Part Four Lead

October 1912 to Spring 1935

Cu avi dinari campa felici e cu unn'avi perdi l'amici.

Those who have money live happily and those who don't lose their friends.

—Sicilian proverb

"Lead is a metallic body, pale, earthly, grave, soundless, with little white and much pallor," writes Ferrante Imperato in his Dell'Historia Naturale (1599). Available in abundance in nature, easy to melt and work, it is used as far back as ancient Egypt. Phoenicians, Greeks,

and Romans use it for making weapons like arrowheads or sling bullets for catapults, since lead bullets do not exist until

the Middle Ages. They also use lead to make fishing tools (ballasts, sounders, and anchors), various kinds of welding, pipes

(because it is resistant to oxidization), and pans for cooking and concentrating must in order to obtain "salt of Saturn"

(lead acetate) to sweeten wine, so called because the god Saturn was associated with lead.

From Theophrastus of Eresos (third century BCE), we discover the origin of another essential use of lead: ceruse, a kind of

"mold" made from corroding lead with vinegar vapors. Until the nineteenth century, ceruse, or white lead, illuminates the

history of art: everyone uses it, from Leonardo to Titian, from Van Dyck to Velázquez, because the only other white pigment—whitewash—is

unsuitable for oil painting. Moreover, it illuminates women's faces: as far back as the eleventh century, Trotula de Ruggiero,

active in the Schola Medica Salernitana, explains in her De Ornatu Mulierum how to create a cream that "can be applied daily to the face to make it fairer": chicken fat, violet or rose oil, wax, egg

white, and white lead powder. Queen Elizabeth I's ashen complexion is due to her application of a thick blend of ceruse and

vinegar to conceal her smallpox scars.

It is a long time before people realize just how dangerous this illumination is. In the mid-seventeenth century, the German physician Samuel Stockhausen finds that litharge (lead oxide) is the cause of the asthma afflicting miners in the city of Goslar in Lower Saxony. A few years later, in his De Morbis Artificum Diatriba , Bernardino Ramazzini focuses on the work of potters and says, "[...] all that is toxic in lead, when thus melted and

liquefied with water, is absorbed by them through their mouths, nose, and entire body, and consequently they soon start suffering

serious damage [...] at first trembling hands, then paralysis, with a sick spleen, then comes stupidity, cachexia, and

toothlessness, to the extent that it is rare to see a potter without a pasty, lead-colored face." This condition will be called

saturnism , and will give rise to theories about its famous victims: many Roman emperors (including Caligula, Nero, Domitian, Trajan),

heavy wine drinkers and therefore consumers of Saturn salt ; painters like Piero della Francesca, Caravaggio, Rembrandt, and Goya, because of their intense use of ceruse. Apparently,

Beethoven also paid with deafness for his love of Rhine wines, drunk in lead crystal cups and sweetened with lead acetate.

Some claim that Lenin also died from lead poisoning because of the two bullets he received in a failed assassination in 1918,

which were not removed until four years later. But the millions of men and women with humble jobs who also died of lead poisoning,

from factory workers to miners, from linotype operators to milliners, are and will always remain anonymous. Primo Levi was

right when, in The Periodic Table , he defined lead as "murky, poisonous, and heavy," and yet it is also thanks to this metal that we have Antonello da Messina's

L'Annunciata , Da Vinci's The Last Supper , and Caravaggio's Medusa.

Art and destruction, beauty and death, locked in a single soul.

***

The FIAT brakes to an abrupt standstill outside the hotel's double doors and Franca gets out. She's wearing a fur-trimmed

beige coat and a hat with a large veil over her face, her forehead furrowed by a worry line. She clutches the handle of her

handbag as she walks gracefully up the steps to the lobby.

Maruzza rushes after her and catches up with her just as Franca is about to ask for Signor Florio's room number.

The concierge is polite but firm. "The signore is indisposed and cannot receive callers."

Franca glares at him scornfully, lifts her veil over the brim of her hat, and leans forward. "He may be indisposed for all

women, but not me. I'm his wife. I'm Donna Franca Florio," she says, her voice brimming with anger. "Tell me my husband's

room number or I'll have you fired."

Embarrassed, the man mutters, "I apologize. I didn't recognize you..."—which only adds to Franca's exasperation.

She sighs and turns to Maruzza. "Take the car and arrange all our things in the hotel. Then send the car back to me."

"Are you sure you don't want me to wait for you here?"

"No, thank you. You may go."

Maruzza squeezes her arm. "Be strong," she whispers in her ear.

Franca sighs again.

She has been trying to be strong all her life. To force herself to be strong, she thinks, correcting herself as she climbs the stairs, her hand on the velvet banister.

An entire lifetime of bearing, accepting, closing her eyes. Because that's the way she had to behave. Because that was the

only role available to Donna Franca Florio on the stage of this gossiping, prying city called Palermo.

And all that for the sake of love. Even after love stopped being love—because that's how it ended up—and she found herself without a purpose. Without a man who, for better or worse, had filled her life.

Until Vera arrived.

She approaches the room on the third floor and hears muffled footsteps before a man with a thick graying mustache opens the

door. Behind him, on the bed, sits Ignazio in a red velvet smoking jacket, a bandage covering part of his face.

She looks at him with a mixture of anxiety and anger.

"Signora... we weren't expecting you so soon," the man says, inviting her to come in.

Franca knows Professor Bastianelli: he is their family doctor in Rome. Trying to ignore the vague embarrassment that has drifted

across the room, he picks up his hat and bag and leaves discreetly. Franca and Ignazio are left alone.

Franca removes her hat and coat and slips off her gloves. She is wearing a smart brown dress with a plain string of pearls

around her neck. She goes and sits down in the armchair at the foot of the bed, crossing her hands over her legs, and stares

at him for a long time.

Ignazio doesn't shy away from her gaze. "Forgive me," he says at last, lowering his head. "Once again, I've upset you."

"No worse than any other time," Franca replies with a tense smile. "If anything, I was rather scared for you."

Faced with this reaction, and those eyes filled with resigned sadness, Ignazio feels something he has recently had to contend with more and more: a sense of guilt. He has tried to deny it, to push it away his whole life. He has succeeded and is still succeeding, when it comes to tackling his increasingly precarious business situation. But it's quite another story with Franca. Now guilt is constricting his throat, pressing down on his chest, making it hard for him to breathe.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs. He rubs his hands on the edge of the bedsheet, his finger tracing an imaginary pattern. "When Vera's

husband, Giberto, found out about me and his wife... I know how painful it must be to hear these things from me..."

Franca remains impassive.

"He attacked me here, in the lobby of this hotel, a few days ago," Ignazio continues, "and challenged me, demanding satisfaction.

The duel was... unavoidable." He gets slowly to his feet. The wound to his temple is not serious, but it is unpleasant

and causes dizziness. "We agreed to meet at Villa Anziani the day before yesterday, as I told you on the phone. We fought

with sabers. He was furious—he lunged at me with the violence of an uncontrolled demon. He wanted to kill me, or at least

disfigure me."

Franca suddenly bursts out into a long, hearty laugh, covering her mouth with her hands. "Oh God, you men are so ridiculous!"

Ignazio looks at her in shock. Has his wife gone crazy?

Franca shakes her head, her laughter waning into a smile of perfectly balanced pain and incredulity. "A duel with sabers,

like a third-rate novel for servant girls. And Giberto demanding to defend his honor after... How long have you and she

been seeing each other? Four years?" She looks down at her hands and touches her wedding band. "If I'd challenged to a duel

all the women with whom you've had affairs, half our female acquaintances would be dead or disfigured... Or I would be. Only a man would behave with such stupidity."

Ignazio keeps staring at her. "What... what do you mean?"

"I mean that you may not remember how many women you've had, but I do. At least those I've heard of. I've had to learn to smile and shrug, as if it's only natural that my husband should have one affair after another. Dozens of them. And you know what?" She looks up, her green eyes now clear and almost calm. "After telling myself so often that I didn't care, I've truly ended up not giving a hoot."

He goes to a small table, picks up a bottle of cognac, and pours himself a glass. "But I've always come back to you."

"Because you wouldn't have known where else to go."

"Don't be silly. You've always been my point of reference."

Franca walks over and stands facing him. "Still telling yourself that lie, Ignazio? Be my guest, only don't tell it to me.

I'm too tired. When I married you, I was a naive girl, and perhaps you, too, were filled with hopes... You know, I sometimes

miss that young woman who was so sure her one duty was to be at her husband's side and love him in spite of everything. How

I fought and suffered to feel worthy of you, of your name... of being a Florio."

Her voice has a hardness he has never heard before. "Franca—"

"You've never shared anything about your business with me. You've never told me what you talked about with your politician

friends in Rome and Palermo. For so many years I thought that was right and proper. After all, I didn't know any other women

involved in their husbands' dealings. I was your wife and I had social duties; someone like me shouldn't be interested in

those things. But now..." She hesitates, these words clearly wounding her. "Now I know that you share these things with

Vera. Don't bother denying it: I know she's advised you on more than one occasion. Even Vincenzo confirmed it."

Ignazio swallows air, not knowing how to respond. How can he explain to her how he feels when he doesn't know himself? How can he tell her that, yes, he loves her because she represents the most beautiful and important part of his life, because together they have been masters of the world, but that in the end that life has shriveled like paper burnt to ash? How can he confess to her that when he looks back, all he sees are wild parties, travels that were actually escapes, nameless female bodies, money squandered on seeking a pleasure as intense as it was ephemeral? And how can he admit that when he looks ahead, all he sees is the unavoidable decline of old age, accompanied by financial ruin?

He can't. Because to tell her everything would mean to give body and voice to the most painful reality for both of them: the

absence of an heir for Casa Florio. His name, the name of his uncle—an "honest and brave man," as his father said—will end

with him. There is no one he can give the ring he wears under his wedding band. He hoped at least to have a nephew, but since

Annina's death over a year ago, Vincenzo has become even more restless and rebellious. No, there is no one, and never will

be...

Franca notices Ignazio toying with the family ring. She knows that gesture. It means embarrassment, suffering, anxiety.

"I know you blame me," she mutters.

"For what?" Ignazio doesn't look at her but stares at the wall opposite, beyond the barrier of the half-open window.

"For giving you only one son. Only one."

He sighs, more irritated than despondent. "I don't blame you for anything. We had one and the Lord took him away. Maybe he

wanted to punish us for something."

"Even your mother wouldn't say something like that."

Ignazio's sense of guilt clamps his chest again. He has thought, in his darkest moments, that the Lord wanted to punish him for the series of follies and betrayals that his life

has been. But what does it matter now? Even if he did have an heir, what would he bequeath him? Only debts and dust.

"You know I've never held back. I've always been there. I've always been a faithful wife."

Ignazio can't bear it anymore. He needs an outlet, a way of unburdening himself. "Stop it once and for all!" he bursts out. "Why don't you talk about the men who chase you across Italy, who yearn for you, starting with D'Annunzio and that marchese who showers you with flowers, and finally Enrico Caruso, whom I was foolish enough to sign up for the Massimo when he didn't

know anybody! I know he still writes to you... How long has it been? Ten, fifteen years?"

Franca waves her hands in annoyance. "It's pointless accusing me, and you know it. They all flirt with me, but nobody has

ever taken any liberties beyond words. Because I've never given them reason or occasion to. I've always been equal to your

wishes. And all that for what? There's always been a woman who's better than me, more desirable, more charming. Do you deny

it?"

Ignazio stares at her in silence, with anger and shame.

I've always been equal to your wishes.

The ideal wife. Stunning. At ease in every circumstance. Relaxed but measured. More elegant than anyone else. With brilliant,

sharp, intelligent conversation. A lover of music and the arts. The perfect hostess. Wasn't it he who prompted that shy nineteen-year-old

to become this sophisticated, demanding woman standing now before him? He wanted a wife to show off, a trophy other men would

envy. He never really sought in her a life companion.

He was so blind. So immature.

He realizes this now that he has found what he really needs elsewhere.

"I..."

She looks down at her hands and weeps silently, then asks in a weak voice, "What does Vera have that I don't?"

Ignazio wipes her tears with the back of his hand. "Franca... You're different. She's..."

"What more can she give you than I've given you all these years?"

He can't bear Franca acting as both judge and jury. He walks away and stands with his back to her. "She's everything you can

no longer be," he says. Full of enthusiasm, passionate, alive. "She welcomed me into her life, while you've excluded me from everything. Any excuse to keep away from me: evenings gambling,

taking trips with your female friends..."

Franca turns pale, eyes open wide. " You're blaming me for not being by your side?"

"Ever since the problems began, you've... disappeared. You haven't been there for me. Vera has been. And that's made a

difference."

"But you never asked me to!"

"You're my wife. I shouldn't need to ask."

Franca sways.

She has given him her whole life and it wasn't enough for him. Now he's practically accusing her of not giving him more. Wasn't

it enough that she turned a blind eye to all his betrayals? That she faced the whole world with dignity after the deaths of

their children? That she was always at his side? No, it wasn't enough for him. Franca suddenly realizes that Ignazio wishes

she had destroyed herself totally and remained invisible until he called her, dependent on his needs, his urges. But then

he met Vera and understood that the power of love wasn't submission but equality and walking side by side.

Ignazio had grown up at last. But to do that, he had cast her aside, along with all that existed between them.

So he, too, can truly love , she tells herself, more surprised than embittered. And he loves a woman who's not me.

"I understand. There's nothing more to add." She throws back her shoulders and raises her head. Dignity and pride are the only two things no one will ever be able to take away from her. "I'm going to the Grand Hotel," she says. "You can find me there." She picks up her coat. He doesn't stop her. He drops his arms, watches her, searches that face that's able to hide pain.

This is delayed, denied pain, kept quiet for too long. And now it burns inside him, too, corroding him like acid.

They will be together in the eyes of the world, but they will live separate lives. They will share a dining table, but not

a bed. And they will never again look back.

"I'll be in touch," he says, but she's already out the door.

Franca goes downstairs, holding on to the banister, although her fingers are trembling.

The ice that's been inside her for years—since her children died, but perhaps even earlier—suddenly turns into a flow of lava.

She feels its intolerable heat, feels it bubbling and swelling. It seems to be stifling her. She collapses on a step, her

forehead resting on her arm, breathing with her mouth open, her head spinning violently.

What do I have left?

Igiea and Giulia, of course, but what else?

This thought falls away and folds in on itself. The tears that were pushing to get out a moment ago have dried up.

There's nothing else to add. She gets back up and walks out, taking small steps, she who has always had a relaxed, elegant

stride. Outside the hotel stands the vehicle Maruzza has sent back. As the driver opens the door and she's about to get in,

another car stops outside the entrance.

A woman gets out.

Her delicate face is tense, her disheveled hair escaping her cream-colored hat. A small suitcase peers out from under a woolen

cloak the same color as the hat.

The woman pays the driver, then turns.

At that moment, their eyes meet.

Vera Arrivabene stares, astonished. She lifts a hand, as if to greet Franca. After all, they have known each other for years

and have been good friends. It would be a natural gesture.

But it only lasts an instant.

She clenches her hand and lowers her arm. She sustains Franca's gaze, shameless, remorseless. Her face is white and delicate,

like that of a Madonna, with just a hint of pink.

Franca stands motionless, simultaneously looking at her and ignoring her.

Vera turns her back on her and practically runs up the steps into the hotel.

Only then does Franca take a seat in the car and say, "To the Grand Hotel."