4

The sky is a blinding blue this February of 1918, an unhoped-for gift after days of rain. The front is a few kilometers away,

on the Piave: bands of smoke form columns and clouds, reducing visibility and obscuring the horizon. The Italian and Austrian

cannons are silent, a sign that the armies are preparing an offensive. Very soon shells will start to rain down again and

soldiers will emerge from their trenches to conquer a handful of ground at the price of dozens, of hundreds, of dead. The

fear of dying in a bayonet attack is such that some deliberately contract infections or mutilate themselves, so as not to

fight. At least that's what Ignazio has been told. And he can well believe it.

Ignazio, at the wheel of an ambulance car, stops not far from a building surrounded by tents marked with red crosses. It's

a country house transformed into a field hospital, with rows of men lying on stretchers, some bandaged, others waiting for

treatment, yet others dying or dead.

Ignazio moves cautiously along a muddy path punctuated by dark patches that he has by now learned to recognize. He was told

that the blood of war has only one color, but it isn't true. It's dark red when it gushes from a wound. But it's black when

it drips from corpses.

From the tents, the smell of iodine reaches him, combined with curses, screams, and moans. He pushes on until he reaches a tent behind what must have been stables. He goes in. It seems to be populated only by women dressed in white, nuns and nurses. If nothing else, the wounded here seem calmer, but it doesn't take him long to see the horror of it: they're all mutilated, and some have even had parts of their faces blown away by grenades.

A woman rises from the bed over which she was bending, sees him, and raises her hand in greeting. Then, having wiped her hands

on her apron, she comes up to him.

"I wasn't expecting you so soon."

The war has been cruel to Vera Arrivabene, too: although her tiredness and the rings round her eyes can be remedied, nothing

will ever straighten her stooped back or erase the deep lines around her mouth.

Ignazio brushes the back of her dirty hand. "I wanted to be sure of seeing you. It seems the number of attacks is increasing."

Vera strokes his arm. "That's right. Dozens of poor boys are coming in now. How are you?"

"Alive."

He motions her to follow him outside. They sit down on a bench behind a ruined wall and Ignazio lights a cigarette. His hands

shake slightly. "The news from Palermo isn't good. What's left of Casa Florio seems like the pastime of some malign deity.

At least I managed to pay for the work the Albaneses did on the Olivuzza and Villa Igiea, which is something that's been going

on for years, and we confirmed Linch as administrator until April 1926. For an appropriate salary, obviously." He pauses,

looks at Vera, and strokes her cheek. "I'm sorry. I'm burdening you with all my troubles as usual, and I haven't even asked

you how you are."

She bows her head. "Yesterday I attended a poor man who'd lost his legs, a peasant from Frosinone... He died in my arms. He was afraid because they'd called up his son and there was no one left to take care of his farm, given that of course his wife and daughters couldn't start pushing a plow. It hurt me to see with what desperation he clung to me. I couldn't even give him a little morphine..."

"I know. I see them." He takes a deep breath. "What's happening is absurd. They're calling up those who were drafted in '99,

practically children." He stares into the distance. "I'm worried about Giulia's son Manfredi. Right now, he's in Versailles,

an officer attached to the permanent interallied committee, but I know he's longing to get back and fight. As for her other

son, Ignazio..."

"Have you heard anything?"

"It's been three months since his plane disappeared. First they told us he was in Switzerland, then that he was a prisoner

in Germany... I have a bad feeling about it."

"What about your brother, Vincenzo?"

Ignazio takes a deep drag on his cigarette. "He's not far from here—at least I think so. He wrote to me that he's still making

modifications to his truck, even though it's been in production for two years. I've seen a few prototypes. It actually climbs

mule tracks so steep you wouldn't be able to tackle them otherwise. Lucky him! All he needs is a wrench and a few nuts and

bolts and he can forget the rest of the world!"

Vera takes his face between her hands and kisses him. "Am I a horrible person if I say that I'm happy to be here with you

right now?"

"No, you're an adorable person." He tucks back a lock of hair that's escaped her cap. Even though she's tired and worn out,

as far as he's concerned Vera is still beautiful. Even though there's a new desperation in her eyes. Even though those lines

will never fade. "You're a brave woman, who's unafraid to do something even in a world that's gone mad."

Vera embraces him and they stay like that for a long time, not speaking.

But Ignazio's thoughts turn to Franca. He hasn't seen his daughters for months, but he's pleased to know they're safe with

her. As for Franca herself, Ignazio soon realized that she had decided to stay well away from this wave of death. Of course,

she's on various humanitarian committees and involved in collecting funds for soldiers at the front, but she has no idea what

it means to transport men covered in blood, to see houses and villages destroyed, to tremble at every explosion.

He's tried to talk about these things in some of his letters, to seek her understanding, but by now Franca is like a piano

without a pedal, incapable of producing sounds that vibrate deeply. It's as if nothing can touch her anymore, as if emotions

are out of focus to her, indistinct. The deaths of her children and the loss of their house are not merely a wound that won't

heal: they are a sore on which she constantly spreads salt to convince herself that her grief is stronger than anything else

in the world. It's become an idea she's almost unable to do without.

Great sufferings are selfish; they don't admit comparison. They know only the devastation inflicted on the soul that houses

them.

And it's this that's keeping them apart.

***

"Florio!"

"Here!"

Vincenzo emerges from under the truck he's repairing, leaps to his feet, and elbows his way to the man distributing the mail.

He hasn't received many letters since his mother died, so he's surprised to see three envelopes addressed to him.

He weighs them in his hand, then looks for a quiet spot to read them, and finds it in a corner of the repair shop. One is from his brother, another from a French model he met in Paris two years ago, Lucie Henry. A relationship that began by chance but may be turning into something serious... Now's not the time to think about that , he tells himself, putting the envelope to one side. The third one is from his sister Giulia.

Ignazio brings him up to date on what Linch is doing for their business. The factory to produce seaplanes, which Ducrot established

in Mondello and in which Ignazio has shares, is finally doing well. Vincenzo smiles, pleased that his idea has borne fruit.

Then he skims through the lines in which Ignazio tells him that the Olivuzza has been stripped bare and that the furniture

he may want to take for himself is now in the storehouses of the Arenella. With a touch of remorse, he thinks how much it

must have cost Franca to choose what to keep and what to sell: he himself would never have had the courage. When the war ends—it

must end eventually, he's been telling himself since time immemorial—he will move once and for all to Via Catania. A new home,

a new relationship: without memories, without pain.

Because sometimes the past is a curse, a stone weighing on the soul that can't be lifted even by force of will. And this is

what he's thinking about as he opens his sister's letter. Giulia's handwriting is tiny and angular, and the paper bulges oddly

in a few places. He starts to read, distractedly at first, then hurriedly, and finally he rereads everything, once, twice.

It's true what they say: a heart breaking doesn't make any noise.

It doesn't matter what the cause is, a bereavement, a loss, a love never forgotten or never lived. The fragments are there,

and they hurt. They may be able to heal in time, but the scars are ready to reopen as soon as the next blade strikes.

And this blade has the name of his nephew, Manfredi.

After his long stay in France, he returned to Italy, eager to fight. And he was killed a few days ago, on August 21, 1918, at the age of only twenty-three, after part of a grenade entered his right ear.

Vincenzo knows now what those bulges are.

Tears.

Giulia, too, like Ignazio, is seeing her own sons die. Twenty-five years ago, Blasco, now Manfredi... and nobody has heard

from Ignazio for eight months. The only male remaining is Giuseppe, who is also under arms.

He leans against the wall for support, then has to sit down on the ground because his legs have given way; he feels his eyes

fill with tears and he rubs them so that nobody should see him weep. He remembers his nephews, and his soul overflows with

all kinds of images, with pain, and regret, and sorrow.

There they are together, in Favignana, or on the Sultana , or traveling, or riding velocipedes at the Olivuzza. He relives the moment when he showed them the first motorcycle he was

given by Ignazio. Whereas Ignazio insisted they call him uncle, he himself was never able to: the age difference was too small.

They were playmates first and then companions in adventure.

His heart feels like lead. First one sob, then another, shakes him. The grief is a hot, heavy bullet in his guts. Now Ignazio

and Manfredi, too, are gone. Just like Annina, who didn't even have time to give him a son. Just like his mother, to whom

he was unable to bid farewell. Just like the Olivuzza.

Like all that was his and that he hasn't managed to hold on to.

***

The end of the war hasn't put an end to the pain. Perhaps it's really too early for such things, Franca thinks, looking at the stack of cards piled on the little pink wooden table at the entrance to the apartment in Villa Igiea. She picks them up and shuffles through them, but she already knows what they contain: Palermo is declining her invitation to the party she was planning to throw in a month's time, in mid-February 1919. Her hope was to revive the splendor of the hotel, but for now her efforts seem in vain. Too many bereavements, too much destruction: the city needs a period of silence and peace in which to wipe away its tears. And Villa Igiea's recent past as a military hospital certainly doesn't help.

She puts aside the cards with a weary gesture and walks to the balcony that looks out on the grounds. Wrapped in a blue overcoat,

Giugiù, who's almost ten, is trying to persuade the governess to take her to the sea, which is unusually choppy today. Meanwhile,

Igiea, who's eighteen, is almost certainly shut up in her room reading, perhaps one of those English novels she often buys

in Rome. Franca once leafed through a few pages of a volume she found on her night table, The Voyage Out by Virginia Woolf, and immediately closed it in annoyance. That story of couples forming, then separating, seemed to her unpleasantly

familiar.

She should be grateful her daughters haven't suffered too much because of the war, even though the family certainly hasn't emerged from it unscathed. Vincenzo has returned to Palermo and apparently resumed his role as the organizer of sporting competitions and various other events in the city. Every now and again, he has left his house on Via Catania and come to Villa Igiea to see his nieces, but even though when he's with them he makes an effort to always be cheerful, it's clear that the war has left its mark on his soul, together with the still unhealed scar left by Annina's death. As for Ignazio, he's still in Rome with Vera, heavily involved in business affairs of which she knows little or nothing but which are certainly not helping solve their financial woes. They saw each other when he returned from the front, and Franca almost found it difficult to recognize her husband in that stooped fifty-year-old with his marked face and lifeless expression. Apart from anything else, he had been greatly affected by Giulia's tragedy: after the death of Manfredi, the hopes of seeing her other son, Ignazio, alive vanished when, a year after his disappearance, his body was found... or rather, what was left of it. Since then, just like her mother, Giulia has insisted on remaining in mourning and now lives shut up inside Palazzo Butera, never receiving visitors, not even her brothers. Fortunately, her son Giuseppe not only survived but was even appointed private secretary to the prime minister, Vittorio Emanuele Orlando, at the Paris peace conference. Her daughter Giovanna became engaged to Ugo Moncada di Paternò; and her other daughter, Sofia, is sure to find a husband soon. For them, at least, life goes on...

True, but definitely not the same life as before. What life, then? Franca asks herself now.

The world born from the ashes of war is alien to her, almost repulsive. It's a world that has erased men like Kaiser Wilhelm

II, a world that turned out the lights of a whole era and now gropes in the dark. And that makes her feel old, even though

she is only forty-five.

She makes up her mind to sit down at the desk and answer her correspondence. The Congregazione delle Dame del Giardinello

is asking her to help some young war widows; Stefanina Pajno is inviting her to a musical evening; she must write a thank-you

note to...

Someone is knocking at the door. An unusually insistent knocking.

One of the hotel's maids opens the door and converses with someone. Then Franca hears a familiar voice.

"Donna Franca! Donna Franca, please, I need to talk to you..."

With a sigh, she gets to her feet and goes into the next room.

And there she finds herself face-to-face with Diodata, her personal maid from the Olivuzza. For a moment, a ribbon of memories

unrolls between them and Franca allows herself a smile. How many times did that woman help her brush her hair? How many dresses

did she lay out for her? She was always attentive and discreet... including, and above all, during her rows with Ignazio.

She smiles at her, goes up to her, and lets her come in, dismissing the maid.

"You look well," she says to her, knowing she's lying. The woman in front of her is merely the shadow of the sturdy, rosy-cheeked

girl who spent so many years in her service. She's grown thinner, marked by lines, and is wearing a misshapen hat and a coat

that has more than one patch.

"Thank you. You, too, Signora, are looking very well." Diodata bows her head. She's embarrassed. "Donna Franca, please forgive me for coming here like this, without even writing you a note. I know it's not done... But, you see, I heard you'd come back from Rome and you're the only person I know who can help." All at once, her eyes grow damp and her face seems almost to crumble. "I beg you, Donna Franca. I'm desperate!" She raises her fists to her forehead. "You remember why I left, don't you? Tanino Russello, the farmer who brought the vegetables from the countryside and had a piece of land near the town of San Lorenzo, asked to marry me." She almost blushes. "We were both alone in the world and we thought we could make a go of it together. We didn't have any children, but if you remember, he was quite old and had a limp. That's why he didn't go to the war, which we thought was a blessing... But three months ago, he came back home with a cough... and the next morning he had a fever so strong that I was afraid and called the doctor. But the doctor didn't come right away; he sent someone to say there were a lot of cases like this all over Palermo, all because of this influenza they call Spanish: people who had a fever that wouldn't go down, who had pains in their necks and couldn't breathe, who ended up with blood coming from their mouths and were dying by the dozen... and that's how it was. After four days of very strong fever, Tanino started coughing up blood, and the next morning he was gone." She raises her head. Her eyes are filled with grief and despair. "I also had this Spanish thing after him, but the Lord didn't want me. I'm still here. I had to sell the piece of land he'd been cultivating that we got by with, but the money's almost gone, because the land isn't worth much at all, not these days... I'm alone and desperate; there'll be nothing left of me when I die. If I don't find someone to take me into service..." She seizes Franca's hands. "I beg you, Donna Franca, take me back, even if just for a while... Or maybe one of your friends might need..."

Overwhelmed by this flood of words, Franca instinctively takes a step back.

Of course, this violent, often fatal influenza isn't news to her: they were already talking about it during the war, but the

newspapers only devoted a few small items to it, urging caution and pointing out that this or that public place had been disinfected.

Among her acquaintances, nobody has fallen ill, and so Franca has convinced herself that there is no danger here in Palermo.

"My dear Diodata, what are you saying?" she exclaims. "Is it possible the Spanish flu has affected so many people even here?"

Diodata nods vigorously. "You have no idea how many people have died, Donna Franca. Anyone living far from the city, near the sea or in the country, was saved, but the poor people... In Castellammare, La Kalsa, La Noce, La Zisa... there isn't a household that hasn't had at least one person sick or one dead." She wrings her hands. "Some locked themselves into their houses, others washed their linen every day with sulfur soap... and there were even those who went around with cloths over their faces. But it didn't really help."

Franca has fallen silent. Her terror of illness has become a powerful wave that clouds her vision and recalls in all its crudity

the memory of Giovannuzza's death. "My daughters..." she moans, staring at Diodata with a blend of horror and incredulity.

"You're the only person I know; I served you for twenty years. I beg you, don't leave me out on the street. I'm strong, I

can work. If I could, I'd go to America, as some who worked in the kitchen have done... But I don't have enough money to

eat, let alone leave..."

Franca has hardly listened to her. A thought has formed in her mind and now occupies it completely: What if Diodata is still infected?

She can't stay next to this woman a minute longer. Without saying anything, she goes to her room and takes out a few banknotes.

Then she has an idea. She stops, considers it, and nods. She takes pen and paper and writes a few lines. She puts the money

and the note in an envelope, then goes hurriedly back to the door.

"I can't take you back, Diodata, I really can't. But take this," she says, holding out the envelope. "There's a little money,

together with a message for my brother-in-law Vincenzo. You said you'd like to go to America, didn't you? Well, go to him,

on Via Roma, and tell him I sent you. I've written to him to find you a ticket for the next ship if he can."

Diodata takes the envelope, incredulous. Then she bursts into tears. "Oh, Donna Franca, thank you! I always knew you were

a saint!" She comes closer and tries to kiss her hand, but Franca backs away.

"No, there's no need to thank me for so little," she protests.

Diodata looks at her and dries her eyes, which are filled with a gratitude that only makes Franca more uncomfortable. "I'll

never forget you," she murmurs. "You and your children will always be in my prayers, both those who are alive and those who

are angels. You were always good to me, and you still are."

Franca seizes the handle of the door. "Go quickly to Via Roma," she says, almost making a shield of the door. "Goodbye and

good luck, Diodata."

She closes the door while the woman still thanks and blesses her, then runs to the bathroom to find the sulfur soap. Frantically,

she scours her hands and arms.

But it's not only the Spanish flu she's afraid of. It's the poverty she has seen in Diodata she wants to cleanse herself of,

that sense of dirt and impermanence and misery. And the sense of guilt, the awareness of what the decline of Casa Florio has

heralded. Because it's not only her life that's changed. Many others have changed, and for the worse. And that's a responsibility

she's unable to bear.

***

Rome is very beautiful, but it's also tiring. In Paris, on the other hand, it's as if one's inside a painting by Pissarro.

It does the heart good to come here every now and again... The April sun lightly grazes the windows of the buildings on Rue de la Paix, and memories as light as veils dance before Franca's

eyes: her honeymoon, walks by the Seine with friends, horse races at the Grand Palais, nights at the Opéra... It's as if nothing unpleasant can ever happen here , she thinks, and smiles, listening to Igiea and Giugiù as they discuss the hats they saw at the Café de Paris, where they had lunch: Igiea really doesn't like the new fashion, in which flowers have been banished, to be replaced by ribbons and feathers, while Giugiù is an enthusiast for the new style.

For two years now Franca has been living in Rome, in an apartment in the Grand Hotel. Not only because it's a city where she

can fulfill her role as a lady-in-waiting but above all because everything is simpler there: fewer servants, fewer expenses.

And yet, the first few times she went back to Villa Igiea for a few days and sat down in the little temple facing the sea,

she seemed to hear Palermo calling her. The city wanted its queen back, with her carefree parties, applause at the theater,

waltzes danced until dawn, her monsù 's melon ices. But then that voice, too, grew weak until it faded completely. Perhaps Palermo has understood that when the happy times are over, one can only hope that a few people remember them , she told herself.

The only thing Franca can't get used to in Rome is the omnipresence of politics, the fact that every event in Italy has an

immediate, tangible echo there. Everything that once upon a time came to her filtered through items in the newspapers or from

someone's account now seems closer to her, and often more threatening. Like that horrible attack at the Teatro Diana in Milan

a few weeks ago in which at least fifteen people died, including a little girl. The following day, Rome was strewn with flags

bordered in mourning black and the whole city seemed to be sunk in a well of grief. Not to mention the strikes, the constant

clashes between Socialists and Fascists... Perhaps that fellow Benito Mussolini, who went to see Gabriele d'Annunzio at

Gardone Riviera just a few days ago, is the right man to bring a little order back to Italy...

"Did you hear me, Mutti ?" Igiea has come to her side and gives her a little pat on the hand. "My future mother-in-law is expecting me to show her

my wedding dress when it's almost ready. She's planning to give me a few family jewels and wants to be sure they match."

"Yes, she mentioned that to me, too, just as she told me that she would have preferred an Italian fashion house." She shrugs. "Worth is the house we Florios have always used. It's the best, and I want you to have the best for your wedding." She can already imagine Carlo Linch's objections—"Donna Franca, you promised me you would reduce your expenses!"—and Ignazio's reproaches, but she doesn't care. She wants Igiea to have the wedding she herself wasn't able to.

Giulia opens wide her clear eyes. "What about me?" she asks, unable to hide a touch of childish jealousy.

"For you, Giugiù, we'll go to Liberty's on Boulevard des Capucines." She leans forward and strokes her.

"The last time I went there, I was with Maruzza. I miss her, you know?"

"I miss her, too," Franca sighs.

It's been a year since Maruzza married Count Galanti, the manager of Villa Igiea. A late marriage for both of them, and one

that in her case was an escape from the storms that keep breaking over Casa Florio. When Maruzza gave her the news, Franca

merely nodded and murmured a few words of understanding. Her daughters, on the other hand, were overjoyed and gave Maruzza

lots of hugs.

What wonderful girls , Franca thinks. They really are a delight.

Giugiù is only twelve, but she's already blossoming. And Igiea, who's twenty-one, is a young woman with very clear skin and

long, elegant hands. On the ring finger of her left hand, she's wearing the ring that Duke Averardo Salviati gave her when

they became engaged. They will marry in a few months, on October 28, 1921.

They met during a vacation in the Abetone, a place filled with memories for Franca: it was where she met Giovanna and Ignazio

asked for her hand.

Affection and melancholy mingle for a moment. She's happy that Igiea has found a man who loves her tenderly and has such a prestigious title. She couldn't have hoped for a better marriage for her daughter, especially as the Florios' financial situation hasn't improved—on the contrary. But she really hopes that this union will not be like hers with Ignazio. That it will be peaceful. That they will love and respect each other. Why shouldn't it be so? she wonders, almost to reassure herself. I have no reason to think otherwise.

They come to the main entrance of Worth, but just as they are about to go in, a little boy in a sailor suit pops up as if

from nowhere and embraces Franca's legs.

" Le carrousel! Je veux monter sur le carrousel! " he whines, shaking his blond curls.

His nurse soon arrives, panting and apologizing profusely. She eventually drags the boy away, now weeping desperately.

Giugiù bursts out laughing, but Igiea has noticed the sad look that comes into her mother's eyes. She was very small when

Giovannuzza and Baby Boy died but carries their images inside her. She goes to her and puts an arm round her shoulders. " Mamma ..." she whispers.

Franca does her best to hold back the tears. "I'm sorry I wasn't able to give you and Giugiù a quiet life. Perhaps I haven't

even been a good mother."

"Don't say that," Igiea replies. "You've always been here for us. And Papà ... has made many mistakes, but we've never missed his affection," she adds in a calm voice. "That... woman who's with

him will never be able to replace you. Now that I have Averardo, I understand many things. For example, that it's possible

to love two people at the same time, but with different kinds of love. Perhaps Papà needs both."

"No," Franca retorts sharply, raising her head. A crack opens, letting out a flood of pain. "If you divide it, love between a man and a woman falls to pieces. I gave him all of myself, while he... he doesn't know what love means. Because he was never able to really take care of me. He didn't know how to do it, nor did he understand that sometimes you have to give something up to allow the other person to be happy. I'll continue to love him because he's my husband and your father, but..."

Igiea straightens up, looks her mother in the eyes, and clasps her hand. "But you will always be close. And that's the one

thing that really matters."

***

Vincenzo takes a deep breath of the warm air of Paris. He smiles, then looks at the woman walking by his side and plants a

kiss on her forehead. She laughs: a lively, spontaneous, silvery laugh.

Black hair, dark eyes, perfect nose: a face that reveals a free, cheerful character.

He finds it hard to believe that he's found a woman who wants to be with him, despite his constant mood swings. Lucie Henry

entered his life by chance, but it's not at all chance that she has stayed with him. They survived the war and now they live

together, dividing their time between Paris and Palermo.

Lucie returns his glance and huddles against him. "Do you think your sister-in-law will be pleased to see me? Last time, she

didn't seem particularly happy with my presence."

He shrugs and twirls his silver-tipped ebony stick. "Well, that's her problem. I'm here to see my nieces and you're my petite amie . Do you mind if I call you that?"

"I had a daughter out of wedlock. I've known many men. Now I'm living with you without being your wife. In Sicily they would

call me something else, but I don't care."

Vincenzo covers her hand with his own. They have stopped in the middle of the street. He strokes her cheeks and says in a low voice, "Do you remember? The war had only just started, and you were still posing for that penniless painter... The night we met, I was drunk and you'd quarreled with him."

She laughs softly. "Do you think I can forget? You were supposed to be going back to Italy soon, so we started seeing each

other in secret, like two youngsters... And then I introduced you to Renée." She pauses. "I wanted you to meet her because—"

"You have a wonderful daughter," he cuts in. Images replace words, and the memory grows warm, as golden as honey. With her

narrow eyes, as bright as Lucie's, Renée examined him closely before going to him, then asked her mother if he was a friend

of hers.

Lucie's abrupt embarrassment disappeared as soon as Vincenzo leaned down and ruffled the girl's hair, saying, " Non, ma petite . I'm someone who loves your mother."

Then he looked up and his eyes met Lucie's.

They were blurry with tears.

His memory leaps forward. The two of them standing in Lucie's room, near the balcony with the white curtains drawn across

it. They don't touch each other; they're still fully dressed. They're looking at each other. Nothing else: they are motionless

in that wonderful, undefined moment in which two people begin to make love with their minds even before their bodies.

Lucie is the only woman who's been able to alleviate his grief over Annina.

"Let's go," he says. He runs his hand along her arm until it reaches her hand, and their fingers intertwine.

They find Franca, Igiea, and Giulia in the tearoom of the H?tel le Meurice. The suffused light pouring down from the crystal chandeliers is reflected in the wood paneling, touches the white tablecloths, and shimmers in the milky glow of the porcelain.

Franca is sitting stiffly in an armchair. Igiea, who's beside her, is pouring the tea for herself and her mother. Giulia is

engrossed in a novel.

"Oh, there you are." Vincenzo goes to them, kisses his nieces, and lightly brushes his sister-in-law's cheek.

"Forgive us if we kept you waiting." Lucie, behind him, bows her head in an informal greeting.

Franca points to the armchair in front of her. "Not at all. We've had so much to do today. Igiea chose her dress at Worth

and then we dropped into Cartier's..." She ignores Vincenzo's raised eyebrow, turns to the waitress who has approached,

and asks her to bring more petits fours .

Lucie clears her throat, her eyes moving from the girls to Franca. She's very beautiful, and has innate class, she thinks. But she seems so cold, so distant ... Her hands are together on her lap, her back is stiff, and the smiles that hover over her lips as she talks to Vincenzo about

the wedding preparations never reach her eyes. All at once, though, Lucie senses that she in turn is being observed. Or rather,

judged. By that beautiful woman, of course, but also by her daughters. Igiea is giving her vaguely haughty glances, while

Giugiù stares at her with boredom and puzzlement. Are they comparing me with their mother? she can't help wondering.

Vincenzo seems unaware of this play of glances. "Your parents aren't sparing any expense for this wedding, are they?" he says

to Igiea with a hint of irony.

Franca's beautiful mouth widens in a complacent smile. "For a daughter, it's the least we can do. And besides, the conventions should be respected, especially as the families involved—the Sal viatis and the Aldobrandinis—are among the most important in Italy."

" Mamma knows what's best for me," Igiea declares. "The Roman nobility cares a lot about—"

"The Roman nobility?" Lucie's eyes open wide. "Are you saying the wedding will be in Rome?"

"Of course. Igiea will live in Rome, or at Migliarino Pisano, where the Salviatis have their family estate," Franca replies.

"But I'm also organizing a large party at Villa Igiea for our Palermo friends who won't be able to come to the receptions

in Rome, so that they get a chance to meet the groom."

"The receptions?" Vincenzo asks. "Isn't one enough?"

"The real reception will be after the civil ceremony. After the religious service, we'll have a breakfast for intimates, about

a hundred people. Your brother wanted it that way and I agreed to his requests."

"Uncle, you do remember that, as a witness, you will have to go to confession, don't you?" Igiea cuts in. "As you know, my

future mother-in-law, Duchess Aldobrandini, is very religious, and Cardinal Vannutelli, who will celebrate the wedding, is

a very close family friend."

Vincenzo raises his eyes to heaven and laughs. "I haven't confessed in I don't know how many years. I fear that my dissolute

life will upset that poor priest!"

Lucie stares at Igiea. It strikes her as impossible for such a young girl to be so loyal to traditions and appearances. In

the end, she's unable to contain herself and she exclaims, "But... we're in the twentieth century!"

"If there's one thing that never goes out of fashion, it's knowing how to behave correctly," Igiea retorts with biting elegance. "And we Florios must behave impeccably that day." Glancing at her mother, she continues: "My father knows how important it is to live up to the name he bears. That's why he will be with Mamma for as long as is necessary." She breaks off because the waitress has arrived with the tray of petits fours . In the abrupt silence, Franca gives Igiea an appreciative smile. She's proud of her daughter, of her determination. Of her

delicate but clear way of setting boundaries.

Vincenzo, on the other hand, bows his head, grasps his spoon, and runs it across the tablecloth, back and forth. He has understood

what his niece is telling him. At last he summons his courage, looks up at Lucie, and sees a deep sadness in her eyes. Yes,

even she has understood: her presence at the wedding will not be welcome.

"Aren't they bound to secrecy... priests, I mean?" she asks, not very confidently.

Igiea reaches out her hand to the petits fours , hesitates, then chooses one. "It is not a question of what one says but of what one chooses to reveal. If something is not

seen, it simply does not exist." She has spoken in a low breath, her lips lightly coated in sugar. She looks up and for a

moment her eyes meet Lucie's.

And in those eyes, there is a judgment that brooks no appeal.