5

Such is his irritation with the men of the Banca d'Italia and the Banca Commerciale, who not only treat him like an idiot

but also stick their noses everywhere and keep investigating him, that Ignazio doesn't realize he has a viper in his midst.

Vittorio Rolandi Ricci, one of his lawyers, writes to Stringher that, despite the gravity of the situation, the Florios are

still feasting with champagne, throwing money on the gambling tables, and indulging expensive whims.

Stringher blows his top. But in his own way. He writes to Ignazio a letter that is both harsh and icy, filled with blame,

scorn, accusation, condemnation, and mistrust. Above all, he makes an explicit threat to abandon him to his fate.

Reading this letter causes something to burst in Ignazio. It's not the first time he's felt humiliated, it's not the first time he's been ashamed, but Stringher's formal, detached tone shakes him to the depths and makes him unusually clearheaded. He must respond. So he locks himself in his study and writes. He makes a rough draft, choosing his words with care: he doesn't want the director of the Banca d'Italia to realize how mortified he feels, but neither can he risk irritating him further. He writes, rereads, changes, meditates. He declares that he will dismiss the excess staff, reduce the expenses of running the house, and limit everything else as much as possible. He even tries to justify himself, to explain, but then feels that his excuses are inconsistent and strikes them with a decisive stroke of the pen. Finally, biting his lower lip, he copies the letter on the typewriter and burns the rough draft.

I can't do more than that , he tells himself as he seals the envelope and slumps in his armchair, rubbing his eyes. How he would love a glass of cognac,

his cognac...

At that moment he hears the engine of the Isotta Fraschini and the barely murmured words of the chauffeur.

Franca has come home.

Ignazio takes his watch from his pocket. The letter has made him lose all sense of time.

It's two thirty.

"So late..." he murmurs. Then a thought strikes him.

How much has she lost tonight?

He leaves the study, strides through the drawing rooms, and intercepts Franca just as she's entering her room. She's holding

a gold handbag with a diamond clasp—one of the last purchases from Cartier—and a bundle of IOUs.

Seeing this, Ignazio starts to shake. "How much have you lost?" he hisses.

She lifts her hand and looks at the papers as if they don't belong to her. "Oh, I don't know. I signed and that's it; I told

them I'll pay by tomorrow."

Wearily, Ignazio raises his hands to his temples. "Who are they ? And how much are you supposed to pay?"

Franca walks into the room, startling Carmela, who's been asleep on a chair. She throws off her shoes and hands the IOUs to

Ignazio with a curt "Here you are." Carmela, her eyes lowered in embarrassment, starts to unbutton Franca's faille dress with

its black and silver paillettes.

Ignazio skims through the figures and turns pale.

Having reached the last button, Carmela looks up and sees that Ignazio has a hand over his mouth, as if to stop himself from

screaming. Franca notices her discomfort. "You may go, dear. You can put things away tomorrow."

Carmela slips out.

Franca, in her petticoat now, looks at Ignazio for a few moments, her eyebrows arched, then sits down on the bed.

"Do you realize how much you've spent?" Ignazio's voice is unrecognizable. Shrill and at the same time tinged with tears.

"Do you realize that while you've been enjoying yourself, I was alone here, like a poor devil, writing a letter justifying

myself to that dog Stringher? I humiliated myself on behalf of this family, and you..."

Franca slips off her stockings. Her last pregnancy has made her heavier, and her face is starting to show signs of all the

misfortunes, the excesses, the sleepless nights. "I don't need to know what you do with your time. Besides, I think Vera enjoys

these confidences more than I do."

"You've never wanted to know anything about me or how I was feeling!" he screams, throwing the IOUs at her. "Have you ever asked me how I was, how my business was doing? Or else what I went through after the deaths of our children, what it meant to me? I've never made you want for anything: clothes, jewelry, travel... And you've been so ungrateful! It's always you, you, you... There was only ever you and your grief. Have you ever thought that I had to take care of everything, to keep everything together, while you concentrated on having the rest of the world feel sorry for you? I also lost three children—you know that? I no longer have an heir, someone to entrust Casa Florio to once I'm... I've lost my future, but that's never mattered to you." He goes to her and looks her straight in the eyes. "And now they're going to force me to let them have control, as if I were some kind of idiot, incapable of administering my own assets. You knew things were going badly, but you continued to turn away, to lead your own life, to spend without thinking. And to humiliate me, yes, because I can't honor these IOUs, either tomorrow or God knows when. But you don't care about that. You're selfish. You're damned selfish, and you came into this house only because of your pretty little face!"

Franca looks at him in a detached manner. Perhaps she's been drinking, or perhaps she's simply tired, but she doesn't react immediately. She gets to her feet, puts on her nightdress and her robe, then sits down again on the bed and strokes the blanket. "How can you accuse me of being selfish with all you've made me go through over the years?" she replies at last. "You say I've never supported you in your business, but Villa Igiea is famous all over Europe and that's due entirely to me, to what I've done, and do, every day for the guests. No, Ignazio..." She bends down to pick up an IOU and crumples it. "You're the one who's always done whatever his pleasure dictated. The one who's spent a fortune on his lovers, more than I've ever spent. You've enjoyed yourself without caring about me, about how I felt. And knowing that at the end of every affair, when you got bored or tired, I was there waiting for you, not asking any questions. But now all that's over, Ignazio. We each have our own way of escaping grief, and neither of us can blame the other for having tried to survive, despite everything." A hint of melancholy tempers the rancor she no longer bothers to hide. "You know what the truth is? It would have been a thousand times better if we'd never married."

Ignazio feels the blood drain from his face. He swallows.

They look at each other for a long moment.

Then he leaves the room and, in the darkness, heads for his own room.

***

"That Florio's an ingrate! Did you read my letter in which I described my encounter with him a few days ago? He says the deal

we've come to with the banks would exclude him from the administration of Casa Florio. He's threatening to withdraw from the

deal and ask for a legal settlement in Palermo under which he'll pay off his debts over seven years, thanks to an administrator

officially appointed by the court but chosen by him. What does he think he's doing? Who does he think he is?" Vittorio Rolandi

Ricci stops and sighs. He knows he has no need to moderate his tone with Bonaldo Stringher. They've known each other for years,

and although they have an absolute respect for form, they've developed a strong, candid complicity: they don't need to use

too many words because they share a common knowledge of how finance and power work.

Stringher doesn't reply immediately. He rises from his desk, goes to the window, and draws back the curtains, letting in the light of a bronze sun that seems to reclaim all its power before the darkness takes possession of the room. He's observing the late-afternoon traffic on Via Nazionale as he says, "Yes, I read your letter. You were very precise and honest, and for that I am grateful." The exact opposite of Florio, with his letter full of good intentions that melt like snow in the sun after a few days, he thinks. The man has been spoiled by the privileges he's had and thinks he still has. For a moment, he wonders if it's appropriate to show the letter to Rolandi Ricci. No, there'd be no point, he decides in the end. Some weapons one should use only when they are needed. If they are needed.

Rolandi Ricci's bright eyes are filled with anger. "The man is blind! Despite the efforts we've made, and the draft deal we

submitted to him, he comes up with the idea of mortgaging the Aegadian Islands, his most important source of income! What

would he have left?"

Stringher goes back to the desk, sits down, nods. "Yes, only a fool, or a badly advised person, could think up something like

that. In truth, I suspect he's both those things. We're doing what we can, but we can't save someone who doesn't want to be

saved."

"The fact is, he hasn't really grasped what will happen if he rejects our deal. He doesn't know that legal settlements would

result in the very thing they're trying to avoid..."

"In other words, bankruptcy," Stringher completes the sentence, passing a finger over his lips, following the line of his

mustache. "So much for reputation and respect!"

"In fact, it's as if he's opening the door to speculators," Rolandi Ricci says, crossing his hands over his round stomach.

"Or maybe that door's already open..." Stringher murmurs.

Rolandi Ricci looks at him questioningly. He knows very well that Stringher never makes hasty statements.

"I think the Florios are moving in that very direction. You noticed Marchesano wasn't at the last meetings, didn't you? Ignazio Florio's attitude, as you've described, his having second thoughts, the solutions he's proposing, merely confirm the... rumors that have reached me. He's looking for alliances elsewhere." Stringher leans forward. "We're working conscientiously, and the government has asked us to help Casa Florio, mainly to safeguard public order in Sicily. But if the Florios don't join our consortium, or if they're badly advised, we have no reason to stop the creditors from going after their assets. Casa Florio will be ruined and other entrepreneurs will occupy the space left by their activities. Do you understand me?"

A pause. A long silence, punctuated by the noises of the street and by the heavy breathing of Rolandi Ricci, who eventually

sighs and says, "Yes. I understand you perfectly."

***

At the end of May 1909, the lawyer Ottavio Ziino, his face ashen and stony, communicates to an impassive Stringher that the

Florios are withdrawing from the consortium. "They've taken different measures," he concludes tonelessly. "They were unable

to accept the proposed conditions."

Bonaldo Stringher listens to him and shakes his head, then looks at Ziino with limpid detachment. "I would ask you to report

back to your client that this is a stupid decision and that he will suffer the consequences. He has betrayed my trust and

the trust of the creditors, he has acted in an obtuse and underhand manner, and his behavior will precipitate his ruin."

Ziino is unable to conceal the shaking of his hands but doesn't lower his eyes.

Stringher gets to his feet and adjusts his tie. "From this moment on, Ignazio Florio no longer concerns me. The creditors

will be free to divide the assets of Casa Florio among themselves in whichever way they prefer. I shan't lift a finger."

In Palermo, the news is like a gust of the tramontana. It blows from the offices of the Banco di Sicilia to those of the Banca d'Italia, bearing its load of anxiety. In the drawing rooms, the rejection of the consortium is mixed with the gossip about Vera Arrivabene: it was she—say those in the know—who advised him in that direction. She, and not his wife, because Ignazio—again according to those in the know—has taught Donna Franca never to involve herself in his business. Others maintain they have learned "from very reliable sources" that some advisors of Ignazio have already made agreements with certain industrialists who... Yet others pontificate

that Casa Florio is a sinking ship. And we know where the wreckage will wash up.

The news spreads through the streets, to the factories, and gets as far as the harbor. Immediately voices are raised, generating

uncertainty and confusion. Commercial agreements and transfers of property matter little to the workers, the sailors, or the

poor who survive on charity. They've sensed what's awaiting them, and the threat is more tangible than ever: if the Florios'

money is coming to an end, their misery is about to start.

When Ignazio communicated his decision to the family, Vincenzo merely shrugged and said, "Go ahead," before running off to

Annina's house to organize the wedding, which will take place in a few months' time. Giovanna, pale and in pain, made the

sign of the cross, murmured a prayer, then took Igiea by the hand and walked away.

Sunk in an armchair, her hand in her lap, Franca listened to him without batting an eyelid. "Do you really think we'll manage

to get out of this mess?" she eventually asked, having first lit a cigarette.

He shrugged and murmured an "I hope so" that Franca barely registered.

But then she did something she hadn't done for a long time: she went to him and embraced him. That affectionate impulse was exactly what Ignazio needed. And something inside him crumbled, revealing that a trace still remained of their love, despite all the quarrels and recriminations.

He pulled away from Franca and took her hand. "Why?" he asked, looking into her green eyes.

"Because that's how it is," she replied, maintaining his gaze. And after so long, a glimmer of tenderness shone through.

There are many things Ignazio would like to ask her. Was it really his fault, the fault of his infidelities, or does she feel

at least a little responsible for the shipwreck of their marriage? Has she really always been faithful to him, or has she

yielded to someone's advances, as is rumored? Why did the death of their children, instead of uniting them, separate them

even more?

But he remains motionless and silent as she goes off to prepare herself for one of her parties at Villa Igiea. Another reason

for bitterness: lately, the gaming rooms of the villa have been frequented, among others, by some not so respectable people:

professional cheats and card sharks, moneylenders and prostitutes, who mainly take advantage of innocent or bored bourgeois.

But they do help bring in money for the till, and the Florios need that desperately.

When Ignazio hears the front door close behind Franca, he covers his face with his hands.

Yet another opportunity to speak, to explain himself, has been lost.

***

The agreement intended to save Casa Florio is signed on June 18, 1909. Overseeing the operation is a certain Vincenzo Puglisi, who has put the Florios in contact with the owners of a Piedmontese company, the Pedemonte and Luigi Lavagetto brothers, as well as the owners of a canning factory in Genoa, the Porodis. The output from the tonnara at Favignana and Formica is ceded to them for five years, and a very large mortgage is taken out on the whole Aegadian archipelago.

What an idiot , thinks Bonaldo Stringher in his office in Rome, as he reads the confidential reports that the regional offices pass on to

him. It won't just end badly. It will end in ruin .

Rolandi Ricci enters the office just as Stringher is closing the portfolio and lighting a cigar. He sits down without waiting

to be invited. "So the Banca Commerciale has won."

Stringher remains motionless for a moment, then gets to his feet and puts the papers in a cupboard. "Yes, Florio hasn't realized

that Lavagetto and Parodi have signed a subrogation in favor of the Commerciale, so that if one day they find themselves in

difficulty, they will hand over their credit to the bank and he'll be forced to deal directly with the Commerciale."

"Which would then acquire the Aegadian property without batting an eyelid, leaving them out on the street," Rolandi Ricci

concludes.

Stringher's laughter is contemptuous. "The Commerciale gives the money to Lavagetto and Parodi, who give it to the Florios,

who will pay the debts contracted toward the Commerciale with that very money... A classic clearance account, in other

words. But from it, we've gained two debtors who are infinitely more reliable than Ignazio Florio. When I think of what the

man has thrown away... I can't imagine a more potent example of idiocy applied to finance. He hasn't bought back the SAVI

shares, so he's out of the winery. He's practically out of NGI—he no longer owns either the shipyard or the slipway...

It'll be a disaster. It's just a matter of time."

***

"Incredible! There are so few of us..."

"Oh, yes, my dear. A reception on the cheap, not at all the way things were just a few years ago. Remember when everyone was

given a gold or silver trinket at the end of every ball?"

"Well, anyway, I learned that they've had to dismiss a number of servants and that Ignazio has given up his English tailor..."

"Whereas she hasn't given up a thing. Did you see that dress?"

"French or English? The dress, I mean... Anyway, since the birth of her last child, she's grown a lot heavier..."

"Of course, with that corsage of platinum and diamonds and those pearls around her neck she can still wear anything..."

Franca ignores these wagging tongues, which follow her like a swarm of wasps. These parasites can say what they like , she thinks. She has long since stopped caring about anything. In a dress of green lace and silk that matches the color of

her eyes, she moves between the tables, which are decorated with centerpieces of white flowers and satin ribbons, checking

that everything is as it should be and that no guest is neglected. Her smile is her shield.

The little band launches into a waltz, and Vincenzo and Annina dance, for the first time as husband and wife. It is July 10,

1909, and a little happiness has returned to the Olivuzza.

Annina is beautiful in a dress that shows off her slim waist and a veil held in place at the sides of her head by lilies of

the valley. Vincenzo is handsome, too, but above all, he has the look of a man in love; he presses his wife to him, twirls

her around, then stops, laughing. They kiss without shame, as if they're alone in the world.

Franca can recognize true happiness. Even though there is none in her own life, she can still sense love; she knows its smell: an intense perfume, as sweet as the lilies of the valley that adorn Annina's veil.

She feels nostalgic for happiness.

She watches them dance and prays that their feelings do not wither, as happened to her and Ignazio. She prays above all that

Vincenzo does not make Annina suffer. In him the spirit of the Florios moves: he's enterprising, resolute, far-seeing; all

the same, his brother has always protected him, financing all of his undertakings. Annina is only twenty-four, beautiful,

self-confident. But she too has lived a gilded existence. Together, will they find the strength to weather the storms that

will inevitably arrive?

Franca sighs and looks around for her husband. He's in a corner, scowling, not far from the armchair where Giovanna is sitting,

next to Maruzza.

As usual, Ignazio has told her nothing about what's happening. He keeps asking her not to bet too much at baccarat or roulette,

to save, to limit her spending on clothes, even though he knows that, in the eyes of the world, she can't give up on renewing

her wardrobe every year or having long stays on the C?te d'Azur or in the Austrian Alps. But now even Franca is aware of the

serious crisis threatening Casa Florio. She spoke openly about it with Giulia Trigona only a few weeks ago, admitting that

yes, the rumors about their difficulties were not entirely unfounded.

Her friend embraced her, in tears, but couldn't help telling her that the whole city had known this for some time. Early in June, her husband, Romualdo, had become mayor of Palermo and she had heard him describe in anguished tones the strikes among NGI's dockworkers and clerks, but also at the ceramics factory, the bloody clashes between workers and carabinieri, the shops on Via Maqueda smashed up, the café on Piazza Regalmici completely destroyed, the passersby manhandled, the barricades in front of the church of the Crociferi... All because people couldn't and wouldn't reconcile themselves to the fact that the naval conventions would not be renewed, since they were now—or so it seemed—in the hands of Erasmo Piaggio's Lloyd's Italiano, and Piaggio had no interest in involving Palermo and its people.

After Giulia's words came the fiery articles in L'Ora , which Maruzza has been reading aloud to her, and which merely increased Franca's anxiety. She is upset at the idea that

such hell broke loose at such a short distance from the Olivuzza and from Villa Igiea. This unrest was one of the reasons

the wedding of Vincenzo and Annina was postponed for some days and the reception reserved for close family and friends. A

grand-style party would have exacerbated the mood of the workers... not to mention that it would have placed too great

a burden on the family finances.

Annina's sister, Maria Concetta, joins her and loops an arm through hers. "They're really lovely together, don't you think?"

"Yes. Lovely and happy. I hope they stay that way."

A man with a triangular face and a thin mustache passes them. He's wearing a suit covered in dust and carries, slung over

one shoulder, a tripod on which is mounted a large box that looks both delicate and heavy. He smiles at Franca and bows his

head by way of greeting.

Maria Concetta can't help but give her friend a questioning glance.

"It's Signor Raffaele Lucarelli, a friend of Vincenzo," Franca explains with a smile. "He's made... what did he call it?

Oh, yes, ‘a wonderful film from real life'—in other words, a cinematographic record of the wedding. He says he wants to show

it in his theater, the Edison."

"So the whole of Palermo will be able to see the wedding? Mais c'est époustouflant! "

"First Palermo and then probably the whole of Italy... You know, that's how Vincenzo is. He can't resist novelty; he wants to demonstrate to the world that he's always one step ahead of everyone else. He doesn't care what other people think."

Maria Concetta moves closer to Franca and grips her arm through the long ice-colored glove. "Like Ignazio..." she murmurs.

It's a discreet and well-meant allusion. Franca nods and tries to hide the bitterness that has crept into her eyes at the

thought of Vera Arrivabene. A few days ago, she went into Ignazio's study to talk to him. She didn't find him but immediately

spotted the letters from her. There they were, on the desk, in a silver tray. One of them was close at hand, next to Ignazio's

answer, which was already in an envelope and ready to be sent. She read it. They were the words of a woman in love, revealing

trust, complicity, joy. Everything that she and Ignazio had lost.

Feeling like a thief, she put everything back in its place and tiptoed out of the room.

Is it possible that Ignazio reciprocates this woman's love? she asked herself as she closed the door.

"That's how he is. But he always comes back to me." This is what she says now to Maria Concetta, making an effort to smile.

How many times has she said those words, including to herself, in sixteen years of marriage? He always has to come back to you , Giovanna told her many years ago. If you want to hold on to him, he must know that you will always forgive him. Close your eyes and ears, and when he comes

back, keep quiet. And that's how she behaved. She suffered, waited, and forgave in silence. And then she learned to stop suffering, to live without waiting for him, to forgive him without effort. To accept him and

herself.

Now, though, she can't help wondering if it's different with Vera. And if, in the future, there won't be a new solitude. A soli tude in which even the ties of grief that link her and Ignazio are broken. A solitude in which one survives only if one agrees to live in the company of ghosts.

"What will you do after the newlyweds leave for their honeymoon?" Maria Concetta asks. "Maruzza told me you'd like to go away

for a few days."

Franca nods, then rummages in her bag for her cigarette holder. She gestures to her friend to follow her into the garden.

"Yes, Ignazio wants to go to the C?te d'Azur: he needs a little peace and quiet." She lights a cigarette. "These have been

terrible days for everyone, and there will be others, I fear. Igiea and Giulia will come, too, as well as my sister-in-law."

Maria Concetta moves her hair off her forehead and looks behind her. From the buffet, around which the guests are crowding,

comes a burst of laughter, followed by applause. Vincenzo must have said something funny. "My mother's worried," she says.

"Apart from the unrest in the city... Well, you know the rumors that are floating around about the situation of Casa Florio,

and she'd like Annina not to be involved. She's lived an easy life, always free to do what she wanted, and she doesn't want

her to be in any difficulty."

"I don't blame her," Franca replies. "All it takes is for one person to let the odd word drop here and there and what's just

a difficult patch is immediately conflated with total ruin."

Maria Concetta stands in front of her and looks her in the eyes. They've been friends for years; they can be honest with each

other. "Do you want to know what my sister said about those rumors?" she asks gently.

"Tell me."

"She said that, as far as she's concerned, the Florios could go back to living on Via dei Materassai, as poor perfume sellers, and it wouldn't matter a jot to her, because she loves Vincenzo and wants to be with him."

Franca feels a great tenderness. She's almost forgotten that such strong, pure sentiments exist. And this thought is reflected

in the gesture Maria Concetta makes, taking both her hands and saying in a quavering voice, "Take care of her, Franca, I beg

you. She's so young, so ready to throw herself headfirst into life... She doesn't know, she can't know, how difficult it

is to be a wife and mother. She needs a friend to support and protect her."

Franca embraces Maria Concetta, her throat tight with emotion. "She'll be like a sister to me. I'll take care of her. She's

a Florio now. And for us Florios, nothing is more important than family."