2

Franca looks at Ignazio and Romualdo talking in private. She purses her lips. Two men who have refused to grow up, despite

their few white hairs and heavy eyelids. Nothing good has ever come from their chatter. And this time will be no exception.

She adjusts her fur-lined coat, then turns to Giulia Trigona, seated next to her, grasps her wrist, and indicates the two

men with a nod of her head.

Giulia gives them an irritated glance. "They're probably talking about some woman or other. My dear Franca, we married two

men who are really... boring."

Franca gives a bitter smile and is about to reply when Annina Alliata di Montereale sits down beside her. She's red in the

face, her eyes are shining, and she seems restless. She smooths her dress, leans forward to get a better view of the starting

line, and adjusts her hat.

Her sister Maria Concetta takes a seat beside her with a sigh. "Annina, please show a little decorum. First you disappear for an hour, then you come here covered in mud and agitated. A lady should never be so... colorful. Franca, Giulia, you tell her, too, tell her to behave."

Annina raises her eyes to heaven. She ignores her sister and looks at Franca. "Don't you think it's a wonderful spectacle?

What a pity the strike prevented the French teams from coming!"

Franca smiles. She likes Annina's enthusiasm, even if it also makes her a little sad. "Yes, it is a pity. Not to mention the

terrible accident Jules Mottard had."

"An accident?" Annina exclaims. "Really?"

"During the tests, the car lifted at a bend, reared like a horse, then fell back down, twisting the wheels. He was hurt in

his left shoulder and—"

"There, you see, Annina, how right I am when I tell you driving is very dangerous?" Maria Concetta interjects. "And you insist

on getting a car!"

"If one knows how to drive and is careful, such things don't happen," Annina declares, piqued. "I'm convinced that driving

a car is no more dangerous than riding a horse."

Giulia Trigona is equally skeptical. "For a man, perhaps. But a woman... would risk too much. It might compromise her ability

to have children."

Annina raises an eyebrow. "It's only a matter of time before it's normal to see a woman behind the wheel of a fast car and—why

not?—racing against men."

Franca laughs indulgently. "I seem to hear my brother-in-law." She looks at the road, finally clear of mechanics and onlookers. The judges are about to give the go-ahead for the race to begin. Engines are started; the air is filled with cries and explo sions. In the stands, everyone gets to their feet, while the brass band gives the signal, followed by a cannon shot.

This year, it is Alessandro Cagno's Itala that comes in first, also setting the best time, finishing the 450-kilometer course

in nine and a half hours, almost 47 kilometers an hour. The second, another Itala, reaches the finishing line after ten hours.

Paul Bablot comes in third, while Madame and Monsieur Le Blon, because of a series of flats, finish past the maximum allotted

time, twelve hours. They do better, though, than other competitors—like Vincenzo Lancia or the American George Pope in an

Itala—who don't even complete the race.

Annina's prophecy will come true in 1920, when Baroness Maria Antonietta Avanzo takes part in the eleventh Targa Florio, in

a Buick. Unfortunately, her chassis will break on the second lap, but in 1928, Eli?ka Junková, known as "Miss Bugatti," will

come in fifth in the race. Always gallant, Vincenzo Florio, with apologies to the winner, Albert Diva, will declare Eli?ka

the symbolic winner of the competition. Between the 1950s and the 1970s Anna Maria Peduzzi and Ada Pace will participate five

times, and other female drivers racing will be Giuseppina Gagliano and Anna Cambiaghi.

For seventy years, the race will be a stage that the greatest drivers will aspire to: from Felice Navarro to Juan Manuel Fangio, from Tazio Nuvolari to Arturo Merzario, from Achille Varzi to Nino Vaccarella. The very young Enzo Ferrari will race five times, from 1919 to 1923, coming in second in 1920, in an Alfa Romeo. And there will be dark years, overshadowed by low participation or serious accidents and tragedies. Like that of Count Giulio Masetti, the "Lion of the Madonie," who dies in 1926 in his Delage, numbered 1, which, from then on, will no longer be assigned to any car in the race. Finally, on May 15, 1977, Gabriele Ciutti loses control of his Osella and hits some spectators, killing two. The race is suspended on the fourth lap. "The Targa is dead," scream the newspapers, and for once they are not exaggerating. The "little circuit of the Madonie" will be abandoned forever.

But all this lies in the future on this damp morning of May 6, 1906. Nobody can know what a deep and indelible mark the Targa

Florio will leave on the history of not only Italian but also world motorsports.

And yet a wager has already been won. Everybody—Italians and foreigners, drivers and spectators—has fallen in love. With the

Madonie, the cars, the new world of speed, and a vibrant spectacle brimming with emotion.

Vincenzo Florio has brought the future to Sicily. And Sicily will never forget it.

***

"Oh, you have Poudre Azurea by Piver! It's my favorite face powder. May I use it?" Giulia asks, sitting down next to Franca.

"Of course. Go ahead."

In Franca's room at Villa Igiea, the sunlight is sweeping away the last hints of gloom from this late April morning. Igiea

stands by the dressing table, watching the two women with an expression that is difficult to decipher, both curious and melancholic.

Giulia turns, tickles her nose with the powder puff, and manages to get a smile from her. Then she looks back at herself in

the mirror. She is thirty-six and Franca is thirty-three; they're both beautiful and elegant, and yet over their faces is

a veil, placed by the pain that both have felt and by the bitterness that has set down its roots in their hearts, like a plant

impossible to extricate.

A tear appears in Franca's green eyes, and she quickly wipes it away with the back of her hand.

"Are you all right?" Giulia asks.

Franca shrugs. "Baby Boy would have enjoyed this race so much..." she murmurs. She shakes herself, wraps a lock of hair

around a finger, and fixes it in the hairpin it has escaped, despite the care of Carmela, the maid who took the place of Diodata,

who married a few months ago. Then she calls the governess and asks her to take Igiea away and prepare the little girl's luggage.

She will watch the "motor dinghies" from the window of her room and then, as increasingly happens, she will go and spend some

time with her grandmother at the Olivuzza.

When the girl has gone, Franca picks up where she left off: "You know, Vincenzo did well to organize this new event a week

after the Targa Florio. So many people decided to extend their stay, and others have come from all over Europe. It's all very

cheerful, and even Ignazio is a little less gloomy."

Giulia nods. "I've tried so many times to talk to him, to ask him: What about the winery? Or the sulfur? Or the shipyard?

But he won't say a word. Or else he tells me I should concern myself with Casa Trabia and not interfere in his business. As

if we were strangers." Franca remains silent and Giulia gives her a sidelong glance. "He doesn't say anything to you or Mother,

I suppose."

"Oh, you know, running Villa Igiea keeps me very busy, and I have no desire to harp on about his business worries. As for

your mother, right now she doesn't want to see anybody. It was all I could do to get her to take Igiea for a few weeks."

"Because of Donna Ciccia?"

Franca nods.

"Poor Donna Ciccia. Of course, she was old and bedridden, but to go like that, suddenly, because of pneumonia... I remember once, while she was trying in vain to teach me how to embroider, she said, ‘You have to know how to do this if you want to be a good married woman.' How the times have changed!"

"For us, yes," Franca says. "For your mother, on the other hand, they haven't changed at all. And she's reacting much too...

emotionally to the death of Donna Ciccia, almost as if it were a family death. As if we Florios haven't had enough death already."

Giulia sighs. She removes a flask of perfume from the dressing table, dabs a few drops onto her wrists, passes it to her sister-in-law,

then abruptly gets to her feet and goes to the window. "It's becoming overcast, but a few clouds are certainly not going to

stop Vincenzo and his races!" she exclaims, trying to lighten the mood. "You know, last night Pietro and I talked for a long

time with Ludovico Potenziani, while his wife, Madda, chatted with Ignazio about the Targa Florio. I got the impression they

were both very enthusiastic about these sporting challenges."

"Yes, in fact they both thought the second Targa was even better than the first. And yes, Madda made sure to tell me she loved

it and will certainly be back. Did you know they've invited us to their Villa di San Mauro in Rieti?" Franca gets to her feet

and puts on a ring with a large emerald that perfectly matches her green dress.

"Of the two Papadopoli twins, I confess I prefer Vera. I find her more... composed. They're intelligent women who've married

not very bright men, and that was their fortune." A dry comment that cuts through flesh and bone. "I know they're friends

of yours, that they were very close to you... in Venice, but I don't like them much. I find them a little too uninhibited."

Franca dismisses the memory of Venice and of Giacobina, that little girl born only in time to die, taking with her all Franca's hopes. She doesn't want the grief of it to drag her down again, preventing her from enjoying the pleasures life still has to offer. She has realized that if she wants to be serene, she must forget, ignore, not see. That an awareness of one's own unhappiness is often the worst of sentences.

"I can almost hear my mother," she murmurs to her sister-in-law as they descend the stairs.

Giulia raises her eyes to the ceiling. "Donna Costanza is very observant," she says sarcastically, lifting the hem of her

skirt. "To me, they're like two saints hanging on a wall . "

Franca smiles. "They both have angelic faces, it's true... But I think they know how to get what they want from a man."

Giulia laughs. "Well, even you have your band of admirers, I think. D'Annunzio dotes on you, and there was also that marchese who sent you bunches of flowers every day you were in Rome..."

"I let them dream," Franca comments.

On the ground floor they are greeted by a commotion that rises in intensity as they cross the drawing rooms. Dozens of guests

have come to watch the race of the "motor dinghies," which Vincenzo Florio organized, modeled after those of Monte Carlo and

Nice. But the Pearl of the Mediterranean—that's the name of this competition—is a much more serious and better organized race

than its French counterparts, even if the latter have become must-see events for those fascinated by speedboat racing.

Ignazio is sitting in the garden. With him are the Potenzianis and Giulia's eldest child, Giuseppe, who's about to turn eighteen:

a handsome boy, with a brash air that somewhat recalls his uncle Vincenzo.

Prince Ludovico Potenziani, who has a long, thin face, is wearing a hat to shelter him from the sun. "It's only April 28th,

but it really is very hot," he is saying.

Madda's lips curl in a laugh. She has a soft face and bright, luminous hair, very different from Franca's and Giulia's dark hair. "Oh, come on, stop complaining. We're in Sicily, the land of sun, and it's almost two in the afternoon! And besides, smell the sea! It's also wonderfully alive here." She leans forward to take a canapé a butler is offering her. As she does so, the neckline of her dress opens to reveal her breasts, which are perfect despite her two pregnancies. Giuseppe's eyes, as well as Ignazio's, linger for a moment longer than necessary on that patch of skin.

Giulia turns her back on the little group and whispers to Franca, "What did I tell you?"

They all rise and walk to the little Greek temple that juts out over the sea, where a large number of armchairs have been

arranged, with big canvas sheets above to shield them from the sun. Franca, Giulia, and Madda sit in the front row. Ignazio

calls a waiter to serve lemonade to the ladies and white wine to the men. Ludovico Potenziani sits down on a deck chair in

the shade. Giuseppe takes a seat at the back of the group.

"Where's Vera?" Franca asks Madda. "I haven't heard from her in weeks."

"She's in Venice with Giberto, I think. He's one of those husbands who cares a lot about the unity of the family." Madda looks

around and places a hand on Franca's arm. "Villa Igiea really is a beautiful place." She smiles, offering her face to the

sun. "One can't help being happy here. You and Ignazio are very fortunate. And you had Edward VII as a guest not long ago!"

"With his wife, Alexandra, and his daughter Victoria, yes. They were delighted by Villa Igiea and by the Olivuzza and in particular

by Vincenzo's little villa. Ignazio offered them our Mercedes and the Isotta Fraschini he bought not long ago, so they took

the opportunity to visit Palermo in comfort. It's a real pity they weren't able to stay for the race..."

"Ludovico is so boring," Madda comments in a low voice, glancing at her husband. "He never wants anything. He complains about everything, hates novelty. Not like your Ignazio, who's an enthusiast and loves company. Now, there's an amusing man!"

"Fairly typical of Sicilian men, and of the Florios in particular," Giulia cuts in. "They're always doing things, for good

or bad, and they know how to charm, while also knowing when it's time to return to the fold." She glares at Madda.

At that moment, from the wharf, they hear Vincenzo's voice, amplified by a brass megaphone, greeting the guests and, amid

applause, announcing the names of the competitors: first those in the class of racers—the Flying Fish , owned by Lionel de Rothschild, the Gallinari II , with its Delahaye engine, and Emile Thubron's New Trefle III —then those in the class of cruisers: the CP II , built in Naples, Zanelli's Adele , and the All'Erta , with its Gallinari body and FIAT engine.

A cannon shot gives the starting signal for the race, which immediately becomes a fascinating duel between the All'Erta and the Flying Fish , the Adele trailing. It's the Flying Fish that wins in the end, cutting through the finishing tape after two laps—one hundred kilometers in all—in two hours and eighteen

minutes.

Franca and Giulia have followed every moment of the race with attention and enthusiasm, constantly asking Ignazio and Ludovico

questions about the helmsmen, about the boats, and about the speeds. Madda, on the other hand, sighed after the first laps

that all the noise was giving her a headache and that she was going for a walk.

But when Giulia turns to look for Giuseppe, she sees that the boy's chair is empty.

And she's unable to hold back a grimace of dismay.

***

Winter in the Olivuzza is like a ghost. It treads with soundless steps, wearing a veil of golden dust, like the tulle with

which the dead are usually covered. It hides in the shadows that spread between the rooms, makes the velvet curtains sway,

glides over the floors with their black-and-white chessboard pattern, and carries with it the echo of days when the house

was full of children's voices and laughter. It is a sad ghost, but by now Giovanna knows it well. And it keeps her company

in these rooms that are so familiar to her.

Until February 8, 1908, when destiny scatters the cards.

It's the dead of night when Giovanna is woken by the screams of the servants, by hurried footsteps, by the loud slamming of

doors. She's confused, and for a moment wonders what the acrid smell is that's invading her nostrils and making her cough.

Then she understands. She smells, more than she sees, the fire.

It's close , she tells herself. She gets out of bed, goes to the door, and flings it wide open. The first-floor corridor is wrapped in

a cloud of black smoke, which seems to be climbing the tapestries and the gilded wooden doors. She grabs a shawl and rushes

out of her room, straight toward the upper floor, where Igiea sleeps. But on the stairs, she runs into the nurse, who has

the little girl in her arms and is hurrying to get her to safety, followed by two barefoot maids in their nightdresses.

The women hurry out of the house and a few servants run to greet them and wrap Igiea in a blanket. They are yelling, asking

questions, praying. As they give Giovanna a pitcher of water to ease her coughing, they tell her that several of the men are

still inside, trying to stop the flames from spreading to the rest of the Olivuzza.

But it's only when the fire engine arrives that Giovanna turns. The heat of the fire seems to caress her skin, displacing the cold of that February night—and the cold of fear. Indifferent to the servants' screams and Igiea's sobs, she watches the flames wrapping her house, listens to the crackle of the beams breaking and the screech of the windowpanes shattering. And the only thing she can think is that, when that red light has been put out, when that infernal heat has extinguished, she will finally be able to go back to her room, to her bed, and sleep. She will be able to return to her life, surrounded by her memories, protected by what's dearest to her, watched over by her ghosts. Everything will be as it was before , she repeats to herself.

She stays like that, motionless, her hands pressed to her belly, until Franca and Ignazio arrive: Franca was attending a reception

at the Trabias'—she had fainted when she received the news—while Ignazio had been watching a wrestling match with Vincenzo,

where he was informed by the carabinieri. Franca wraps Igiea in her fox-fur cloak, then goes to her mother-in-law and takes

her hand in a tender gesture. But Giovanna does not react and remains still even after Ignazio puts his coat over her shoulders.

He's the one who decides. He calls the driver and gives orders for all the women to be taken to Villa Igiea. They need to

rest—there's nothing they can do here anyway. Nothing, at least until the flames have been extinguished.

Sitting between Franca and the nurse, Giovanna pulls her son's coat around her. Then, after the car sets off, she closes her

eyes and covers her face with her hands.