4

The Florios return to Palermo with a white coffin. Baby Boy will sleep next to his sister, who died less than six months ago,

sheltered by the cypresses of the Santa Maria di Gesù Cemetery. He takes with him a mystery nobody will ever solve. The medical

report only says that his heart stopped. But that saliva on his lips...

Ignazio refused an autopsy. "At least spare him that indignity," he mumbled when the pathologist asked his permission. A fall? A lethal dose of sleeping draft the nanny gave him to have some peace and quiet or to go to a romantic rendezvous? These thoughts are barbed wire, cutting to the touch. So he casts them aside.

It's not as if it changes anything.

After all, his son is dead.

After all, he can't even help himself.

A heart has stopped. No, two hearts: his and mine , Ignazio thinks in his study, late at night, while reaching for one of the last remaining bottles of cognac. He's had to

suspend the production of cognac as well as table wines. The excessive costs, together with a serious phylloxera infestation

in the vineyards of western Sicily, have brought the Marsala winery to its knees. And not just his: the Whitakers have the

same problem.

The cracks are widening. The creaking louder. He can hear it echoing in his head.

He pounds his fist on the papers covering his desk, then slumps onto them, his head resting on his arms, eyes shut, heart

thumping in his temples.

He wants to cry but can't.

Where's the sense in all this? he wonders. Why insist on fighting when there's no one to carry on his battle? What's left if what he inherited from his

father and grandfather is destined to end with him? What can his family cling to now? A son is a branch reaching to the sky.

But if it snaps, no leaf can spring from it.

That's how Ignazio feels. Dried up. Snapped in two.

In the days following Baby Boy's death, in the still, silent house, Ignazio even thought that it would be better to give up.

To end it all.

He's wrapped that anger around himself like a cloak. Suffering and remorse keep him from sleeping; for the first time, he's afraid he'll never be able to escape this house where the ghosts outnumber the living.

Emptiness, darkness, silence. Oblivion has become attractive, and certainly less cruel than what's here at the Olivuzza. He's

almost drunk on this feeling, this possibility of vanishing without saying anything to anyone, of letting himself go. But

then it occurs to him that everybody—even Franca, perhaps—would label him a coward, half a man, incapable of fighting for

what little he has left. A weakling, unlike his father and grandfather.

So he's carried on living. Or rather, let himself live.

***

A few weeks pass by.

Empty, silent, pointless.

But then maybe someone in heaven sees Franca and Ignazio and takes pity.

Yes, that must be it. Because there's a miracle.

Franca discovers that she's pregnant. After the initial disbelief comes joy: great, unexpected, and, for these reasons, absolute.

They hug, tears mixing with smiles, and hold their sole remaining child, little Igiea.

Maybe we can still be a happy family , Ignazio tells himself. Maybe fate is giving us another chance.

***

"A trip to Venice?"

"Actually, more like a lengthy stay."

"You're very weak, Donna Franca. I don't recommend any travel, especially in your state. You're only four months gone and—"

"I'll be careful. I'll stay in the hotel as much as I can and rest. My mother and Maruzza will always be with me. I promise I'll behave, Doctor. Please..."

The doctor shakes his head. But then his stern lips give way to an indulgent smile. "Very well, then. But do be careful..."

The stay in Venice was Ignazio's idea. As always, he's convinced that running away from the hurt helps erase the suffering.

The truth is, he can no longer bear the oppressive atmosphere of the Olivuzza and wants an excuse to escape his obligations.

So Venice it is. The Hotel Danieli, a close-knit group of friends who will help Franca feel better and let him off the hook.

They are joined by Stefanina Pajno, the Villarosa sisters and their husbands, Giulia Trigona, and the other Giulia, Ignazio's

sister, as well as, naturally, Franca's mother, Costanza, and Maruzza.

These are quiet months. Franca takes short strolls with her female friends or her mother, indulges in gondola rides to admire

Venice and its reflection in the water, and raptly takes in the alternating ocher plaster, white karst stone, and marble that

trims the windows. Her hand sometimes seeks Ignazio's and she gives him a tired smile as their image is reflected in the dark

water of the canals. In the evening, she retires to their suite to play cards; they are often visited by Vera and Maddalena

Papadopoli, the twin daughters of Senator Niccolò, a wealthy banker of Greek origin who maintains an interest in coins.

Costanza immediately regards the two women with suspicion: too beautiful, high cheekbones, and haughtiness in their eyes,

self-confident and relaxed. She knows because she has seen it before, even if she has always bit her tongue. She has never

meddled in her daughter's marriage. But her son-in-law is quick to lose his head over women like them. I don't like them , she thinks whenever she sees them strut up the steps of the Danieli flaunting that regal air.

But Franca laughs at their gossip and enjoys their sparkling, witty conversation. Besides, they're always kind to her: they

bring her bunches of flowers, fragrant zaleti to dunk in dessert wine, or baskets of bussolai freshly baked by their cook.

One bright late-September afternoon, Costanza is getting ready to go out, as she does whenever she can because forced rest

causes severe pains in her back and legs, pains that have been exacerbated by the humidity in Venice. Franca is asleep, one

hand on her belly, the other splayed out on the pillow. She tucks Franca in like she did when she was a child and tells Diodata

to let her rest.

With a slight limp, Costanza heads for the bookshop at the end of the Procuratie Vecchie. Franca has ordered Elias Portolu by Grazia Deledda: everybody's gushing about the book, and she'd like to present it to Franca when she wakes.

She spots him at the entrance to the merceria , at the foot of the Torre dell'Orologio. He's sitting in a café in Piazza San Marco, and there's a woman opposite him, a

woman so beautiful and elegant that she seems born for admiration: copper hair, ivory skin, penetrating eyes, full lips. Ignazio

is admiring her, but that's not all. He leans toward her, tickles her ear, from which a coral and gold earring hangs, and

kisses her hand. The woman laughs: a shrill laugh bursting with mirth and sensuality. Then she ruffles Ignazio's hair with

her gloved hand, quickly pats his cheek, and casts down her eyes to conceal a smile.

Costanza freezes. People walk past her, bumping into her, but she's unable to move. She leans against a pillar, seeking comfort

in the solidity of the stone. Upset, she holds back a retch.

Ignazio's audacity has crossed the line. His wife is here, just a few steps away, pregnant, after losing two children. And he's flirting. In public.

He looks up and sees her. He turns pale, drops his head, and lets go of the woman's hand.

That's when Costanza Jacona Notarbartolo di Villarosa, Baroness of San Giuliano, does something she has never done in her

almost sixty years.

She locks eyes with Ignazio, swivels her head to the side, and spits on the ground.

***

It doesn't take Costanza long to discover that the woman's name is Anna Morosini, known to all as "the doge's wife," partly

because since her husband moved to Paris, she's relocated to Palazzo Da Mula and had the Morosini coat of arms fixed on the

staircase, the ducal hat above it. She is the uncontested queen of Venetian high society: her balls are unmissable events,

her parties legendary, and the salon in her palazzo is the gathering place of politicians and intellectuals, from the kaiser to the ubiquitous D'Annunzio. Anna is in many ways

similar to Franca, starting with her green eyes and statuesque body. She is even a lady-in-waiting. At the same time, she

couldn't be more different: free, lively, cheerful, and brazen.

And Ignazio is very much attracted to her.

It matters not how it happens. Maybe a remark by the Papadopoli twins, or something heard during a walk, or an imprudent act

from Ignazio: singing before the mirror while grooming his beard with special care one morning. The fact is that by mid-October,

Franca discovers her husband's new fling.

On her way back from one of her strolls, Costanza finds her slumped in an armchair, in her robe, rubbing her hard, swollen

belly.

"He won't even stop for his child..." Franca murmurs, struggling to hold back her tears. "He's just left, and do you know what he said to me? ‘I'm off to a boat ride with some friends.' Friends! I shouted back that he should save his lies because I knew he was going to see the Morosini woman, and that he doesn't even have the decency to hide. He didn't reply. He ran away and slammed the door. That's all he ever does: run away."

Costanza hugs her daughter. "Be brave," she murmurs in her ear, gripping her tight. "He's a man and you're a woman. You know

how it is, but you can choose how to react. Not for his sake but for the picciriddu 's. You know what he's like... Don't get worked up—it won't help. Leave him to it." She takes Franca's face between her

hands and forces Franca to look at her. "Women are stronger, my love. Stronger than anything, because they know life and death

and are unafraid to face them both."

But Franca feels so brittle she could shatter. She hugs her mother back but feels a hot clump of emotions, a blend of anger,

pain, and disappointment. Once again, Ignazio has betrayed her trust and run away, abandoning her to her memories and the

weight of their children's deaths. He's run away from this room, from her, from their marriage. And that's something Franca

can't stomach, simply can't, not after all that's happened, not after his promises to stay by her side and help. She has always

told herself that Ignazio loves her in his own way, but now it is no longer enough.

Forced to lie down on the bed because of pain in her lower belly and back, Franca gazes out the window at the church of Santa

Maria della Salute and prays that it may be a boy. That he be born healthy. That Ignazio change his ways. That her life might

stop sliding down this slippery slope, because she can no longer endure it, she no longer has the strength.

All she wants is a little love and a little peace of mind.

She sends her husband a message, swallowing her bitterness and humiliation as she writes it, addressing it to Palazzo Da Mula. She asks him to join her so that they may spend an afternoon together, because she doesn't want to be alone and her mother and Maruzza are no longer enough for her.

He is her husband and he has a responsibility toward her.

The servant returns and hands her back the envelope, unopened, his eyes downcast. "They said that... that Signor Florio

has gone out... with the contessa on a boat ride."

Franca takes the envelope and dismisses the boy with a nod. Left alone, she throws it into the fire.

The afternoon draws to a close, approaching darkness. The golden October light warms Venice's walls and baked brick before

it is swallowed by the mist rising from the canals. Franca paces her room, watched by her mother and Maruzza, who exchange

worried glances. They try to distract her by talking about the controversy surrounding her portrait: Boldini exhibited it

here at the Venice Biennale, but it didn't have the hoped-for reception; on the contrary, there was fierce criticism. Franca

shrugs in response. She still likes that painting, she says. She doesn't add that what she likes in particular is the vision

of her that the portrait has captured forever: a beautiful, sensual, self-confident woman. When was the last time she felt

like that?

In the end, she dismisses both women. She assures them she will be fine. Yes, she's going to rest in bed. Only...

The ceiling in the Danieli suite—a blue sky with cupids looking down—irritates her. The light coming in through the windows

transforms the cherubs into little demons that mock her na?veté and weakness.

This is what she has become, this is how she feels. Fragile. Only at night do some thoughts manifest themselves in all their clarity, only at night can she face them head-on and admit the many, too many, mistakes she has made in her life. Marriage to an unreliable man, a boy who has always refused to grow up, whom she has been unable to keep in check. Her febrile attention to high society—to jewels, gossip, trips—with which she has filled her days, distracting her from what's truly important. The time stolen from her children by parties and receptions because she thought she had all the time in the world. Instead, that time is over, those children gone. And her sense of guilt weighs heavy, like a stone.

She has always hoped that her love was strong enough to pierce Ignazio's heart, to occupy the whole of it. She believed that

her children were left in safe hands, that, after all, they didn't need her all that much. On top of that, she has always

had to carry out her social duties: that, above all, was what being Donna Franca Florio meant! But it's not enough to receive

the absolution her soul needs. How many lies must you tell yourself to unburden your heart? she thinks, her remorse becoming a lump in her throat. If not, you would end up crushed, unable to live.

She hugs her belly and tears crowd her eyelids. "I won't make the same mistakes with you," she promises the child she feels

stirring within her. "I'll always stay close to you," she whispers.

She falls asleep like that, curled up on the bed, waiting. She is woken by the click of a key turning in the lock and glances

at the bedside clock: three in the morning.

Ignazio moves about the room carefully, leaving a trail of iris fragrance in his wake.

She turns on the light abruptly. "Did you have fun on the boat?" Franca squints, her eyes like blades. "I guess you did. Everybody

says it's hard to get bored with Contessa Morosini."

Ignazio starts while fiddling with his cuff links. One of them falls to the floor and he bends down to pick it up, cursing the gossipmongers who won't keep quiet. He was hoping to postpone the inevitable clash till morning. He has already seen a beautiful emerald pendant in the window of Missiaglia...

"People talk, my ammatula Franca. I wanted to tell you today, but it would have been pointless, you were so upset... Yes, it's true, Contessa Morosini

is very beautiful and knows everybody in Venice. You can't go anywhere without running into her. And today she volunteered

her boat for a trip around the lagoon." He rolls up his sleeves, goes to her, and lightly pats her face. "I brought you here

so you could find peace. Do you really think I'd be so insensitive as to do something like that?"

Franca turns away with a grimace. "Go and wash up, please. You stink of her perfume." She places a hand on his chest and pushes

him away.

Ignazio can't stand feeling trapped. He grabs her by the wrist and forces her to look at him. "Calm down! Now that I think

about it, why can't I go out? Should I only see men?"

Franca can't hold back her tears anymore. "You!" She strikes him on the chest again, violently. "You don't care about me,"

she shouts. "We've lost two children, I'm pregnant, and all you do is—"

He grabs her by the arms and shakes her. "What are you saying? I beg you, my love..."

"You never change, do you? You just can't! Always running away from everything. From responsibilities, from fear, even from

me, because you're unable to bear too much grief, right? You're a coward!"

"How dare you?" Ignazio is furious. Because Franca is right. His wife's words have struck where it hurts most, in that gray

area of his soul he hasn't the courage to face. A sense of guilt also strikes him now, because, damn it, it's all true.

"Yes, that's what you are: a coward," Franca repeats under her breath. It's a judgment that admits no objection.

He stands up violently and walks away. His stomach is ablaze, maybe from too much champagne, or maybe Franca's words have split him in two. He doesn't face this part of himself often. On the contrary, he keeps it well hidden, and if he happens to glimpse it, he always repeats the same refrain: that he's a man, that some urges are natural, that his wife has never wanted for anything, that in any case he's always careful... well, almost always. Besides, everyone does it, so why should he be any different? Damn them! Why do they pick on me? Don't they know they could harm the baby? Mindless people!

Franca sobs violently. "Do you know how I feel? Humiliated! Cast aside because I'm expecting your child!" she yells, gripping

the sheets. She struggles off the bed and goes and confronts him, while he opens his hands wide, trying to calm her. "You

have to drop that woman," she says, pointing a finger at him, eyes filled with rage. "Her and the others, if there are any

more, and stop making a fool of yourself. I don't want to hear another word about her. You owe me that, Ignazio. You owe it

to me and to your child."

Ignazio is suddenly afraid: he's never seen Franca so livid during a quarrel and is worried for her health. He takes her trembling

hands. "I promise. But calm down, I beg you." He kisses her eyelids. "Come now, to bed." He kisses her knuckles and slowly

hugs her. "You're tired, dear heart," he says. "The doctor told you that you must rest, that you mustn't get upset..."

He is answered only by sobs.

They go to bed, he half dressed, she in her robe, and fall asleep.

Franca will wake with a start the next morning, with severe pains in her belly. She recognizes them right away: contractions.

But it's soon, too soon.

Giacobina Florio is born on October 14, 1903, almost two months early.

It is a difficult delivery. The baby is thin and purple. She dies the same evening, after a few hours of agony.