2

Ignazio is so annoyed, he barely notices the thick fog outside the courthouse. He strides across the square, raising and lowering

his stick. How dare the judge treat me like that? Besides, what does he know about certain things? You have to live in Sicily to understand. You have to eat salt and dust, swallow if you don't want to be chewed up, become

a dog if you don't want to be gnawed on like a bone... He suddenly stops and takes a deep breath of cold air. This fog, which hides the city from him, turning buildings, passersby,

and carriages into ghosts, draws a despondent sigh from him. No, you northerners know nothing. You think you're holy and forget that one can only reach heaven by knowing sin. And in Sicily,

the one sin no one escapes is that of knowing and being unable to speak.

***

"Donna Franca..." The maid stands in the doorway, motionless, a hand on the jamb. "Sorry to disturb you, but your daughter

is unwell. She has a fever."

Franca is sitting at the dressing table in her bedroom in Villa Igiea. She looks up from the gold mesh bag into which she is replacing the jewels she wore last night at the Lanza di Mazzarinos' dinner. She prefers to do it herself, not trusting the maids or even Diodata.

The room is cluttered with suitcases and trunks, and the lady's maid is packing day and evening clothes, robes, and shoes.

Tomorrow, Franca, her mother, and the children are traveling to Bavaria, having spent the month of July in Tunis. Earlier,

in May, they were in Favignana to watch the mattanza with the Trigonas and the Duke and Duchess of Palma, Giulio and Bice, the duke's brother, Ciccio Lampedusa, Carlo di Rudinì,

Francesca Grimaud d'Orsay, and other relatives and friends, including the D'Ondes cousins and Ettore De Maria Bergler. They

were very pleasant days, marked by strolls around the island and boat trips, but also by long, lazy chats and informal dinners.

At least until Empress Eugenia, Napoleon III's widow, arrived. Polite and melancholy, the elderly woman conquered everybody's

affection and observed the mattanza with great interest, even letting out the odd cry of surprise. Naturally, Franca attended to every detail of her stay and

threw a sumptuous dinner, for which she received extensive praise. The empress congratulated her in particular: just a few

weeks earlier, Franca had been appointed lady-in-waiting at the court of Queen Elena.

Not being of noble birth, however, Ignazio had not been appointed a gentleman of the king, and that had significantly rankled him. An irritation that only piled onto his recent disappointment with the outcome of the Palizzolo trial—which ended with a heavy, thirty-year jail sentence—and the inconvenience of having to delay his departure for Favignana because he had to attend the solemn ceremonies for the anniversary of Francesco Crispi's death a year earlier, on August 11, 1901. And so, in the blazing sun, Ignazio had joined a procession of Chamber and Senate representatives, and, upon reaching Capuchin cemetery, was forced to endure not only a never-ending commemorative speech but also the display of Crispi's recently embalmed corpse.

You became a mummy and a mummy you'll stay , Ignazio thought, giving him a final glance and wiping the sweat off himself.

So he arrived in Favignana in a foul mood and let off steam by hovering around Bice in front of both her husband and Franca.

And Bice certainly didn't dismiss him.

As usual, Franca looked the other way. Being recognized as a lady-in-waiting had renewed her pride, as well as satisfied her

sense of revenge. She was no longer just the beautiful wife and mother of the heir to one of Europe's wealthiest families:

she now had every right to host monarchs in her home and enjoy their esteem. One fling more or less—what did it matter?

The empress also wished to say goodbye to the children before leaving. Franca smiles with tenderness at the memory of Giovannuzza's

and Baby Boy's drowsy faces, and of Bice's little Giuseppe Tomasi, dressed to the nines at seven in the morning to be presented

to the royal guest before she boarded her yacht. Igiea, however, was left sleeping in her cradle.

She rouses herself. "Who's unwell? Igiea or Giovannuzza?" she asks with a hint of annoyance. If one of her daughters is ill,

they will have to postpone their departure for at least a couple of days, and she really wants to escape the heat of Palermo.

And Ignazio, whose presence has been insufferable of late. She needs fresh air, people, and mirth.

"Signorina Giovannuzza." The maid stands waiting, her fingers interlaced, and appears nervous.

"I'm coming."

Franca crosses the rooms in her robe, the silk weaving around her ankles, her footsteps muffled by the rugs. She enters Giovannuzza's room and finds the little girl in bed, cheeks flushed with fever, eyes puffy and half shut. It isn't the first time it's struck Franca that she looks older than eight, perhaps because of that melancholy air she's always had, or maybe because she's tall and slender, like her mother.

" Maman ..." Giovannuzza mutters hoarsely, stretching out her hand.

"How are you feeling, my love?"

"Mmm... My head really hurts and... ich habe Durst ..." Franca looks for the bottle of water on the bedside table.

The governess rushes to a table in the middle of the room, pours a glass of water, and hands it to Franca before returning

to the foot of the bed.

Franca helps Giovannuzza prop herself on the pillows. The child takes a sip, but then violently coughs the liquid up onto

the bedsheets.

"It hurts everywhere, Mamma ," she whispers and bursts into plaintive tears.

Franca mops her face with a handkerchief and strokes it. She's hot. Too hot.

Something shudders inside her. Giovannuzza has always been a source of concern, but this doesn't seem like one of her usual

mild fevers.

"Call the doctor," she tells the governess. "Not ours; he'd take too long. The hotel one." She kisses the child and holds

her tight. "I'm here," she whispers, rocking her. " Hab keine Angst, mein Schatz ... Don't be scared, my love..."

***

The doctor, who arrives shortly afterward, is a thin, serious-looking man with a face marked by years and experience. Franca,

who has changed her clothes, watches the examination with growing anxiety. The doctor smiles at Giovannuzza and treats her

very gently: you can tell from his expression that he is tense.

They exit the room and stand behind the door. Maruzza arrives.

"Well?" Franca asks, tormenting her handkerchief.

"I'm afraid it's typhoid fever," the doctor replies. "Her eyes are puffy, she has a high fever, her reflexes are slow...

All symptoms of infection."

Franca puts her hands to her mouth and stares at the closed door. "What... how could she have contracted it?"

He opens his arms wide. "She could have drunk infected water or eaten something contaminated. Who knows? No use wondering

how she got it now. If anything, make sure to isolate her from others and keep her clean. Tell the servants to boil the laundry

they use for her."

Franca keeps staring at the doctor, bewildered. "I'll see to that," Maruzza says, squeezing Franca's arm.

"Meanwhile, I can do a bit of bloodletting to ease her headache, and I'll administer twenty-five drops of iodine in a glass

of milk, since apparently it's..."

Franca isn't listening. Despite the heat, she feels as though a layer of ice has settled over her. "My baby..." she murmurs.

"My Giovannuzza..." She touches the door, as though her caress could reach her daughter.

The doctor bows his head. "You might as well know right away, Donna Franca: it's going to be a difficult illness to tackle.

My advice is to take the girl somewhere less sultry, where she can breathe more easily, away from the humidity of the sea."

Franca pulls herself together and clears her throat. "She can't travel, can she?"

The doctor shakes his head.

"But what if we took her to our Villa ai Colli, outside Palermo?"

"Yes, that would be better." He squeezes her hand and smiles. "Let me know."

***

Giovannuzza is transferred from Villa Igiea to Villa ai Colli by automobile. Vincenzo drives, joking with his niece in an

attempt to make her laugh. This dark-eyed little girl has a special place in his heart, and she has always returned her uncle's

kind-hearted affection. But now, nestled in a bundle of blankets and sheets, Giovannuzza can only manage a few faint smiles.

For most of the journey, she is lethargic, breathing with difficulty, and every now and again moans and hugs her beloved Fanny,

her porcelain doll, dressed all in pink. She falls asleep halfway through the journey. Franca tucks her in and removes the

doll.

What's wrong? What's happened to you, my little one? she thinks, feeling her heart twist in a vise of anxiety.

The vehicle stops in a cloud of dust outside the entrance to the villa.

"You'll be better off here," Vincenzo tells Giovannuzza, picking her up in his arms to carry her into the house. "As soon

as you're well, I'll take you out for a spin. We'll drive so fast your hat'll fly off, and we'll go as far as Cape Gallo,

to see the fishermen come back from the sea."

"Thank you, Uncle," she says, reaching out to pull his thin mustache, a game they've played since she first managed to climb

onto his lap. Then she turns, and her eyes search for her mother.

Franca comes to her. "What is it, my love?"

"Fanny..."

Franca turns to Maruzza, who is holding another blanket and a basket of toys from which the doll protrudes. She hands it to

Giovannuzza, who hugs it. "Fanny's also cold, so cold..." she murmurs.

The maids waiting outside the villa hear her and, without waiting for Franca's order, run to warm the child's bed.

***

That evening, when Ignazio opens the door to the room prepared for Giovannuzza, he is taken aback by the balsamic aromas that

fill the air, intended to help the girl breathe more easily. The child's face is like a red blotch on the pillow, while Franca's

is like marble.

He goes to his daughter and kisses her, and she opens her eyes slightly. "Oh, Daddy," she says. "I feel awful..."

"I know, dear heart," he replies, resting a hand on her cheek and immediately withdrawing it because her skin is so hot. He

looks up at Franca. She's sitting on the other side of the bed, her anxious eyes fixed on him. It's the first time in ages

that she's asked him to help close the wounds gaping in her heart. It's obvious that she wishes she could take her daughter's

place so as not to see her suffer so much.

Ignazio, too, is terrified by the question he reads in her eyes. They stare at each other for a moment, then he motions to

Franca to follow him out of the room.

No sooner has he closed the door than she bursts into tears. "She's very ill, Ignazio, and I don't know what to do. God help

us..."

Without replying, Ignazio holds her tight and strokes her hair, something he hasn't done in a long time, a once loving gesture that is now only comforting, but at least it momentarily succeeds in soothing their anxiety. Franca welcomes him with a sigh and relaxes against his chest.

"I'm scared," she says in a breath.

I'm scared, too , he thinks, unable to speak, because that smell brings back the memory of the room where his brother Vincenzo died, and the

one where his father passed away. The knot in his stomach silences him: the acrid stench of a body trying to shield itself

from disease, imprisoned in a stillness too similar to death.

He can't bear the thought that his daughter could die, that she might share his brother's fate. So when, the next day, Giovannuzza

slips into a deep, at times delirious, slumber, Ignazio reaches for the only weapons he has: power and money.

He sends for Augusto Murri, lecturer in clinical medicine at the University of Bologna. He is a medical genius, the author

of fundamental treatises on fevers and brain damage, renowned both in Italy and abroad. Everyone—friends, acquaintances, and

doctors—says he is the best. The only one who could save her.

As the whole family gathers at Villa ai Colli, Ignazio calls him to Palermo. He arranges a special train to Naples for him,

from there a steamer to Sicily, and, finally, an automobile to the villa.

Meanwhile, outside the gates, Palermo holds its breath. A little girl, an innocent soul, is ill. Disagreements, envy, and

gossip are put aside; servants arrive to ask for news on behalf of their masters, bringing notes with wishes for a speedy

recovery or indicating that rosaries are being said for Giovannuzza. But the news is always worse. The child is unconscious

for prolonged periods, isn't eating, and hardly recognizes anyone besides her mother and the grandmother whose name she bears.

By the time Dr. Murri arrives, Giovannuzza has been unconscious for several hours. Franca is at her bedside, pale, overwhelmed, her black locks hanging around her face, eyes puffy from crying, and a dirty handkerchief in her hands. She has repeatedly tried to wake her daughter, to give her a sip of milk or moisten her parched lips with cold water, but the little girl, her little girl, is no longer responsive.

Augusto Murri is a sixty-year-old who walks with a slight stoop and gives off an air of quiet confidence. His hair is receding

at the temples, and he has a bushy handlebar mustache. He signals to Franca to leave the room, but she just straightens up

on the chair and keeps staring at him. Ignazio joins her.

They will not move from here.

Murri auscultates the child's chest, checks her reflexes, and tries to stir her. He feels a lump in his throat, seeing the

expression on the faces of these parents about whom even he has read in the society columns. But the trips, the jewels, the

splendid parties are meaningless now. Now they are just a father and a mother brought together by all-encompassing fear.

When the maids come to straighten the bed, the elderly physician motions the couple to follow him outside. In the corridor,

the two grandmothers, Giovanna and Costanza, stand with Maruzza, hands clutching the crowns of their rosaries.

He clears his throat and speaks slowly, looking down. "I'm sorry. I don't think it's typhoid fever." He makes a long, heavy

pause. "It's meningitis."

"No!" Franca topples, and before Ignazio can reach her, Costanza rushes to put her arm around her waist to keep her from collapsing.

Maruzza hastens over, too. The women cling to one another, heads together, unable to speak. Silent tears run down Franca's

face, her eyes blank, her face ashen.

The word is like a rock that sinks to the bottom of her consciousness. Meningitis, meningitis, meningitis... She starts trembling, and her mother holds her tighter, bursting into tears.

Ignazio is motionless, feeling caught in a vortex that sucks in all the air, the people, the objects, even the light. "But

then..." he says but is unable to continue. He glances out of the window that overlooks the garden and for a moment he

thinks he can see his father strolling about with Vincenzo in the orange grove he loved so much.

The doctor's voice stirs him out of his reverie. "We'll administer the required treatment. There's still time for intervention,

and we'll do our best to give her help and relief. But just as no two things are identical, no two patients are alike either,

so little Giovanna must be attended to very carefully, minute by minute. I have to be frank, however: the chances of recovery

are very low. Even if she does recover, her speech or movements could be severely impaired." He looks at Franca, who seems

about to faint. "You must be very strong, Signora. You have difficult days ahead."

Franca's hand reaches out for Ignazio's.

She needs to feel near her daughter's father. In spite of all that has happened in recent years, she wants the certainty that

they can still be united. That they can traverse another stretch of road together. That love hasn't been completely extinguished.

That they will face this grief side by side. That he won't leave her on her own in the darkest hours. That the void opening

before them won't swallow them whole.

A thread of hope remains, and she clings to it. To that slender thread. Will the illness have consequences? No matter—they'll

tackle them together. She'll stay with Giovannuzza and help her become the woman she has always imagined.

She can't and won't understand that there's a fine line between illusion and hope, and that when love overlaps with despair

it can conjure the most painful lie.

***

Shortly before dawn on August 14, 1902, Franca wakes up after dozing off next to Giovannuzza. In the garden of the villa,

the birds are chirping, greeting the day and the still faint light that filters through the white curtains.

The room is cool, and a delicate scent of grass has chased away the smell of the fumigants.

The little girl is lying on her side, her back to them, very still, her black braids on the pillow. Franca leans over to look

at her and touches her gently: she feels cooler and less flushed. The governess has fallen asleep on the chair, and the house

is immersed in silence.

For a moment, Franca thinks that perhaps the treatment has been effective. That the fever has dropped and Giovannuzza is going

to wake up. Who cares if she'll limp or speak in an odd way? They'll find the best doctors to treat her, they'll take her

to France or England, they'll plan long stays in Favignana, where she'll be able to breathe sea air and heal, away from prying

eyes. Just as long as she's alive. Alive.

She touches her cheek once again.

That's when she realizes that her little girl is not cool but cold. That she's not pale but ashen. That all the dreams, wishes,

and aspirations she had for her are shattered. That Giovannuzza will never grow up, that Franca will never see her in a wedding

dress or be at her side when she becomes a mother.

Fanny, her porcelain doll, has ended up at the bottom of the bed. Franca picks it up and places it in the child's arms. She

caresses her again and murmurs an "I love you" that will have no response, because her child will never again throw her arms

around her and say, "I love you, too, Mamma !"

Something cracks open in Franca's soul and grief gushes out, spreading, choking her.

Her daughter, Giovanna Florio, is dead.

That's when Franca starts screaming.

***

In the tormented days that follow Giovannuzza's burial, Ignazio attempts to help Franca in the only way he knows how: by trying

to take her away from Palermo, by keeping her far from the places where the memory of their eldest child is rooted. But when

he asks her where she wants to go—London? Paris? Bavaria? Possibly Egypt?—Franca stares at him blankly for a long time, then

utters one word: "Favignana."

So they board the Virginia , the steam launch they use to get to the island, and find themselves alone in the large house outside the harbor, not far

from the tonnara . Franca goes out early in the morning and returns home only in the late afternoon; she says she goes "walking," and by evening

she's so tired that she retires without dining. Ignazio tries to occupy his days with letters from Palermo concerning the

Oretea, but he's worried.

So, one morning he decides to follow her.

His wife's figure, even smaller in the black outfit, moves like a ghost along the paths leading to the mountain behind the

tonnara. She walks, gesticulates, sometimes laughs. Every now and then she stops, looks at the sea, then turns back. Again and again.

It's only when Ignazio draws closer that he understands.

She's talking to Giovannuzza, telling her that her mother loves her, that her dolls are waiting for her, that next summer they'll all go bathing together, that she'll gift her an evening dress for her birthday. She calls her softly, the way she used to when the little girl played hide-and-seek with the children of their guests.

Franca wanted to come to Favignana because she was happy with Giovannuzza here.

It's a desperate, heart-wrenching way to be close to her.

Ignazio retraces his steps, a pang in his heart and tears stinging his eyes. Death hasn't just taken his daughter away, it's

now sapping his wife's peace of mind and beauty, and he cannot allow that—no. Too many things have already been stolen from

him, and he can't even bear to think about what would happen if Franca lost her mind. It's better, a thousand times better,

to go home.

But, once in Palermo, Franca shuts herself in the child's room in the Olivuzza for hours on end. She has given instructions

for no one to touch it; she doesn't even want Giovannuzza's clothes to be removed from the closet. It still smells of her,

an aroma of talcum powder and violet, and her hairbrushes are still on the dressing table. When she closes her eyes, she can

hear her walking about the room with her light footsteps. She sits on the bed, one hand on the pillow, the other clutching

a porcelain doll. Not Fanny. Fanny is with her, in the coffin.

This is how her mother-in-law finds her one October afternoon. Giovanna has led the children in prayers for their sister "who's

gone to heaven with the angels," then played with them for a while. Both Baby Boy, who's four and a half years old, and Igiea,

who's two and a half, are really suffering in their mother's absence and are moody and restless.

Giovanna sits down quietly next to Franca. Both are dressed in black, one stiffly, unfamiliar grief gnawing her flesh, the other stooped from the weight of years. Franca lowers her eyes and holds the doll tighter. She doesn't want to hear that she must pull herself together, that she must be strong because she has two children who need her attention, that in any case she can have more babies. Too many people have told her that, starting with Giulia and Maruzza. All that achieved was to make her angrier.

Because you can't die at the age of eight. And you don't have a child to replace another.

Giovanna holds her silver and coral rosary in one hand and clasps a photograph to her chest with the other. She shows it to

Franca. "I don't know if you've ever seen this picture of my Vincenzino. He was twelve." She holds out the photograph of a

little boy with a shy, gentle expression, dressed as a musketeer. "He was a beautiful picciriddu. Sangu meo , he was so sweet natured. He was being groomed to head this family, and my husband, recamatierna , would make him study and was always encouraging him. But he was too frail, too frail." Her voice breaks.

Franca opens her eyes and turns to her.

Looking at Giovanna is like seeing her own reflection.

She listens to her in spite of herself. Her grief, she thinks, is one of a kind and belongs to her alone. She lays the doll

down on the bed and asks, "How did you feel afterward?"

"As though my skin had been removed." Giovanna slides her hand over the bed and caresses the doll's face as though it's her

granddaughter's. "The Lord should have taken me instead of her," she says. "I'm old and my life is over. But she—she was a

flower."

Franca looks up. On that old woman's face, its gray skin and lined cheeks, she senses the bitterness of a life without love

or tenderness, and a resignation perhaps even more painful than grief. And she realizes that she has never seen her mother-in-law

truly smile except when she was with her grandchildren. Especially Giovannuzza.

"You'll always think about her. About everything she could have done but will never do, about the fact that you won't see her grow up and will never find out what she could have been. T'addumannirai soccu fa —you'll wonder what she's doing—and only afterward remember she's dead. You'll see clothes, toys... cose che ci vulissi accattari —things you want to buy her—and remember you can't. Those are the real wounds, and they never heal, they always stay open."

"Will it never end, then?" Franca says in a breath.

Giovanna responds in the same way. "Never. I also lost a husband and God only knows how much I loved him... But losing

a child is beyond anything one can imagine." She raises her hand to her chest and clenches it in a fist. " Comu si t'ascippassero u cori ."

Like someone tearing your heart out. Yes, that's how you feel. For a moment, Franca relives the birth of her daughter, when

she felt her slide out of her. Maybe that was already when she began to lose her.

Giovanna taps her on the shoulder and gets to her feet. She's expected for dinner, she says gently. She can refuse condolence

visits, but she must feed herself for the sake of those who are left.

Franca nods: yes, she'll come down to eat. But once she's alone again, she slowly lets herself slide onto the bed and curl

up. The lamp her mother-in-law left on illuminates her sharp profile. She puts a hand over her eyes, wishing she could no

longer see, or hear, or deal with anything or anyone. She wishes she were as old as Giovanna, old and resigned, so that she

could no longer feel anything besides the pains of a body unable to contest the passage of time. Instead, she's twenty-nine

years old and the creature who gave her more love than anyone else in her life has been snatched away from her. And she must

go on.