Part Three Lily of the Valley

May 1906 to June 1911

Cu prima nun pensa, all'ultimu suspira.

He who does not think, first sighs in the end.

—Sicilian proverb

The lily of the valley is a delicate plant. Small, with very white bell-shaped flowers and a scent so unique as to give it its name: the Italian mughetto comes from the French muguet , which in turn derives from muscade : "smelling of musk." D'Annunzio clearly refers to this when, in his play Iron , he has Mortella say: "How fresh you are! You smell of rain, of shells, and of mughetto ."

A plant born of pain, at least according to legend: either from the tears of Eve as she's expelled from the Garden of Eden

or the tears of the Virgin Mary beneath the cross. But also from the tears shed by Freya, the Norse goddess of fertility and

strength, when, as a prisoner in Asgard, she reminisces about spring in her homeland.

A plant that brings good luck, at least in France. On May 1, 1561, Charles IX is offered the flower's stem as a good luck

gift and decides that every year thereafter, on that same day, he will distribute lily of the valley to the ladies of the

court. The tradition is then lost, only to be revived on May 1, 1900, in Paris, when the great fashion houses organize a party

and gift lilies of the valley to both their workers and their customers. Then, on April 24, 1941, when Marshal Pétain establishes

the Festival of Work and Social Concord, he replaces the dog rose, symbol of International Workers' Day since 1891, with the

lily of the valley. Even now, especially in the Paris region, lilies of the valley are given on the 1st of May. And Christian

Dior adopts the flower as a symbol, even dedicating his spring and summer collection to it in 1954.

A plant linked to the idea of a pure, virginal love—the reason why it is used in brides' bouquets. Only recently has it been discovered that this tradition has a scientific basis: the scent of the lily of the valley actually derives from an aromatic aldehyde called bourgeonal, which not only doubles the motility of the sperm of mammals but also attracts them like a kind of magnet.

In addition, it is the only scent in the world to which males are more sensitive than females.

A useful plant. As far back as the mid-sixteenth century, the Sienese scientist Pietro Andrea Mattioli, in his commentaries

on the works of Dioscorides, asserts that the lily of the valley serves to fortify the heart, especially if one is suffering

palpitations. At the end of the nineteenth century, the French doctor Germain Sée confirms its health benefits for the heart

and also emphasizes its effectiveness as a diuretic.

An untrustworthy plant. Ingested accidentally, it can trigger states of confusion, an irregular heartbeat, and strong abdominal

pains that may last for several days.

A plant as soft and as delicate as it is dangerous. Just like love.

***

The outline of the Madonie distinguishes itself against the clear light of dawn. The sun is climbing the peaks, erasing the

darkness and coloring them with light, while from the sea a cool wind blows, bringing with it the smell of sea salt and grass.

But this aroma cannot overcome other scents, stronger scents, scents that are foreign to these lands halfway between the sea

and the countryside.

Engine oil. Fuel. Exhaust fumes.

The wind carries a jumble of words, encouragements, oaths shouted in English, French, German. Or in Italian, with a strong northern accent. Over everything, though, hovers the cacophony of engines rumbling, sputtering, roaring.

Mechanics. Drivers. Automobiles.

It is only five in the morning, but the plain of Campofelice, at the foot of the Madonie, is already crowded with people.

Thirty special trains have arrived from Palermo, Catania, and Messina. Some people have even camped out all night just to

be here. Now the waiting crowd pushes against the fence, which will shield it from neither the clouds of dust nor the stones

thrown up by the automobiles racing by at almost 50 kilometers an hour.

Over to one side, along a stretch of tarred road, are the telegraph office and the wooden stands for the sponsors and the

press. Opposite, there is another stand, adorned with garlands and pennants, reserved for the most important guests. The excitement

is tangible here, too, even among those with little interest in the race: women mainly wanting to see and be seen; men looking

askance at these dangerous, clattering machines. But they all know they can't afford to miss an event that's being talked

about everywhere, in Italy and abroad.

An event. Because that is what this race is, and has always been, in Vincenzo Florio's mind. A valuable opportunity for visibility,

assertion, modernization. For himself, for his family, for the whole of Sicily. Given that the future is late in arriving

on his island, he has decided to bring it here himself. It's not the first time a Florio has had this aim. The grandfather

whose name he shares did something very similar.

That's why he has struggled, heedless of all obstacles. He has ordered fields to be flattened and paths and mule tracks to be cleared at his own expense, even spreading tar along the circuit to prevent the dust from reducing the drivers' visibility; he has not only paid the shepherds to keep their sheep away from the road but also contracted certain "gentlemen" to stop damage being caused to the cars and the teams. He has ensured that carabinieri will be present, police officers posted along the route, as well as a company of Bersaglieri on bicycles to serve as couriers; he has brought in timekeepers from the Automobile Club of Milan; he has engaged a cameraman

to film the departure and arrival; he has set up a tote kiosk for the betting; he has arranged for a luxurious steamer, the

Umberto I , to take drivers and mechanics to Genoa straight after the race, so that they can get to Milan, where the Gold Cup, another

important competition, will be held. And now he is ready to celebrate his triumph with medals, cups, and trophies created

by the great silversmith Lalique, who has also designed the winner's prize for this Targa Florio.

That's why he has involved the whole family. Even Franca has let herself be persuaded to be driven along part of the circuit

in a car with other ladies to appreciate the harsh beauty of the Madonie. But above all, Vincenzo has called upon her expertise

in organizing social events, which is how he overcame her diffidence. Parties, dinners, buffets, excursions: everything has

been arranged by Franca with her usual flair. The one who has been more difficult to involve is Ignazio, who's basically lazy

and thinks of nothing but women. But, given that he always wants to shine, to be the best in everything, Vincenzo put pressure

on him and managed to secure the money necessary for this undertaking, although with a lot of grumbling and complaining. And

he has even succeeded—though he didn't have to make too much effort, because she loves him—to drag little Igiea into this

tourbillon : she's even told him she wants to be a driver when she grows up.

Vincenzo is a manipulator. He knows it, and the members of his family know it, too, but they accept this side of his character

with an indulgent smile.

So it's with a smug air that Vincenzo, in sporty clothes and English shoes, now walks among the drivers and the mechanics. He's become a handsome man: the features of his face are fine, his mustache underlines his well-drawn nose, and his mouth, often curled in a smile, is soft, almost feminine. As the light increases, he observes the cars gradually acquiring shape and consistency. They are different from the cars that are now quite common even in Palermo. Where those resemble carriages, with seats like couches and a steering wheel like the helm of a ship, these are narrow and streamlined. Even when they're idling, they give him the thrill of speed.

He waves at Vincenzo Lancia, who's already at the wheel of his FIAT, then walks up to a man in overalls, with a thick mustache

and a chef's hat on his head, who's arguing animatedly in French with a mechanic and pointing at the pedals.

Vincenzo smiles. " Avez-vous encore des problèmes, Monsieur Bablot? "

Paul Bablot wipes a hand dirty with oil and grease on his overalls, then holds it out to Vincenzo, who shakes it.

"Well... the journey wasn't exactly a walk. The damp has made the engine flood and we're having to fine-tune it yet again.

This race of yours is quite a challenge, Monsieur Florio. The course is... unusual, to say the least."

"It's how Count Di Isnello and I wanted it. We were inspired by the Gordon Bennett Cup. We wanted a course that brought out

the best of both the cars and the drivers. And it had to be a circuit, so spectators could watch more than one lap. People

here have never seen so many cars together in one place. I'm sure there are a few peasants who've never seen cars at all.

It'll be an experience you'll never forget. And anyway, at least you managed to get here. Just think of those who couldn't

even start."

There is a hint of annoyance in Vincenzo's smile. He glances over at a group of men in sporting clothes who are examining the cars with a critical eye. Some are talking loudly in French, making no attempt to hide their anger. And how could it be otherwise? he thinks. An NGI strike in Genoa blocked their cars, which didn't arrive in time for the regulation tests and checks. So,

instead of participants in the race, they now find themselves mere spectators.

"We invested so much in this race," Vincenzo continues, visibly irritated, "and we've ended up hostage to a few unskilled

porteurs . In Italy, unfortunately, there's no respect for anything. This is an event that could rejuvenate Sicily and bring it into

the modern world, but they don't give a damn!"

Bablot shrugs as he gets into his car. "I understand your disappointment, but as far as I'm concerned, the fewer competitors

there are, the better. Although, to be honest, I'm not worried: my Berliet is extraordinary!"

He signals to the mechanic to take his hands off the cylinders and tries to start the engine, which responds with a rumble.

Vincenzo nods and turns to look at another car, a 35-horsepower Hotchkiss with the number 2 on the radiator. On board, bent

over the pedals, is a woman whose black hair is gathered in a bun. All at once, in a fluid motion, the woman gets out of the

car to check the radiator, wiping her hands on her apron, which she wears over a garment that comes down to her calves. Only

at a second glance does Vincenzo realize she's wearing a pair of very wide pants.

Everyone in racing circles knows and respects Madame Motan Le Blon, and they are used to always seeing her with her husband,

Hubert: an unusual couple, united by an overwhelming passion for cars.

But here, of course, a woman mechanic attracts attention.

And in fact, as Vincenzo approaches her, he overhears a com ment: "Look, a woman working like a man!" followed by an ironic laugh.

Vincenzo turns with a frown, but it's impossible to tell who uttered these words. When he then returns his gaze to Madame

Le Blon, he sees that she's smiling.

"I hear them, even though I don't understand them," she says with a shrug. "Some looks don't need explanation: they're wondering

why a woman is fiddling with a carburetor instead of staying at home, looking after her children." She takes off her apron,

lays it down, then wraps her scarf, tying it under her chin. "If chatter bothered me, I would have stopped ages ago. But racing

with my husband is one of the things that makes me happiest, and nothing and no one is going to dissuade me from doing it.

In fact, let me tell you something..." She lowers her voice and comes closer. She gives off a vague smell of sweat, oil,

and lavender soap. "I can drive as well as he can, better in fact. I already drove a steam Serpollet in Nice. A wonderful

experience."

"My wife isn't afraid of speed." Hubert Le Blon comes up behind her, placing a hand on her back before kissing her cheek tenderly.

"Her control of the car is really remarkable. She could make a few drivers of my acquaintance eat her dust."

Vincenzo bids the man farewell and kisses Madame Le Blon's hand, thinking that he wouldn't at all mind competing with this

woman.

"Signor Florio, we're almost there!"

These words have been said by a young man with bushy eyebrows and mustache and two penetrating dark eyes. Once, jokingly, Vincenzo asked Alessandro Cagno if his nanny nursed him with motor oil instead of milk. He's twenty-three, the same age as Vincenzo, and has been racing for five years, having learned the ropes as a mechanic in Luigi Storero's workshop in Turin and then at Giovanni Angeli's FIAT, for which he also drives. He participated as a mechanic in the 1903 Paris–Madrid race, known as the "race of death," called off in Bordeaux after an excessive number of accidents, including one that resulted in the death of Marcel Renault. Between 1904 and 1905 Cagno distinguished himself in the Gordon Bennett Cup. Most recently, he won the prestigious uphill race on Mont Ventoux.

"Signor Cagno, good morning! Is it true that in Turin they've written a song about you?"

Cagno seems embarrassed. "Actually it's also about Felice Nazzaro and Lancia."

"And about your Itala, I think?"

"I'm the one who'll make the Itala sing today," Cagno replies, putting his cap on his head. "You'll see how well it warbles."

Vincenzo bursts out laughing and waves his hand. Then he turns toward the stands, looking for his brother and Franca, who

are staying with the Lanza di Trabias and the Trigonas at the Grand Hotel delle Terme at Termini Imerese, a building with

elegant lines designed by Giuseppe Damiani Almeyda and chosen to house the drivers and Palermo high society. Not seeing them,

he shakes his head. They haven't arrived yet. He'd like to say hello to Ignazio at least, to share a moment with him.

Then all at once a pink patch appears, darting between the cars, appearing and disappearing in the swarm of drivers and mechanics.

Surprised, he follows it with his eyes. Only when the patch stops next to Monsieur Bablot's Berliet does he recognize it.

"Annina!" he cries.

Anna Alliata di Montereale—Annina, as everyone calls her—is the younger sister of one of Franca's closest friends, Maria Concetta

Vannucci, Princess of Petrulla. Annina is a few years younger than him, and they've known each other forever.

She turns, recognizes him, and comes over, her hat in her hand. Her eyes are bright with enthusiasm, her cheeks red.

"Annina, what on earth are you doing here? You're going to get yourself dirty!"

"Who cares? It's so nice to be in the middle of these automobiles, so amusing! You know something? I'd like to buy one!" She

looks down at the lace hem of her dress, which is spattered with mud, and her boots, which now are marred by more than one

oil stain. She shakes her head. "But Maman says such things are not for women. What nonsense!"

Vincenzo isn't sure how to reply. Annina and he have often spoken, during balls and dinners, but always on formal occasions.

He always thought her a lively and intelligent young woman, but the passion lighting her face right now is a new discovery.

"Your mother's a prudent woman," he says awkwardly. "Since she became a widow, she's had to take care of the whole family."

"No, it's not that. The fact is, she has such... antiquated ideas." Annina's eyes cloud over with annoyance. "She ought

to understand that going for a little ride in a coach and four is a thing of the past. That the future is already here."

"It isn't easy to go from one era to another," Vincenzo remarks, his thoughts turning to his own mother. She has remained

at the Olivuzza, maintaining that she had to attend Donna Ciccia, who can hardly move these days, but he knows she would never

have come in a million years anyway.

At that moment, some of the people involved with the organization appear in the crowd. Perhaps they're looking for him. He

turns his back on them. Not now , he thinks.

"You know, right at the start, when I used to race along the avenues of the Olivuzza, my mother would say that I ruined the garden and made the birds in her aviary die of broken hearts. But she's an old woman, you have to understand. On the other hand, Ignazio certainly isn't old, and he's called me irresponsible more than once. But that's because he's a born coward. Just imagine, he doesn't even want to ride a horse, because he's afraid of the speed."

Annina laughs and gives him a sidelong glance. "But... you are a little bit irresponsible, aren't you?"

He smiles. "A little," he replies with unusual candor. What he doesn't tell her is that speed is something that makes the

blood sing in his veins, something that makes him feel alive, sends shivers down his spine. And that her laugh has the same

effect on him.

"Don Vincenzo!" One of the mechanics is striding toward him. "We were looking for you, Signore."

Vincenzo nods and says he'll join them immediately. Then he turns back to Annina. "Go up to the stand. Your mother must be

getting worried."

"All right. But you must promise me you'll take me for a ride in one of your cars."

He smiles. "Yes, I promise. Soon."

Annina turns, takes a step away, then turns again and places a gloved hand on Vincenzo's hand. Her voice is a whisper that

ought to be drowned out by the roar of the engines but instead echoes clearly. "Today has assured me that it's pointless to

wait for dreams to come true. One has to take the first step. One has to dream on a grand scale. Thank you for demonstrating

that it's possible to realize one's desires."

***

Ignazio is following the preparations for the race from the stand, wrapped in an English overcoat he bought last year. This year, he hasn't replenished his wardrobe. He hasn't had time, but above all he doesn't want to add to the bills to be paid on top of those already on his desk. His mother, Franca, and even Igiea—a girl of six, for heaven's sake!—seem to do nothing but buy hats, dresses, gloves, shoes, and bags all over Europe. He's asked Franca several times not to overdo it, but she always listens with an air of indifference, barely deigning to look at him.

She replied only once, "I assume you don't ask the other women to skimp on jewels or hotels." A line delivered calmly, without

anger, and accompanied by a glance so frigid as to make him feel uncomfortable.

He muttered a "What are you talking about?" of which he still feels ashamed.

The chill between him and Franca only makes the things tormenting him harder to bear. Starting with that damned shipyard on

which he staked so many hopes: yes, it was completed, but the lack of commissions, the fall in prices, and the strikes undermined

the project from its inception. In the end, he was forced to give up his shares in the shipyard company to Attilio Odero,

the Genoese owner of the Sestri Ponente and La Foce shipyards. But even that wasn't enough to settle his debts—above all,

the two million he owed the Banca Commerciale Italiana just for the shipyard—and he had to lay off workers, both in the yard

and at the Oretea. He had to resort to asking for certain loans to be repaid to him—he who never bothered with such trifles.

On the political front, the situation was even worse: Giolitti was powerful, much too powerful. And he was defending interests that conflicted with those of the south, and of NGI in particular. Very soon they would have to start new discussions on the renewal of the maritime conventions: an uphill battle, filled with opponents, starting with Erasmo Piaggio, in whom he had placed faith and hope but who turned out to be a low-down profiteer like all the rest. After Ignazio forced him to resign, the man slammed the door on his way out, swearing to make him pay for his presumption. A scene that uncomfortably echoed Laganà.

And then there was the winery...

At this, his back stiffens and his mouth grows dry. Sitting next to him, Romualdo turns and looks at him. He knows him too

well not to recognize his bad humor. "What's the matter?" he asks.

Ignazio shrugs. " Camurrie ."

But Romualdo isn't content with this reply, not in that tone. He grabs Ignazio by one arm and leads him over to a discreet

corner of the stand. They've known each other a long time; they don't need such ceremony. "What is it?"

A sigh. "The winery." He gives his friend a glance of remorse, regret, and shame. The thought of it has been eating away at

him for days, since mid-April to be exact, when he had to sign over the lion emblem.

The winery was one of his family's first undertakings, created by that grandfather who passed away just when he himself was

born. His father would never have permitted everything to go to rack and ruin. Although he's now been dead for fifteen years,

Ignazio can clearly hear the words of blame and disappointment, the reproving gaze with which he would have nailed him. His

father would never have lacked the money, or the esteem, or the respect.

Nobody would ever have asked his father for "more collateral."

"The winery? What do you mean?" Romualdo asks, puzzled.

"Some time ago I signed the contract to transfer the premises of the winery and the Marsala factory and with some partners set up SAVI, a new wine-making company to realize our assets, distribute the costs, and have a little breathing space. You knew that, didn't you? Well, last month I transferred the factories in Alcamo, Balestrate, and Castellammare, even the one for cognac, which we don't use any more anyway." He pauses and moistens his lips. "Now we no longer own a single brick; we just have shares. And despite everything, the interest on the loans is eating me alive!"

Romualdo sees deep lines on his friend's face, lines he's never seen before. "I thought you still owned the winery, but..."

"Oh, no. I transferred everything to them, apart from the Marsala factory, and they paid me rent. Now I've given even that

one away. I just hold the apartment building and the marsala that's ready to be sold." He sighs. "I need money. Money and

time. You know what happened the other day? Fecarotta sent me a letter demanding payment. It's the second time that's happened.

I couldn't believe it."

"Fecarotta? What did you get from him, a jewel for her?" Romualdo asks, indicating Franca.

Ignazio shakes his head. "No, for Bice," he murmurs, turning his head away. "She's driving me crazy, that woman."

Bice. Beatrice Tasca di Cutò.

Romualdo mutters an insult. "They're dangerous, the Tasca di Cutòs. I should know; I married one. Curò , there wasn't anything else you could have done, not with all the people who depend on you. Thanks to SAVI you've been able

to take a breather, and of course you've had to make compromises... Is it your fault the wine market's on its knees?" He

places a hand on Ignazio's arm. "First the phylloxera, then the crisis and the state taxes on alcohol."

"That was a blow. Rome tried for years to tax fortified wines, and finally they succeeded." Ignazio beats his hand down on

the balustrade. "I looked for new avenues... years ago with cognac, then with table wines, but nothing clicked. And now

it seems marsala isn't good anymore, because it's too alcoholic! And to think doctors recommend it as a tonic..." He lifts a hand to his temple, hardly able to breathe. He's angry now—it's an easy sentiment, that asks only to come out and receive relief. It doesn't feed on ideas or thoughts. And as always, Ignazio welcomes it, embraces it, makes it his own. "Even the Anglo-Sicilian Sulfur Company is no more. Not that I earned anything from it, but it's the principle, you know? The Americans have managed to exploit their sulfur deposits using a new process, so no more exports to the United States for us. And I wager that soon they'll be selling their products in Europe, so goodbye to our trade with France. There's nothing, nothing that's going right! Do you realize?"

"I know." Romualdo nods.

They remain side by side, without speaking. In the end, it's Ignazio who speaks first, and he does so softly, almost as if

he struggles to put the words together. "Anyway, I never cared much for sulfur. The winery, on the other hand... Even Vincenzo

signed, so I'm not sure how much he understood. He only ever thinks about enjoying himself... And, along with the factory,

even the lion emblem has gone. Everything, everything is theirs now. All that's left is..." He makes an eloquent gesture.

Crumbs.

Romualdo looks at Ignazio with wide-open, incredulous eyes. He doesn't know what to say. Of course, the weight of everything

has been on his friend's shoulders, since he was little more than twenty, and he's kept himself busy without sparing himself,

even though sometimes he's launched himself into enterprises whose outcome was unclear. As for Vincenzo, he's just a picciriddu who plays with cars. What does he know about responsibilities, about choices to be made? But... Casa Florio without the

winery? Without marsala? He finds that hard to fathom. "We've never talked about it... I mean, everyone knows there was

this agreement, but not that you would have to..."

Ignazio lowers his eyes. "At least this way we've gotten some thing out of it," he replies. There is so much unsaid in that furtive look of his, in those words left unfinished.

Powerlessness, sorrow, humiliation.

"I tried, Romualdo. I tried with all my might, but there really were too many debts. For now, the banks are sapping everything...

And the taxes! The taxes we have to pay!"

Romualdo stares at his friend. For a very long moment, everything around him stops. The crowd, the cars, the chatter, and

the noises disappear, absorbed by a blinding whiteness. Only the two of them remain, immersed in a sensation that neither

of them can explain to himself completely.

But one that approaches the realization that the first tremor of an earthquake has arrived.