and the air smells of her perfumes. This is her refuge: whenever anyone—her mother-in-law, Ignazio, or Palermo—disturbs her

peace of mind, she just needs to come into this room and look at the roses on the floor and the frescoes on the ceiling to

recover.

She has never stopped thinking about what Giulia told her a few months earlier. That she must be strong and put herself first.

But it's so exhausting to fight against those who judge her, criticize her, accuse her. How hard it is to be appreciated for

who she is and not only for what she represents.

Franca is lulled into a light, comforting slumber that brushes these negative thoughts to the side.

This slumber, however, is broken by an annoying noise. Someone is knocking at the door.

Franca moans and turns over, putting a pillow over her head. "I said I didn't want to be disturbed!"

"It's me, darling, Ignazio. Let me in!" He knocks again, this time more insistently. "I have a surprise for you."

A surprise.

Bitterness sweeps over Franca, supplanting the serenity given her by sleep. Only a year ago, that word would have made her

rush to him. But now she knows it's a sign, a tacit admission of guilt, the way Ignazio salves his conscience: with a gift

for his wife, usually a valuable item, after betraying her and satisfying his mistress's whims.

Unsolicited compensation.

She gets off the bed, opens the door without deigning to look at him, sits down at her dressing table, and starts removing

the pins from her hair in order to brush it.

Ignazio smiles in the mirror and strokes her neck, whispers a compliment, then places a leather jewelry box in her lap. "For

my queen." He touches her cheek with the back of his hand. "Open it."

She sighs, takes the box, and turns it over in her hand. "Who is it?"

"What—what do you—?"

"Is it that chanteuse who performs practically naked at the Alhambra?"

" Mon Dieu , Franca, what are you saying?" Ignazio is astounded. "Can't I give my wife a present just like that, without a reason? Why

these insinuations? It's not like you!"

She finally opens the box, which reveals a ring with a sapphire cabochon and a halo of diamonds. Then she turns to look at Ignazio. "A present ‘without a reason'?" she says coldly. "The bigger your blunder, the bigger your gift, and that's the truth. Everybody knows you've cheated on me. Again." She fights back her tears. She won't cry. She mustn't. "Those rakes at the club told their wives, and they... they told me!"

Ignazio steps back, surprise and disappointment in his eyes. "And you believe—"

"Don't waste time denying it. I know everything in intimate detail: the evenings you spend with her, your toasts with the

other club members to celebrate your conquest, and even that you've boasted about how... how willing she was. I've been

spared nothing." She clutches the box and raises her voice. "And do you know what I replied to those vipers after they told

me everything? That their husbands clearly knew everything because they were with mine !"

Ignazio is dumbfounded. He turns his back to her. "Bloody bastards..." he mumbles, then he faces her again, smiles, and

tries to embrace her, but she wriggles free and pushes him away. "My darling, those women are making a fuss over nothing...

Yes, I did attend the odd show and... and this woman has given me attention and smiles. But that's all." He scoffs. "Some

men are even more envious than women and invent—"

"Envy?" Franca tosses her head back and laughs bitterly. "Of course they envy you! You sleep with the most beautiful women,

shower them with money... I'd say envy is all they wear in your company!"

"Now, don't be vulgar."

"Oh, I'm vulgar, am I?" She jumps to her feet and hurls the ring at him. It bounces off the floor. "Damn it, I don't want it! I'm your wife, not some woman you can buy! Now get out! Go to that whore who's waiting for you with her legs spread open!"

Ignazio takes another step back and picks up the ring. Then he eyes Franca, who is ravaged by anger. "That's too much! You

trust women's gossip more than your own husband," he mutters in a tone that's meant to be contemptuous. "I'll come back when

you're more reasonable."

Franca is left motionless, her arms down by her sides, eyes closed.

She hears the door open, then slam shut.

Her flushed cheeks are now moist with tears. She weeps and feels the load, the anguish in her chest, swell and breathe, as

though it were alive.

But it's not because she has been betrayed that she's crying. It's because she will forgive him. Yes, she will, and not because

Giovanna told her always to do so.

She will forgive him because she loves him, truly loves him. And she hopes with her entire being that this love may change

him and make him understand that he will never find another woman who loves him as she does. Every betrayal, though, is a

fracture in her soul, into which creep disillusion and bitterness. So Franca cries harder and prays, desperately prays that

these cracks do not shatter her.

Then she wipes her face with an irritated gesture, turns to the mirror, and looks at her reflection. She should not have let

anger get the upper hand: now she's upset and her eyes are red. A splendid woman, but one whose face is distorted with anguish.

What now? she wonders. What will it cost me to keep going this time?