2

Hasty, determined footsteps herald Giovanni Laganà's arrival to Ignazio's office at NGI's headquarters on Piazza Marina.

He walks in confidently without even greeting Ignazio, who is standing by the window. On the contrary, he practically slams

the door before sitting down opposite the desk, not waiting to be invited.

"You've informed me that you no longer require my services," he starts without preamble. "So be it. You're entitled. But you

can't tell me this by letter, like I'm the lowliest peasant at the foundry. I don't deserve it, not after all I've done for

you and your family." This hostility only scratches the surface of his barely contained rage. "I want to know why. What has

led you to this decision? You must say it to my face."

Ignazio slowly goes to the desk, sits down, and regards him haughtily. "You may be furious, but I am aggrieved. You're asking

me why. Because you betrayed my trust and that of my family. You hungered for more power and more money, and since I couldn't

give it to you, you went to others and put my company and me in a bad light. You did it when you convinced me to trust Credito

Mobiliare... I remember clearly how you insisted the bank was trustworthy, and look what it cost me! Do you deny it?" He

doesn't give Laganà time to respond. "And now... Do you want to see the papers I received from Genoa? Letters written in

your own hand!" He indicates a beige portfolio, by itself on the desk.

Laganà snatches it angrily and leafs through its contents.

"Did you think I'd never discover that you tried to stall the improvements to the ships so that the government wouldn't renew our conventions?" Ignazio points a finger at him. "You're not only a hypocrite and a liar but also a braggart. I'm the one who decides what to modernize, together with the board of directors. You took me for a fool and thought

you could cheat me. Who do you think you are?"

Laganà doesn't seem to be listening. He drops the papers on the desk, shakes his head, and studies his hands: strong fingers,

his skin spotted with age. Ignazio says nothing, waiting for his words to register. He knows he's been found out , he thinks . He's going to say he's innocent and ask to explain ...

Instead, he is almost startled when Laganà looks up at him.

There is just one emotion on his face: contempt.

"Your problem, Don Ignazio, is that you believe everything you're told. I don't know if you're naive or a total imbecile.

In any case, you're entirely incompetent."

Stunned, Ignazio sits motionless.

Outside, the wheels of carts and carriages squeak on the basalt, their sound filling the silence in the room. "You've been

a disloyal administrator, you betrayed the trust of Casa Florio, and now... now you're insulting me ?"

Laganà's lips form a straight, hard line under his gray-flecked mustache. "You, yes. I worked diligently for your father;

I always advised him as best I could. My loyalty to Casa Florio has been unimpeachable, and now you accuse me of selling out

our routes in order to give our competitors an advantage... On what grounds? Hearsay? Gossip?" He grabs the papers, crumples

them, and tosses them aside.

"You negotiated with our rivals!"

Laganà laughs. A dark, bilious guffaw. "Now I understand. Siti 'un fissa —you're a fool!" He stares in disbelief. "You're weak, Don Ignazio. Casa Florio has no money in the till, and senza dinari 'un si canta missa —no money, no Mass. Do you realize you lack sufficient funds to get your fleet back into shape? And instead of thanking me for negotiating a stay of execution with your competitors and preventing them from pouncing and making mincemeat out of you, you're pointing the finger at me, who has always served you well—who defended you!"

It's a threat , Ignazio thinks, clutching the armrests of the chair that belonged to his father. It's a threat and this scoundrel wants to scare me... to humiliate me.

He grows more convinced that Laganà is a liar and a manipulator.

He tries to appear magnanimous. He wants to be, has to be. "And I thank you for your work. My father, too, would thank you

if he were here, but, like me, he wouldn't have tolerated even the shadow of a doubt concerning your loyalty to Casa Florio."

He joins his hands together. "For the sake of the past, I still respect you. I'm offering you the chance to leave without

scandal and with an adequate settlement. It's up to you. Don't force me to fire and publicly disavow you."

Laganà returns a pitying look. "All you have of your father is his name. Soon, even that will carry no more influence. And

the fault will be yours alone. Mind how you act and whom you heed: this is my last piece of advice to you. You're unable to

see or realize the damage you're causing NGI. From now on everything that happens to Casa Florio will be the result of your

decisions." He rises and brushes the brim of his hat. "You'll receive my resignation letter tomorrow without fail. It is I

who doesn't want to work for you anymore. To be shown the door like this after so many years... No, I don't deserve it."

He leans forward, and for a moment, Ignazio is almost afraid he is going to attack. "Only, you'll have to pay me, and a great

deal, because my work and my loyalty come at a price."

Ignazio says nothing. Creaks seem to come from the walls, as though the wood paneling is contracting. Or maybe it's the sound of a Palermo that doesn't care.

Laganà reaches the door, stops, and turns. "This doesn't end here, Signor Florio," he says. "Because everything in life comes at a price, even ingratitude. Everything you've earned has been thanks

to me, and sooner or later you'll have to give back."

The door slams behind him with a thud.

***

Everything in life comes at a price . So obvious , Ignazio tells himself, annoyed. Did Laganà think he'd get away with it? That he, Ignazio, was in some way inferior to his

father? What a joke!

In the carriage on his way home, Ignazio thinks about what happened, barely aware that the sun has set and the temperature

has plummeted. October has brought with it short days, as though its gusts of wind were intent on stealing the light.

By the time the gates of the Olivuzza open and the carriage draws up beside the large olive tree, his thoughts have altered.

He wants laughter, champagne, music, and lighthearted chatter. It's been too arduous a day to spend the evening at home or

in a small haunt. He will ask Franca what invitations she has received and will choose the most eccentric.

He finds his wife in Giovannuzza's room, standing opposite Mademoiselle Coudray and the little girl, who is clutching a silver

spoon. Franca greets him and smiles. "Look at how clever our picciridda is," she says proudly. "She's learning to eat by herself."

Ignazio goes to the high chair. Giovannuzza lights up and reaches out with her arms, splashing semolina around. "Papapaa,"

she mumbles.

"Eat," he says, laughing and indicating her bowl.

The little girl drops the spoon on the floor and claps her hands. Momentarily, his worries subside. Laganà, figures that don't

add up... nothing seems important anymore. But only for a moment. While Mademoiselle Coudray wipes Giovannuzza's mouth,

Ignazio mutters to Franca, "I'd like to go out tonight. I need to clear my head."

She curls a lock of hair around her fingers. "I'd rather stay at home, Ignazio. Diodata told me there have been more protests

and a carriage was attacked with stones. I'm worried."

"No, that's just servants' gossip. Go on, get ready."

Franca shakes her head. "Please, let's stay at home. Just for tonight. We're always out, and I'd like to spend a couple of

hours with just you and our daughter."

"Home? Like paupers who can't afford to attend a party or accept an invitation?" Ignazio shakes his head and goes to the door.

"I can't believe that you, of all people, are saying this to me!"

Franca follows him down the corridor and takes him by the arm. "I don't understand... Just for one night... I thought

you'd be pleased to—"

"I want to go out! I can't bear being shut in here all the time!"

Franca lets go of him and lowers her head.

"You're welcome to act the governess, since it gives you so much fun." He walks past her with an angry step. "I'm going to

Romualdo's and then to the club... or wherever else I feel like. Don't wait up."

***

"You're a sight for sore eyes! You haven't been around for a week. I'm invited to a card party—will you come along?"

Romualdo Trigona's house on Piazza della Rivoluzione doesn't have an ounce of the Olivuzza's modernity, but Ignazio loves to breathe in the scent of freedom radiated by the rooms of a bachelor. Romualdo is getting dressed in front of his bedroom mirror with his usual nonchalance. Around him, the bed, the mahogany chest, and the chairs are strewn haphazardly with jackets and ties.

"You own more clothes than a woman!" Ignazio exclaims.

"That's coming from the man who, every time he goes to his London tailor, orders enough jackets and suits to clothe an army,"

Romualdo replies. He holds a red moiré silk tie to his damask waistcoat and seeks Ignazio's opinion with a look.

Ignazio sniggers. "That makes you look like a couch, curò ," he jests, gesturing to pick another tie. "The smooth satin one's better."

Curò —dear heart. Romualdo smiles at the comical but affectionate endearment Ignazio and Romualdo use with each other, follows his advice, and

ties the plastron on while glancing sideways at him.

"What's wrong, Ignazio? You look glum..."

Ignazio shrugs his shoulders. "Trouble at NGI. And I got upset with Franca."

"What? Did she discover a peccadillo? Or have people been talking to her?"

"No, not this time. But she behaved in a way that annoyed me."

Romualdo inquires no further. Quarrels between those two are old news. "Why do you think I'm not married? To avoid rows and

doors slammed in my face."

"Don't you have an understanding—"

"—with Giulia Tasca di Cutò's father? Yes, I do. But she's still too much of a picciridda for my taste, and I want to have some fun."

Ignazio leans back in the armchair. "Tell me about it. Franca grows hysterical whenever she hears about certain episodes. But this evening, when I wanted to go out with her, she got it into her head that we had to stay home and stare at each other, just us and the picciridda . Imagine that! A man works all day and then has to stay home like some pauper—a puveriddu !"

Romualdo shrugs as he combs his hair. "She's a woman," he states blankly, admiring his perfectly straight part, glossy with

brilliantine. "And after a while, women want to stay home and be mothers."

"Fine, that's proper, but Franca can't keep me on a leash." He sighs. "I mean, she has to understand that a man has needs...

That's been true since the dawn of time. It's not as if by indulging myself or having a mistress I love my wife any less.

Franca is one thing, other women something else. Besides, I've seen to it that she wants for nothing."

"Women have gotten it into their heads that men are accountable to them..." Romualdo mutters, waving his hand as though

to say: Madness .

Ignazio shakes his head. "It's not that: she's scared I won't want her anymore, and it gets on my nerves, because that's not

how she'll stop me from doing certain things. I need other women. I want to enjoy myself, I want to be charmed by them and

take what they offer me. Especially if they're really popular and desirable. I won't accept rejection. Is that a sin? Well

then, I have a lifetime to confess and repent."

"And women do say yes to you... and in particular to your picciuli —your pocketbook." Romualdo lights a cigarette and blows the smoke out, laughing beneath his well-trimmed mustache. "Anyway,

all this talk of women has made me feel like taking a stroll. Forget the card game—let's go to Casa delle Rose. I hear they

have some new girls."

Red velvet, alcoves, lace robes that part to reveal smooth, firm bodies. Ignazio suddenly imagines all this and can practically smell the face powder and perfumes. Casa delle Rose is a refined place, a far cry from the brothels around Piazza Marina or in the neighborhood of the Oretea Foundry. There, a man can leave his burden of tiredness and worries at the door and find some peace, and—why not?—even some mirth.

"You're right, curò . Let's go," he says, jumping to his feet.

Romualdo stubs out his cigarette, retrieves his frock coat from the closet, and laughs to himself. It really doesn't take

much to improve Ignazio's mood.

***

It's after midnight by the time Ignazio returns to the Olivuzza, the worse for several glasses of champagne, swaying slightly,

clearly intoxicated. The evening was very enjoyable and the young woman he spent it with a real flower, a true Neapolitan

beauty with jet-black eyes and a mouth that—

"You shouldn't come home at this time of night."

Giovanna is waiting for him at the top of the red staircase in her robe.

"It's late, Maman ," Ignazio says with a sigh, suddenly irritated. "Whatever it is we need to discuss, can't we do it tomorrow? I have a headache."

She comes down a few steps and stops in front of him. "You stink of wine and whores like a libertine." Giovanna is quivering

with indignation and anger. This is not how she raised her son. She doesn't recognize him. Her husband—God rest his soul—always

showed respect to her and for the name he carried, and now her son appears to be doing everything in his power to dishonor

them.

"I won't allow you to speak to me like that, even though you're my mother."

Ignazio raises his hand in an attempt to force her aside, but Giovanna seems made of marble. She puts a hand on his chest

and nails him with a fierce glare. "You're acting recklessly. I heard what you did at NGI: throwing Laganà out like that was

a dangerous thing to do. Now he's furious, and I don't blame him, because some things require skill. What now? Whom will you

call on to replace him?"

"That's none of your business!" Ignazio nearly shouts. "What—now, on top of everything else, you want to tell me how to act

at work? Would you like to wear a pair of pants and go to the office instead of me? Go ahead. You'd be doing me a favor!"

Giovanna stands motionless. Some things need to be said, and if she isn't the one to say them, no one will. For an instant,

she almost blames her husband for leaving her to manage such an immature son on her own. "You're doing it all wrong, Ignazio.

You should stay with your wife, she's a flower, but you yell at her and bolt. You had the picciridda months ago, so you should think about having a son instead of going around carousing like a..." She puts a hand over her

mouth to restrain an insult. "You have a beautiful, faithful wife waiting for you; appreciate what you have instead of wasting

time and money on other women."

Ignazio blushes, now totally sober. "Are you trying to butt into our bedroom, too, now?"

Giovanna's voice is like the slash of a razor. "I'm not interested in what you do. All I'm truly interested in is this family

and its future." She steps aside, turning her back on him, and walks up the red marble stairs. "We don't count, you and I,"

she says. "All that matters is the Florio name, and you must measure up to it. Now go wash."

She leaves Ignazio standing there motionless on the stairs, staring blankly, suddenly nauseated. He retches, claps a hand over his mouth, and barely makes it out the front door before vomiting.

Then, resting his forehead against the wall, his vision blurred by the nausea, sweating and trembling, he looks down at his

father's gold ring on his finger. Franca returned it to him during their honeymoon, saying that, as the head of the family,

it was only right that he should wear it.

His father... He was certainly a true head of the family. Sober, cautious, and discreet. He defended the Florios' honor

at all costs. He never humiliated his wife or dismissed an employee without a fair hearing.

But he, Ignazio? Who is he?