Part Two Porcelain

April 1901 to July 1904

Li malanni trasino du sfilazzu di la porta.

Bad luck comes in through the cracks in the door.

—Sicilian proverb

It stands just over ten centimeters tall, white, decorated with floral patterns. This is the vase Marco Polo brought back from China in 1295, now safely kept in Saint Mark's Basilica in Venice. First and foremost, it is a concrete symbol of an obsession that began in the East as far back as the Neolithic period, an obsession destined to spread throughout the world: porcelain. For many centuries, this delicate but sturdy ceramic—sometimes so thin that, in the words of Abū Zayd al-Sīrāfī in 851, you can see "the glimmer of water" through it—remains a mystery to the West. For instance, according to Marco Polo, those who made cups and dishes "collect[ed] a type of soil from a sort of mine, gather[ed] it into large mounds, and [left] it there, in the wind, rain, and sun, without touching it, for thirty or forty years." In 1557, the scholar Giulio Cesare Scaligero claimed that "those who manufacture [porcelain] use eggshells and finely ground, pulverized shells soaked in water [... ] It forms the vases that are buried underground [and are not] dug up for a hundred years." During that same period, in Florence, under the patronage of Francesco I de' Medici, "soft porcelain" is first produced. Instead of being derived from kaolin and feldspar, this emulation is 15 to 25 percent white clay and quartz: objects thus produced resemble porcelain but are much more fragile (as a matter of fact, only fifty-nine examples survive) and with various imperfections. In any case, shortly afterward, first the Portuguese, then the Dutch, start importing "true" porcelain to Europe, which immediately becomes an object of desire so expensive that it is considered "white gold."

Another in search of the secret formula is Count Ehrenfried Walther von Tschirnhaus, who, at the start of the eighteenth century, investigates the melting point for a number of substances, including kaolin. He gets nowhere, so King Augustus II forces the alchemist Johann Friedrich B?ttger to assist him. Their experiments find success in 1708: now the West can also produce "its" porcelain. Von Tschirnhaus dies shortly afterward, but the king moves B?ttger's laboratory to Albrechtsburg Castle, near Meissen, and by 1710, the factory is already in full swing. Thanks to sculptor and chief molder Johann Joachim K?ndler, it reaches its artistic peak (one of Elizabeth II's wedding gifts is a Meissen porcelain set).

The secret of porcelain is no longer as well guarded and leaking it can be very profitable. So, within the space of a few

years, we see the establishment of factories in H?chst (characterized by Johann Peter Melchior's figurines), Vienna (with

baroque-style designs), Sèvres (where the "Pompadour rose" is perfected in honor of Louis XV's mistress, also patroness of

the plant), and around Limoges (favored by the discovery of nearby kaolin deposits). This stretches across many countries,

including Denmark, whose products are noted for their signature use of cobalt blue, and of course England, where Josiah Spode

refines bone china by adding animal-bone powder to the mixture, yielding an incredibly light and translucent porcelain.

In Italy, in 1735, Marchese Carlo Ginori opens a plant in Doccia (specializing in tableware and household goods, owned by

the family until 1896). In 1743, King Charles III of Spain and his wife set up the Royal Factory of Capodimonte: thanks to

the discovery of kaolin deposits in Calabria, its output will outshine Germany and France in artistry and refinement. In fact,

Capodimonte mainly produces small sculpture sets that show off the molders' skill and the uniquely milky tone of its porcelain.

The French Revolution and subsequent upheavals mark the end of this first glorious period of porcelain in Europe. With the

disappearance of the royal courts that supported these factories—and not just financially—the law of profit takes over, prioritizing

usage over art. It seems like a sad conclusion to a beautiful story, but it is not. The very fact that porcelain has become

a household material may actually make its true mystery even more fascinating: a mystery Edmund de Waal comments on in his

The White Road , pointing out that although porcelain is white and hard, "you can see the sunlight shine through... It is alchemy."

***

This evening, Palermo is a courtesan in search of lovers: a sensual, envious woman who squints to conceal her venom, a woman

who wants to see and be seen. That is why she shows herself off, sparing no expense: S-shaped dresses or dresses with softer

silhouettes, to be worn without a bodice, as the new French fashion demands; feather fans, lace gloves, mother-of-pearl binoculars,

glowing jewelry, smiles, blown kisses, compliments.

And the Teatro Massimo is—literally—her stage, where everything happens in full view, albeit under the veil of elegant hypocrisy.

But of all the performances played out among the orchestra seats and in the boxes—the furtive gestures of lovers, mothers

parading their eligible daughters, mutterings about the latest scandal, stern glances reminding others of unpaid debts—there

is one, on this 15th of April, 1901, that has yet to begin and that everyone awaits with impatience. A show that could have

the makings of a drama. Or else a pochade .

This is going to be quite a spectacle , architect Ernesto Basile thinks, a pince-nez perched on his aquiline nose. He is sitting in the orchestra section next to his wife and, as always before a performance, is mesmerized by the formal grace of the auditorium he designed. And while surveying the stage, he glimpses—only for a second—Ignazio around a corner of the curtain. He peers up at the Florios' box. It's still empty.

Ignazio Florio's mistress is about to make her Palermo debut in La Bohème —as Mimì, naturally. And Franca Florio never misses a premiere.

The lights dim. With a rustle of fabrics, the audience proceeds to seat itself. The musicians flip open their scores, and

the first violin plays an A for the orchestra to tune to.

There is a murmur. Vincenzo has appeared in the Florios' box. He is now eighteen, with a sensual, mischievous face and a laid-back

attitude that drives women crazy. He is seldom seen at the theater, much preferring sporting activities. His 12-horsepower

FIAT is parked outside the Massimo—a vehicle in which he darts around the city, raising clouds of dust and protests from passersby.

While Vincenzo glances around inquisitively, Giovanna arrives, dressed in black silk, tight-lipped, her brow slightly furrowed.

Vincenzo kisses her on the cheek and helps her to the seat in front of his before sitting down himself.

The murmur in the orchestra section grows more intense. Some spectators pretend to speak to their neighbors while stealing

glances at the box; others just stare unashamedly.

The large curtain—on which Giuseppe Sciuti chose to depict Roger II's coronation procession—ripples slightly, as though breathing.

Franca appears practically out of thin air, clothed in a splendid coral dress. She stands still for a few seconds, her eyes taking in the orchestra section, accepting the glances, indifferent to these expres sions of curiosity. Then she smiles at Vincenzo, who is offering her a chair, and sits down beside her mother-in-law. Her face is calm, composed, almost expressionless. Her eyes are fixed on the stage, in anticipation. Tonight's La Bohème might well have been staged for her alone.

Palermo falls silent.

Even the conductor, who has reached the podium in the meantime, seems to be waiting for a sign from her. From the back of

the orchestra seats, someone claps, and timid applause spreads throughout the house. The conductor bows. The curtain opens.

***

From his corner behind the curtain, Ignazio catches sight of her.

Anger and anxiety course through him. Yes, he was hoping that Franca would find an excuse not to attend this evening, but

instead, she is here. It's an act of defiance, of that he's certain.

Actually, it's revenge.

They had a fierce row when he arrived from Rome. All because of that third-rate painter and his portrait, so vulgar it makes

Franca look like a dancer at a café chantant . That damned Boldini saw in his wife what only he had the right to see, starting with her long legs. And he had even gone so far as to put them on the canvas, for the eyes

of those gossipmongers Stefanina Pajno, Francesca Grimaud d'Orsay, and Giulia Trigona. But the last straw had been when Franca,

perfectly calm, told him that the portrait was a " tableau fascinant ." Shame on her!

Ignazio slaps the wall and starts pacing up and down, dodging technicians and a wardrobe assistant carrying an armful of costumes.

"What's the matter, Ignazio?" Lina Cavalieri asks, coming up to him and putting a hand on his arm. "You should be here to

calm me down, but instead..."

He takes a deep breath. "No, no, you'll be wonderful. You'll bewitch them all just as you did me."

This woman has not merely stoked his desire but set his soul alight. From the first moment he laid eyes on her, he wanted

her in his bed, and he succeeded. Never mind that her hobbies are so costly and that she forces him to follow her around Italy.

She's worth every penny.

"Oh, yes, I know," Lina replies, throwing her costume shawl over her shoulders. She unfastens one button on her blouse, revealing

a patch of milky skin, and stares at Ignazio with a blend of innocence and sensuality. Then she slips her fingers through

his and lets him kiss her hand. Finally, she raises her head and looks at the boxes. "Is your wife here?"

Ignazio nods. "She never misses an opening night."

"I assume she knows..."

He hesitates before saying, "She's a woman who knows how to behave in public." His delivery is carefree, successfully masking

his anger.

"I hope so," Lina says, anxiety clouding her dark eyes.

Ignazio strokes her face. "Whatever happens, just remember: you're in one of Europe's most beautiful theaters, full of people

who wish only to hear you sing."

Lina would like to reply that they are mainly here to see her and that her singing skills are secondary, but there's no time: the stage manager signals her to approach. Ignazio pushes her away gently and watches her solemnly walk onto the stage. Lina looks more like a disgraced noblewoman than a shy, naive seamstress. But she has such a powerful presence that she even upstages a tenor like Alessandro Bonci, loved by audiences for his virtuosity. Lina sings with sensual abandon, and with a physicality that makes up for her thin voice. She moves elegantly, smiles at Rodolfo as though he were the only man in the world, and even blushes.

Altro di me non saprei narrare.

Sono la sua vicina

Che la vien fuori d'ora a importunare...

The hisses start at the end of Mimì's aria.

One, two, ten, a hundred.

The orchestra freezes. A shudder runs through the front seats; audience members exchange looks of disbelief. Some leap to

their feet to applaud, but shouts and insults rain down from the gallery, joined by protests from the boxes. Amid all the

screaming, shoving, and calling, the ushers struggle to calm the audience, even threatening to eject the unruliest. But to

no avail.

In the general confusion, Lina turns to Ignazio, frowning, her hand tight in Bonci's: the tenor is petrified and lost.

Ignazio attempts some gestures of reassurance, but a single thought cuts through the noise. Once again, Palermo is refusing

to side with him. No artist has ever had such a hostile reception. How is it possible that this city fails to understand the

honor it has received? All the theaters and courts in Europe are fighting over Lina Cavalieri; she's pursued by impresarios,

honored by princes and tycoons. But just look at the Palermitani —what are they doing?

They're hissing her.

He can smell hostility in the air now. It has the dry odor of pyrite, and just like gunpowder, it has caught fire, engendering chaos. And to think that he's done everything to make sure that Lina would receive the right amount of applause. He contributed a tidy sum of money to the theater ushers, paid for a large claque...

But it seems he's not the only one to have had that idea.

It's a surprising thought.

He takes a step forward, his eyes searching for his family's box. While Vincenzo covers a sneer with his hand and his mother

casts her eyes down in embarrassment, Franca stares at the stage with an unfathomable expression, the hint of a smile on her

lips.

Ignazio follows the line of her gaze, like a thread. At the other end, Lina stares back.

He realizes with a shudder that he's witnessing a territorial fight between lionesses, a silent war between two fierce creatures

who are testing each other, indifferent to their surroundings.

Franca.

She's behind this avalanche of hissing. Not directly, of course—she didn't have to be. She has so many friends and admirers willing to please her, they probably needed just one word to unleash hell.

And to show everybody who is really in charge.

As the orchestra finally resumes playing, Ignazio stands motionless. The first scene will soon be over and he'll have to comfort

Lina, though that won't be hard: tears and accusations are not her style. She's a brave woman who has gotten ahead by dealing

as many blows as she receives. This courage, this pride, is another thing Ignazio admires.

But he hasn't realized until this evening how far his own wife has come. As an honored, faithful mother of a family, of course,

but that's not the point.

The point is that, in their marriage, he is the weak link.

And always will be.

***

The large hall in the High Court of Bologna is heaving, cloaked in a haze of cigarette smoke that makes everyone present open

their eyes wide. Holding his hat and stick, Ignazio walks in and looks around. Before him stand the long benches occupied

by reporters and lawyers; above the high-backed chairs of the judges there is the public. Many recognize him: he can tell

from the murmur traveling across the courtroom and the inquisitive looks directed at him.

"This way, Signor Florio." A clerk of the court motions to him, and Ignazio steps toward him hesitantly, forcing himself to

keep his eyes on the judges and not the cage where, wedged between two policemen on a wooden bench, Raffaele Palizzolo sits.

Still, the two men's gazes meet for a moment and Ignazio is startled: Palizzolo's face is very gaunt and he's lost so much

weight that his suit, although a well-tailored one, hangs loose on him. But his back is straight and his expression calm.

He nods slightly at Ignazio and even gives him a faint smile.

Eight years have passed since the murder of Emanuele Notarbartolo: eight years during which the law has strived not to lose itself in a network of false leads, silences, and red herrings. A confused trial bordering on farce took place in Milan two years ago: the accused were two railroad workers who, since they rode the train where Notarbartolo was murdered, must have been accomplices. During that trial, however, Leopoldo, the victim's son, took the stand and, showing great courage, drew the grim portrait of a Palermo bound by ties of patronage, where people do not shy from anything—even killing—in order to maintain their privileges, and he named Palizzolo as the mastermind behind his father's murder. In the ensuing commotion, the Chamber granted permission to proceed, and on December 8, 1899, the chief of police had Palizzolo arrested. A few days later, the Milan trial was suspended, only to resume in Bologna two months ago, on September 9, 1901.

Ignazio sits in the witness stand, crosses his legs, and rests his hands on his lap. He feels an unease he's struggling to

shake off. Until now, he's managed to keep his embarrassment in check, but here in this courtroom it's not easy. He's never

wanted to have anything to do with the law and, above all, can't accept that his name—as well as those of many figures from

respectable Palermo society—should be dragged into this business. He's so nervous that he even quarreled with Lina yesterday

for offering to come with him to Bologna, although she would have steered clear of the courtroom.

Giovanni Battista Frigotto, the presiding judge, begins the questioning. "Are you Signor Ignazio Florio, son of the late Ignazio?"

He nods.

"And your profession is..."

Ignazio clears his throat. "I'm an industrialist."

Frigotto raises an eyebrow. "Do you not also own a store?"

"An old family business, yes. I run a winery producing marsala, I own Navigazione Generale Italiana, and—"

"We haven't summoned you all the way from Palermo to hear about your wealth," Frigotto interjects. He regards Ignazio as though

he were a jumped-up peasant, ignorant of courtroom etiquette.

"It was you who asked about my work," Ignazio replies irritably, "and in any case it's a matter of public record."

"Maybe where you come from, Signor Florio. But we're in Bologna now and hardly anyone should be expected to know the details

of who you are and what you do for a living."

There is rumbling in the public gallery, even some mocking laughter. In the crowd, Ignazio spots a journalist from Catania whom he knows by sight: he's chatting to a colleague, a sarcastic smile on his lips. But when he realizes that Ignazio is looking at him, he abruptly drops his head and starts scribbling in his notebook.

"So, Signor Florio... You've been called here as a witness for the defense. Do you know the accused, Raffaele Palizzolo?"

He nods.

"Speak up, Signore."

He coughs. "Yes." He turns to look at Palizzolo, who gives him a gentle smile, as though apologizing for the inconvenience.

But his eyes carry a warning only a fellow Sicilian could glean, and Ignazio feels a shudder run up his spine. Ignazio turns

back to Frigotto, who has assumed a stern look, perhaps to intimidate him.

"Signor Florio, have you ever heard of the Mafia?"

Ignazio practically jumps. "No."

"I repeat: have you ever heard of a crime association called the Mafia?"

"And I repeat I haven't."

Frigotto pulls a face. "Strange. In the public security dispatches from Palermo, we read that you, like so many others, hire...

certain individuals to ensure the safety of your property. And that said individuals are members of a criminal association

to which the accused also allegedly belongs. In other words, the Mafia."

Ignazio shuffles on his chair. "They are workers I hire from the district I live in. Very honest people, men of honor. As

for member of Parliament Palizzolo—"

" Signor Palizzolo," Frigotto corrects.

"—he's a very important person in Palermo, always willing to help those who turn to him in times of need."

"Must I remind you that you're under oath, Signor Florio?"

Ignazio crosses his arms. "I'm perfectly aware of that. My family has known Raffaele Palizzolo for a long time, he's even

related to my wife, and—"

"—and you manipulated him so that he would obtain favors for you in Parliament. Come now, don't take offense; it's a well-known

fact that you Sicilians are always helping one another, caring little whether you turn to honest men or shady characters."

A murmur rises in the courtroom. This time, the southern reporters protest these conjectures. Even Giuseppe Marchesano, one

of the lawyers of the prosecution, voices his loud indignation.

Encouraged, Ignazio leans forward. "The thing is, Your Honor, a ‘storekeeper' like me must think about the future of his business

and knows that a loud voice is required to be heard by the institutions. Member of Parliament Palizzolo has always had Sicily's

interests at heart—"

"—and those of the Florios!" a voice from the public shouts. Ignazio turns abruptly and recognizes the journalist: he's from

Palermo and writes for La Battaglia , the Socialist newspaper owned by Alessandro Tasca di Cutò.

Marchesano gets to his feet. "Signor Florio, we called you here in order to clarify a specific instance. Is it true that Raffaele

Palizzolo offered to sell you a property called Villa Gentile for you to use to build homes for your factory workers?"

Ignazio frowns. "Yes, but I declined."

"Why?"

"Oh, I can't remember."

"If Palizzolo had asked to borrow a large sum of money from you, would you have lent it to him?"

"If I could spare it, yes, of course. As I've already said, he's someone I know, and so does my family—"

"Do you think Palizzolo is capable of committing murder or of orchestrating one?"

Ignazio stares, eyes wide open. "No, absolutely not!" he practically shouts. "Besides, it was only after that strange trial

in Milan that his name came up, and—"

"Thank you," Marchesano says, interrupting. "I have no more questions, Your Honor."

"You may go, Signor Florio," Frigotto says without even looking at him.