6

"Don Ignazio, where should we put these?"

Ignazio turns, looks at the workmen who are unloading the crates and the furniture that have been taken from the NGI office.

That building on Piazza Marina is no longer his. He will no longer stroll along the Cassaro, nor see the gray slates of the

square or the shiny streetcars. And perhaps he will no longer hear creaking, no longer see cracks opening up.

It didn't take long for Luigi Luzzatti—the new prime minister, but an old fox of politics and finance—to arrange things: in

June 1910 he entrusted the running of the maritime services to a company just established in Rome. And this company has taken

over the majority of the Florios' ships. For some time, Ignazio will continue to be the vice-chairman of the board of NGI,

and Vincenzo will actually be present at the fateful meeting on April 25, 1911, in Rome, when NGI's head office is transferred

once and for all to Genoa.

But that doesn't change the reality of it: the Florios are out of NGI.

Together with Vincenzo, Ignazio has started a company managing maritime rights. A small undertaking, although it's an opportunity

to remain in a field in which—he can admit it openly now—he no longer counts for much of anything. They have taken an office

on Via Roma. Brighter, certainly, and modern, with a fine view over the buildings that have swept away a section of the historic

center, part of that obsession with renewal that still seems to run through the city like an electric current.

Ignazio gestures to the workmen to follow him up the stairs. He indicates two large rooms, one next to the other. "The low

furniture, the paintings, and my father's desk in here; in the other room, the bookcases and the security cabinets."

"So you brought it in the end."

Vincenzo's voice makes him jump. Wearing a straw hat and a linen suit, he peers in and indicates with the tip of his stick

the heavy mahogany desk the workmen are moving into position.

"I couldn't leave it there," Ignazio says.

"I don't have much love for all this old junk, for the family traditions, but it's only right it should be here, when it comes

down to it." He gives his brother a sidelong glance. "Don't be sad. Just think, we'll have less trouble and will soon be back

on our feet, thanks to the agreement about the tonnaras ."

"I hope so," Ignazio replies.

Vincenzo wouldn't understand, he knows. He always looks forward, has never felt tied to the past. Perhaps he doesn't think that leaving his father's and grandfather's desk to some unknown person would have been an insult to the very name of the Florios. And he probably barely grasps the consequences of the end of their connection with NGI. It's only a matter of time: Ignazio will have to abandon the Oretea Foundry, which his grandfather Vincenzo started against everyone's advice and which made some of the most beautiful cast iron adorning Palermo. And he will have to sell the slipway: some Palermo parliamentarians are already moving to seal an agreement with Attilio Odero, the owner of the shipyard. Apparently, the agreement stipulates that the workers will be relocated so there won't be too many dismissals, but nobody believes that: Odero has quite different interests, and the new company has offices in Rome, Genoa, and Trieste. Everywhere, except Palermo. Everything has ended up in the hands of northerners, especially Ligurians. Yes, Ignazio knows how things will end up, and so do the people in Palermo, those who look askance at him and no longer step aside to let him pass.

Ignazio turns to his brother. They're alone in the room, which by now is cluttered with boxes and furniture. "You... you

also think this is all my fault," he says.

"Yes and no," Vincenzo replies. Without anger, without recrimination. "You had too many things against you, and you didn't

realize. You tried to keep everything going, but you weren't always capable of handling the situation."

He doesn't have the courage to add anything else. Besides, what point would there be in throwing it all—the mad spending,

the princely gifts, the constant travel, the lavish receptions—in his brother's face? After all, he, too, has always taken

everything he wanted, whether a car or a woman. Perhaps with Annina everything will change , he tells himself . I'll learn to appreciate simple, unpretentious things ... He smiles at the notion, then sees his brother putting a silver-framed photograph of Baby Boy on the desk and feels a twinge

in his heart. I always thought I was brave because I'm not afraid to race cars or fly in planes, he thinks. But living with indelible grief, doing so every day, and forging ahead—that's real courage. An nina and I will help you to bear your grief, my brother. Because there are ties that are even stronger than blood. We'll never say it, because we are men and there are some things men don't say to each other. But that's how it is.

He goes to Ignazio and puts a hand on his shoulder. "We'll do whatever it takes to survive," he says. "And we'll do it together."

***

Ignazio is hurrying along the corridors of the Quirinale, barely aware of the guards trying to slow him down. It's a liveried

employee who stops in front of them and gestures to them not to intervene, because this is a rather delicate matter.

Distressing, in fact. A tragedy has struck Romualdo Trigona, Ignazio's lifelong friend, almost a brother to him. His wife,

Giulia, has been stabbed to death in the Albergo Rebecchino, a third-class Roman pensione , by Baron Vincenzo Paternò del Cugno, a cavalry lieutenant from Palermo.

How is it possible? Ignazio asks himself, panting. How?

He's unable to find an answer.

But he does know where it all started.

Almost two years ago, in August 1909, during a party at Villa Igiea. That's where Giulia and Vincenzo met. An unsatisfied,

neglected wife who drew the attention of the scion of a noble and not particularly rich family. An affair like so many others,

to be kept hidden from the eyes of the world, to be conducted in secret.

Instead, it soon became public knowledge. Giulia even left home and sold some of her properties to be able to maintain her

lover. Documents were drawn up for a legal separation.

In the scandal that overwhelmed the Tasca di Cutòs and the Trigonas, Franca did her best to make Giulia see reason, reminding her that she was condemning her daughters, Clementina and Giovanna, to a life marked by shame and an indelible social stigma. But Giulia wouldn't listen to reason; even if she left Vincenzo, she said, she would never go back to Romualdo. He was a womanizer, a spendthrift, and a coward, a man incapable of assuming responsibility for anything.

Ignazio, for his part, tried to confront Vincenzo Paternò. Thanks to Ignazio's network of relatives and acquaintances in Palermo

high society, it didn't take him long to find the fellow and talk to him. Paternò del Cugno turned out to be a charismatic

but arrogant young man, who even accused him of having designs on Giulia. He made no secret of his own interest in her wealth,

given that he had heavy gambling debts. The encounter became heated, and angry words were exchanged. They almost came to blows.

Ignazio breathes heavily, more from the grief that is oppressing his chest than from his exertions. He could have done more,

he tells himself. Everybody could have done more, and yet nobody intervened.

And now Giulia is dead.

He stops on the second floor and gives the employee a questioning glance. The man points to a double door at the far end of

the corridor, the last of the apartments reserved for ladies-in-waiting and gentlemen of the king.

He goes to it and knocks.

On the other side, sobbing.

Ignazio goes in.

Romualdo is slumped in an armchair. Next to him, his valet.

"He killed her... the bastard killed her..."

Ignazio throws aside his hat and coat, kneels at Romualdo's feet, and embraces him. Romualdo clings to him like a shipwrecked man to a piece of flotsam. He's sick, and not only because of what has happened. For some days now, he's had a fever, and it's obvious he's only just gotten out of bed.

"He killed her... the bastard! Even after all that happened, I—" A burst of sobbing cuts off this flow of angry words.

"Giulia... I never would have wanted her to end up like this." He clutches the lapel of Ignazio's jacket. "What about him?

Is it true he killed himself?"

Ignazio takes Romualdo's head in his hands. "He shot himself in the temple, but he's only wounded, apparently. It seems she

agreed to meet him to tell him that she wanted to leave him and he... already had it in his mind to stop her. He had a

weapon with him and..." He can't go on. He, too, must make an effort to hold back his tears.

Romualdo beats his own forehead with his closed fists. "We don't even kill animals like that..." He grabs Ignazio abruptly

by the shoulders. "I should have realized it! You know, only a few days ago that wretch came here, to our apartments, all

excited. I was told that Giulia tried to calm him down, but he started shouting: ‘You coward, you slut, you want to leave

me now? I'll kill you!' I should have realized!"

"I don't know." Ignazio has heard all about that terrible scene. "Now calm down." He raises his head and looks around for

the valet. "Two cognacs," he orders. He takes the glass and tells his friend to drink it all down.

Romualdo obeys and seems to regain control of himself, even though his hands continue to shake. "Did you see her?"

"No. I came straight here to you. Franca... is there, at the hotel, along with Alessandro. All I know is that the Prince

of Belmonte has gone to give the news to Giulia's father, who was about to leave for Frascati. The poor man already lost a

daughter in the Messina earthquake..."

But Romualdo isn't listening to him. "She wanted her own way, and I couldn't bear it. You know what I went through, you even know that the queen asked us to try and reconcile, but she wouldn't hear of it..."

Ignazio nods again. He was with Romualdo just two days ago, when he and Giulia signed the legal separation, and knows how

much he's suffered. He forces him to drink the other cognac. "I know."

Romualdo covers his face. "Murdered like a common whore," he stammers. "What a terrible thing!"

Ignazio grips his shoulder. "Think of it this way. From now on, you'll no longer have anything to be ashamed about. Now you're

a victim just as much as she was—more than she was. And you'll have to be careful about how you respond. You'll have to go

to the king and queen and talk to them."

Harsh words, Ignazio knows. But he's the only person who can be so direct with Romualdo.

His friend needs to react in the right way. He belongs to one of the most important families on the island; he's a high-ranking

politician; he's been mayor of Palermo.

Romualdo looks at him. He's still in a daze, but he's grasped the meaning of Ignazio's words. "Go to the king and queen,"

he repeats mechanically. "But I also have to talk to my in-laws."

Ignazio nods vigorously. "Of course, of course... Especially to Alessandro. After all, he's your brother-in-law, and don't

forget, he's also a political opponent." He pauses and forces Romualdo to look at him. "We've known each other since we were

in short pants, curò , so listen to me. You have to be strong. Even knowing how she ended up, even though it may seem to you the worst possible

shame, you have to bury her in your family chapel. Make sure it's you who organizes the funeral. Your wife was the mother

of your two children, and you should never forget that."

Nodding, Romualdo runs his hand through his hair. No, he can't forget that Giulia was a Trigona. But he'd rather forget the scenes that made their life more a war than a marriage, because he, too, is responsible for that failure. Out of the grief, the memories of his own constant betrayals resurface, especially the last one, with an actress from Eduardo Scarpetta's company, with which Giulia often confronted him.

He knows Ignazio is right: the murder of Giulia is a blow to his social credibility and therefore to his political career.

It's up to him to regain his dignity and demonstrate that in his family there are still values and that he's there to defend

them.

Romualdo gets laboriously to his feet. He sways as he proceeds to dress himself. Every now and again he stops and looks at

the emptiness around him, and his body convulses with sobs. Because we can hate each other, wound each other, separate from

each other, but death is a seal that crystallizes everything and leaves the living to bear the burden of existence. Death

is pitiful for those who go, but a sentence without appeal for those who stay behind.

And Giulia's death has sealed their bond forever.

For his part, Ignazio knows what he must do. He will commission two articles from Tullio Giordana, the editor of L'Ora : the first in defense of Giulia's memory—a good, kind woman, but the victim of dubious passions—and the second in support

of Romualdo, honest and noble, but the victim of tragic circumstances. Only one person is the guilty party: Vincenzo Paternò

del Cugno.

That's how it will be. That's how it must be.

***

The return to Palermo is strange and grim. Franca continues organizing parties at the Villa Igiea but also dedicates much time to her mother, who has remained alone after the death of her son Franz, at the age of thirty, a few months ago. Ignazio divides his time between Sicily and Rome, officially for business, in reality to be close to Vera, who has become the main focus of his thoughts. Whenever he comes home, he's brusque and bad-tempered, partly because his creditors won't leave him alone.

There's a tinge of melancholy hovering over everything. Giulia's death has revealed to both of them what a tragic outcome

an unhappy marriage may have. Luckily, the children and Vincenzo and Annina make the days happier.

On a bright May morning, Franca joins her sister-in-law in the stables, which have been converted to a car-repair workshop.

Annina has been waiting on Igiea to finish her music lesson and now she's brought her here to look at the cars. She's demonstrating

how the steering wheel works. "You see? It's connected to the wheels and makes them turn. The first time the mechanics, your

uncle's friends, come here, I'll ask them to show you everything properly."

Igiea nods, but without much interest: the time has passed when she wanted to be a driver. Now she prefers to draw, to look

at photographs, or go to the cinématographe with her mother or with her uncle and Annina, but above all she loves the sea. On a little table in the Olivuzza, there's

a photograph that shows her, together with her mother, on the steps of one of the big mobile cabins they use for changing.

She's on her feet and looking at the camera, gravely, while Franca is behind her. Giulia—everyone calls her Giugiù—isn't there,

because she was still too little to go bathing. That image is very dear to both of them: they were living through a moment

of serenity that's rare and, as such, precious.

Annina rubs her hands together to clean them, then she and Franca head for the house, Igiea skipping ahead of them, followed by one of her beloved Persian cats. "You know, Vincenzo wants to go to Switzerland for a few weeks. We may leave in July, because first he has to resolve the latest complications connected to the Targa." The complications, they both know very well, are the sums of money that are still owed to the organizers and transporters. "Vincenzo's idea of moving the stands from Buonfornello to Cerda was really a clever one. Did you see how many people came? And what a view!"

Franca nods. "Yes, I confess that after the last two years I was a little worried. Remember two years ago, when there were

so few participants that Vincenzo himself decided to take part? Well, at least that was his excuse."

Annina laughs and raises her face to the sun. She's not afraid of her skin getting red. "Vincenzo was born to organize events

and devise new things. He knows how to involve everyone, and he pushes them to give the best of themselves." Then she turns

serious. "And I have no intention of letting him out of my sight even for a moment. I didn't like how some of the female guests

looked at him."

Franca looks away. She'll never say what she thinks, which is that she's afraid her brother-in-law has not only inherited

the charm of the Florio males but also assumed his brother's worst habits. But she likes Annina too much. "Always be careful,"

she says. "You must always keep your eyes open."

Annina's lips curl in a smile. "Men always go where they're led. And I'm making sure I control him well."

The perfume of the roses in the garden is so strong as to be intoxicating. Igiea runs to her nurse, who is sitting on a bench.

Giugiù is taking her first steps and her elder sister encourages her, clapping her hands.

Annina lightly brushes the petals of a Noisette rose and sniffs the spicy aroma. "Every now and again I think about Giulia Trigona, the poor thing. I've never had the courage to ask you, but... is it true you saw her?"

Franca shudders. "No. I went first to the hotel and then with Ignazio and Alessandro to the Verano cemetery for the autopsy,

but they wouldn't let me go in."

"Do you have any news of that man?"

Franca sighs. "I can't get a word out of Ignazio. According to the newspapers, he's in Regina Coeli and can hardly speak because

the pistol shot took away the right side of his face. In any case he'll have to stand trial for premeditated homicide. I think

it's likely that Ignazio will be called as a witness." She lowers her head, swallowing a lump of tears. "I feel really bad

that I wasn't more insistent with her. I should have been closer to her. I knew that he was constantly asking her for money,

that he even threatened her. And Giulia really wanted to leave him because he'd become violent. If I'd been there more, perhaps..."

"Perhaps it would have happened later, but it would have happened anyway. She was the one who chose to go to that last appointment,

and that was her biggest mistake."

But Franca can't resign herself. It feels cruelly jarring to speak of such a terrible end in the middle of this flowery garden.

"She was as dear to me as a sister—more than a sister. I can no longer bear to be surrounded by all this death. I've lost

too many people who were dear to me."

Annina squeezes her arm. "Then Vincenzo and I will bring life back to this house. Maybe with a child, a child who has a big

smile like his father!" She laughs. "Yes, a new little Florio! What this family needs is a little joy."

***

Cholera is an ancient scourge with which the city is familiar, and against which Vincenzo Florio, Ignazio's grandfather, fought

all those years ago.

The designated victims have always been the same, for centuries: people who live in poverty, who can't wash themselves properly,

who live cheek by jowl. First one, then ten, then twenty. The commune of Palermo sends functionaries from house to house,

but many people keep their doors closed out of fear: they know that if they're ill, they'll be taken to a hospital and left

to die alone like dogs...

It happens very, very quickly.

From the lower floors, cholera rises to the upper floors, spreads from the historic center to the outskirts, reaches the villas,

attaches itself to the flesh of the inhabitants.

Nothing and no one can stop it.

On the morning of June 17, 1911, Annina wakes feeling lethargic, with strong pains in her stomach. Vincenzo kisses her and

touches her forehead. "You have a slight fever," he whispers. "I'll call the doctor."

By the time Casa Florio's doctor arrives, the fever has increased significantly. Annina can barely breathe. The doctor touches

her, then retreats.

Cholera.

How is it possible that cholera has arrived at the Olivuzza? Everything here is clean, there's running water, there are baths,

and...

And yet...

At the news, Franca is seized with panic. She's already lost a daughter to an infectious disease and doesn't want to run the chance of Igiea or Giugiù getting ill. She gives orders for the children to leave Palermo with Maruzza and the nurse. The doctor says that Annina should remain isolated; Ignazio begs Vincenzo to obey, to stay away from her, but Vincenzo shakes his head.

"She's my wife. I have to be with her." His usually sharp voice becomes a rivulet. "I won't leave her alone. She must get

better."

It's he who lifts her in his arms and carries her to a room on the third floor of the Olivuzza, far from everyone. He clasps

her to his chest, but Annina, in the grip of the fever, hardly recognizes him. Her face is covered in red blotches; her sweaty

hair sticks to her skull; she's very weak. He tidies her hair and wets her forehead with fresh cloths. He sits by the bed,

holds her hand, kisses it, sends away the alarmed maids, and changes the sheets and linens himself.

"Don't die," he begs her, holding her hand. "Don't leave me."

For the first time in his life, he has felt loved and welcomed, he has experienced the joy of sharing mutual passions, of

laughing and becoming excited about the same things. It can't all end like this. It mustn't end like this.

"It's too soon," he says to her, his mouth against the back of her hand. "You can't leave me. We want a child—remember how

much we talked about it? You promised me a child."

Wake up , he implores silently, looking at her motionless, waxen face. "Wake up," he says to her, and tries to make her drink. In

the evening, Annina loses consciousness. On the ground floor, her sister, Maria Concetta, is weeping desperately, and so is

her mother, but the doctor prevents them from going up. "It's bad enough that Signor Vincenzo is there. Let's hope he doesn't

get ill, too," he comments grimly, looking at Ignazio, who is ashen-faced.

The two women decide to stay there for the night, so as to be close to Annina.

The following morning, the gilded mirrors in the drawing rooms of the Olivuzza and the panes of the windows reflect pale, marked faces. The servants look for soap and vinegar to disinfect themselves.

There's Giovanna, in her room, weeping and praying on her knees in front of the crucifix. There's Franca, terrified, holed

up in her room, hoping that her children have not been infected. There's Ignazio, in a daze, seizing the telephone to call

Vera and tell her what's happening, just to hear her voice.

There's Vincenzo, who feels his soul breaking into pieces.

And then there's Annina, in a bed soaked with sweat, who's stopped waking up, who can't drink, can't speak, her breath ever

more labored and her body seemingly on the verge of falling apart.

On the afternoon of June 19, she has an attack of convulsions.

Vincenzo screams and calls for help. It's the fever; it's too strong. From the stairs, the voices of Maria Concetta and her

mother, the cries of Ignazio and the doctor.

Annina writhes, struggles, pants.

He tries to keep her still but can't. She won't stop moving.

Then she stops, her eyes roll back, her back arches. She collapses in Vincenzo's arms, without breath, without a heartbeat.

And all at once, it's over.