3

"Excuse me, Don Ignazio..." There's a servant waiting by the door of the green salon. "The Prince di Cutò is here. Shall

I let him in?"

Ignazio abruptly looks up from the papers he has been perusing. He forgot about this engagement. He massages his tired face.

"Yes, of course."

Alessandro Tasca di Cutò appears shortly afterward and stands in the doorway, waiting, fiddling with the brim of his hat,

looking at Baby Boy, who's on the rug, playing with a tin train.

"Step in," Ignazio says, rising from the couch. "Thank you for coming."

Alessandro approaches. "I've come to express my condolences. I've already spoken to your mother-in-law and had hoped to see

your wife—"

"Franca is still very distressed and isn't receiving anyone," Ignazio replies vacantly. He runs his fingers through his son's

blond curls, and the child immediately raises his head and reaches out with his little arms. He's more restless than usual,

doing everything to keep his father's attention, hating to part from him.

"I know," Alessandro quickly says. "My sister Giulia told me. That's why I put it off for so long, and for that I apologize."

Ignazio turns to the little table where he left some documents, slams shut a file labeled caprera , and says, "Let's go into the garden—that way I can let the picciriddu run around. And I think you also enjoy... being outdoors."

Alessandro pulls a face without a reply. He's used to these digs by now. He spent five months in Ucciardone Prison, following a sentence for slandering the former mayor of Palermo, Emanuele Paternò, whom he had accused of mismanaging the city's admin istration. The sentence triggered many protests in solidarity with the man everyone now calls "the red prince" for his Socialist notions.

"Come on, Baby Boy, let's go outside." The child immediately grabs Ignazio'?s hand and drags him toward the French doors.

Once they are in the garden, Baby Boy runs ahead, shouting that he wants to get on the velocipede Uncle Vincenzo has given

him. With a nod, Ignazio signals a servant to keep an eye on his son.

The two men walk in silence for a while beneath a sky stained with gray clouds. Alessandro speaks first. "I'm glad to see

that at least you're back at work."

"I try." Ignazio pulls his eyes away from the stone bench outside the aviary, where Giovannuzza would often sit with her mother.

"Besides, there's much to do. And Casa Florio never stops."

"Of course. Business waits for no man, sadly. I see you're working on the new steamer, the Caprera ... When are you thinking of launching?"

The red prince is certainly far-seeing , Ignazio thinks with annoyance, but he has no intention of revealing anything. And he certainly doesn't want to make public

the tension between him and Erasmo Piaggio or the fact that he's losing trust in the Genoese administrator because of his

many—too many?—interests up north... The heart of NGI is in Palermo and in Palermo it must stay. "Next year, I hope," he

finally replies. "But first I have a few... issues to resolve."

"And how is the consortium for citrus production? I know you've secured some advantageous sales contracts."

"Not enough to cover the costs... But that's a secondary issue, at least for me. What I'm interested in is that the shipyard

be finally completed: building the Caprera will be proof that we can compete with Tuscan and Ligurian yards on an equal footing. But it's so hard to persuade those who have no intention of listening to you... Rome in primis , obviously."

"Indeed, there's cautious optimism among the workers. After last year's redundancies—"

"Still harping on that?" Ignazio lashes. "Aren't you tired of talking about it? Or is it that you don't know how to spend

your evenings at the Trade Union Center you Socialists wanted so much?"

Alessandro stiffens. "You know perfectly well that the Trade Union Center was wanted, as you put it, principally by Garibaldi

Bosco. And he's certainly not hostile to either you or Casa Florio. On the contrary—"

"Right, whereas you're convinced that everything that doesn't work in Sicily is the fault of entrepreneurs like myself, who

are full of wrong notions, and that all it takes is to call on ordinary people to unite for the situation to change. You've

written about this over and over in La Battaglia ."

"You can't bear that a newspaper proves L'Ora wrong at least once a week, can you? I've often wondered what you did to prompt Morello to go back to La Tribuna and make that Sardinian Medardo Riccio the paper's editor in chief..."

A metallic clang disrupts the peace of the garden. The parrots in the aviary start flitting about, and a small flock of doves

rises from the palm trees. A black automobile appears in the avenue, raising a cloud of pebbles and dust, and stops in front

of them.

Vincenzo, wearing a cloth cap and dust glasses, gets out and shakes Alessandro's hand. If he picks up on the tension between

the guest and his brother, he doesn't let on. "I'm back from the station. Everything's ready for the departure, at last."

Ignazio frowns. "Where are you going?"

"The C?te d'Azur. I'm bored with Palermo. And after what happened to the nica , the Olivuzza is too gloomy."

Alessandro gives a faint smile halfway between irony and sadness. Not even a serious bereavement can hamper the fun-loving

habits of the younger Florio.

Ignazio indicates something behind his brother. "And who's going to see to that work?" he asks irritably.

Smoothing his hair with his hand, Vincenzo turns and looks at the building being erected amid a chaos of wooden planks, stones,

bricks, and lime pails. It looks more like a fairy-tale castle than a villa, with two winding staircases and cast-iron merlons

on the balconies and the roofs, over which stands a turret. "Oh, yes, the villino !" he exclaims. "Basile has outdone himself, don't you think?" he says to Alessandro. "And I definitely didn't make it easy

for him," he adds with a snicker. "I wanted something that would suggest a castle, with baroque but also Romanesque elements,

typical of the south, but equally Nordic... Not to mention the inside: I asked him to make sure one could go upstairs straight

from the garage, without going outdoors, and he did as I asked! He's basically managed to create something truly original,

like I wanted." He looks at the little villa with pride. "But it's practically finished, and I don't think those men on the

scaffolding need me."

"With what this kind of building costs," Alessandro mutters, "you could feed tens of those men 's families for a year."

"Probably. But in all honesty, I don't care two hoots about them," Vincenzo replies, smiling at Alessandro's outraged expression.

"Still acting like a picciriddu ," Ignazio says with a sigh.

"That's what life is: pursuing a new pleasure once the old one bores you." Vincenzo looks at his brother again. "And I don't

intend to miss out on a single one."

***

After Alessandro Tasca di Cutò has left, Ignazio goes home, mulling over his brother's final words. Yes, that daredevil's

right. Perhaps it's a little insouciance that Franca needs. The odd smile and occasion for cheer. His thoughts turn to certainty

by the time he reaches her apartments, finding them plunged in a semi-darkness similar to the stagnation in his mother's rooms.

It's as though the walls are oozing sadness, exhaling illness.

Life in this house has become a burden.

The C?te d'Azur, the sun, sea, warmth, friends... He's sure Franca will resist at first. When she does, he'll write to

the Rothschilds, who generally spend their winters on the C?te d'Azur, and ask them to coax her. It'll take him a while, but

he'll manage it: they'll board their train, go to the hotel in Beaulieu-sur-Mer Franca likes so much, the H?tel Métropole,

and spend Christmas there.

He, too, needs to go back to living.

***

Rocked by the train, Franca has fallen asleep on the navy-blue banquette, her head resting on Ignazio's shoulder. For the

past few days, she seems to be reaching out to him, as if she finds a little solace only through contact with her husband.

In bed, she's unable to fall asleep except in his embrace. Ignazio is confused. He has always lacked the insight to interpret

women's feelings. He understands their desires, their urges, picks up on their sensual messages, anticipates their bad moods,

but not their need for affection. Not that. It's expressed in a language foreign to him.

Still, he senses that Giovannuzza's death—she was their first born, the one who made them a family—may open a chasm between them, and he can't bear the thought of that. It would be yet more evidence of weakness, of the umpteenth failure. Admittedly in private, not public, but he now desperately clings to the few certainties he has. And, for better or worse, Franca is a certainty, so he responds to her requests for affection. He becomes available, devotes time, attention, and tenderness to her. D'Annunzio's right , he thinks, my wife is unique . All this grief has affected neither her beauty nor her grace. And despite everything, he loves her. In his own way, but

he does love her.

One evening, shortly after their arrival at the H?tel Métropole, Ignazio catches himself looking at her in a way he hasn't

for some time. Franca is sitting at the dressing table; she has sent Diodata away and is removing pins from her hair. The

shawl-like collar of her robe barely covers her neck. Her face is serious, but her expression is calm and engrossed. They

dined in their room, alone, and Franca even got through an entire bowl of fish soup, something she hadn't managed in a while.

He goes to her, puts his hands on her shoulders, and caresses them as far as the arms, pulling the robe down to her elbows.

Her skin puckers under his fingers. Franca's lips part, and she stops, hands clutching the comb.

Ignazio hesitates, then touches her neck with his lips.

He wants her as he hasn't in a long time.

Franca shudders. Is she frightened? Ignazio can't tell. It's as if he, a seasoned seducer, no longer knows how to treat the

frail creature his wife has become. He lifts a hand and strokes her face, and she abandons herself to his caress, her eyes

closed. She seems uncertain, as though afraid to let go. Then she turns, searching for his lips, letting him help her chase

away the grief of death with love. And restore some life to her.

***

Since that night, Franca has looked more serene. They have gone on a couple of excursions with Vincenzo—although he always

drives too fast in that beloved automobile of his—and they spent New Year's Eve with their children: Baby Boy wanted to dip

his lips in the champagne, but then pulled a face that made everyone laugh; clinging to her mother, Igiea watched the fireworks,

eyes agog, and after a couple of frightened shrieks, laughed and clapped her little hands.

Now they're on the grounds of the Métropole, a huge garden with palm and citrus trees that stretches almost as far as the

sea. In the January sun, Franca is reading, reclining in a deck chair, her black lace-trimmed dress bunched around her legs;

Baby Boy is chasing after pigeons; and Ignazio is walking around with a Verascope in his hand. It's a present from Vincenzo,

who's been dabbling in photography for the past few months. Ignazio hopes it'll bring a smile to his wife's face.

Every so often, Franca raises her eyes from her book and looks at her husband, who keeps frowning, seemingly incapable of

making up his mind when it comes to taking a picture. Baby Boy suddenly grabs him by the leg and starts yelling that he, too,

wants a toto -camera. Since Giovannuzza died, he has been throwing lots of tantrums and is always on edge. Ignazio ignores him for a while,

but when the child hurls himself on the ground and starts beating with his fists, he scolds him.

Rushing to him, even Franca is unable to calm him down. Impatiently, Ignazio calls over the nanny to take the child away before

he disturbs the other guests. The young woman comes running, her golden plaits bouncing.

" Occupez-vous de lui, s'il vous pla?t. Peut-être qu'il a faim... " Franca says.

The nanny shakes her head. " Il vient de manger, Madame Florio. Mais il n'a pas beaucoup dormi... " She bends down and picks up Baby Boy. " Que se passe-t-il, mon ange? Allons faire une petite sieste, hein? " She walks away with the child, who keeps screaming and trying to free himself.

Franca returns to her deck chair, followed by Ignazio, who sits down beside her, taking her hand. Her large green eyes aren't

yet fully calm, but the despair seems to have abated.

Maybe the chasm between us is closing , Ignazio thinks. Maybe there's hope for us yet. He often repeats this to himself, while trying not to stare too long at the hotel's charming female guests.

Franca motions him to come closer. "We've received an invitation from the Rothschilds for this evening. Dinner and a card

game, a small get-together for just a few close friends."

"Would you like to go, Franca darling? Do you feel up to it?"

"Only if you'd like to go, too."

He gives her a light kiss on the forehead and nods. After the first, blissful few years of marriage, Franca gradually stopped relying on him, at times even going against his wishes, as was the case with the Boldini portrait. He felt her drifting away from him and did nothing to stop her. On the contrary: he replaced her with women who were apparently more passionate, liberated... fresher. Like his brother, he always needed something new, strong emotions, to feel free of any ties. But now he realizes that, besides love, Franca has always given him something else: respect. A respect the world insists on denying him, or rather accords only to the name he carries or his wealth. No matter what he's done or said, Franca has always remained above any pettiness. Unlike others, and despite everything, she has trusted him and still does . Even though he's been so harsh, so... ungrateful toward her. Mulling over this, Ignazio goes to write the Rothschilds

a note accepting their invitation.

He instinctively turns to look at her and finds in her eyes something of the love he feared he had lost forever.

***

This evening, Franca wears a plain black dress and a long string of pearls. As Diodata dresses her hair, she catches Ignazio's

eyes in the mirror and sees in them an admiration that warms her heart.

Before leaving, they drop into the makeshift nursery. Igiea is sitting on the rug with a doll, obviously sleepy but unable

to rest because Baby Boy keeps throwing tantrums. He throws toys on the floor, refuses to put on his nightgown, and yells

that he wants to go to the beach. He wriggles out of the nanny's grip, hugging his mother's legs. Franca bends down to pat

him, trying to placate him, but the child won't listen.

"Enough already, Ignazino!" his father says. The child bursts into tears.

Face flushed, the nanny picks him up and speaks to him gently, then murmurs to Franca, exasperated, "He didn't even want to

eat, alors ..."

Franca shakes her head. "Try reading him a story. That usually calms him down." She bends down to kiss Igiea. "We have to

go. It's getting late."

Ignazio follows her out the door. He gives her his arm, and they walk in silence along the Métropole's luxurious corridors and down the stairs, before the admiring eyes of other guests. Ignazio stiffens, but Franca seems indifferent. When he takes her hand in the car, though, it feels cold, and he realizes she's been as nervous as him.

"Are you all right?" he asks.

She nods, intertwines her fingers with his, and squeezes.

The tenderness, that old sweetness that warms his heart, is still there, a tiny flame that persists. They are finding each

other again. Stronger than before.

***

The evening passes calmly, amid chatter and gossip about the latest scandal: the Archduchess Louise of Austria, wife of the

Crown Prince of Saxony, mother of six children and expecting a seventh, has run off with André Giron, her eldest son's tutor,

causing deep dismay in all the courts of Europe. After dinner, Franca and the women play faro, while Ignazio follows the men

to the fumoir . There, the topic of conversation is the duel that took place two weeks ago in Nice, in the garden of Count Rohozinski's

villa: two French fencing masters had boasted that their school was the best, and two offended Italian masters had challenged

them. Ignazio is bombarded with questions because everybody knows that Vincenzo lent the duelists and seconds the automobiles

that allowed them to escape the police when they tried to stop the duel. But he knows nothing of the ins and outs of the matter

and downplays it, claiming that the only duels he is interested in are those at sea.

It's almost midnight when a valet from the Métropole arrives. He stops at the door, panting, his hands shaking. He asks for

the Florios and says they must return to the hotel immediately.

Ignazio appears. "What's this about?"

The valet shakes his head. " Retournez à l'h?tel, je vous en prie, Monsieur Florio. Vite, vite! " he practically shouts. " Vite, vite! " he repeats, running away.

Meanwhile, Franca has joined Ignazio and looks at him, perplexed. "What... what happened?"

"I don't know."

While the guests and hosts gather around, worried, a car is called to take them back to the Métropole.

Neither of them speaks in the car. Various theories crowd Ignazio's mind. An automobile accident involving Vincenzo? A burglary

or a fire at the Olivuzza? What if something's happened to his mother, who's now elderly and tired? It would be awful to think

of her alone and far away... Has something happened to one of his companies? No, it's the middle of the night.

As they near the hotel, he feels his anxiety rising. He fiddles with his father's ring, clenches and unclenches his hand.

Next to him, Franca is as white as a sheet, fidgeting in her seat, crushing her gloves.

When they get out of the car, the manager of the Métropole comes running toward them along the red carpet. He grabs Ignazio's

hands and says something.

Even years from now, he will be unable to remember most of the words. Because some memories are so painful, they burrow deep

in one's soul, concealed by a merciful curtain of darkness in those who have them.

An accident.

"What accident?" Ignazio asks, while Franca starts shaking.

"A dreadful accident, Monsieur Florio! There's a doctor, he came right away, we tried to bring him round, but—"

"Who?" Ignazio yells, and it's as if someone else is asking the question, because a black mist is falling over his eyes, and

there's no more sound in his throat. Franca collapses next to him, but he doesn't have the strength to help her.

He's gasping for breath, and yet he manages to repeat, "Who?" as he brushes past the man.

He comes across Baby Boy's nanny and barely recognizes her. But he sees that she's screaming and crying.

He pushes her aside violently and she falls to the ground.

Baby Boy.

Ignazino.

He starts to run, past servants, up the stairs, his heart exploding between his ribs.

The long corridor, the red carpet, the flickering lights, the door wide open, a man and a police officer next to the bed.

His son.

Motionless.

Ignazio sways.

He reaches the bed, comes crashing down on his knees, stretches out with his hand. The child's eyes are open and there's a

trickle of saliva at the corner of his mouth. He's in his nightgown, his blond hair spread on the pillow.

Ignazio shakes him. "Baby Boy," he calls in a voice that sounds very far away. "Baby Boy... Ignazino..."

A hand comes to rest on his shoulder, but he doesn't even feel it. It's over. All over. Because it isn't just his son who's

died. It's the future of Casa Florio.