5

Franca puts down the receiver, gets up from the armchair, and allows herself a tender little laugh. Maria Arabella, the daughter of Igiea and Averardo, was born just over a month ago, on September 6, 1922, and both mother and child are doing well, perhaps partly due to the fact that they are living in the country, on the Salviatis' beautiful estate. What has most cheered her, though, is Igiea's voice: calm, self-confident, serene. The voice of a woman who has found her place in the world and feels appreciated and respected by her new family.

The telephone rings again and Giulia runs to answer it.

"Hello? Oh, Uncle Vincenzo!... Yes, we're fine. What about you? How's Aunt Lucie? And Renée? What about Grandma Costanza—have

you seen her?... Oh, good!... What? You're organizing a motorboat race between the Arenella and Villa Igiea and want

to know if we..."

Franca has understood and immediately shakes her head.

"I'll ask Mamma , but I don't think we'll come... Palermo is too sad in November... Oh, you know, yesterday we saw a film actually set

in Sicily? It's called Il viaggio and Maria Jacobini is in it, she's very beautiful, and..."

Franca's smile fades, as does the image of Palermo that Vincenzo's invitation has evoked. It hardly matters now that the last

stretch of Via Roma has been completed or that there are new streets and big stores. Those are all things for the lower middle

classes, people with no style. Most of those nobles who illuminated Palermo for so many seasons have been unable to emerge

from the darkness of war and the economic difficulties that followed and are leading an isolated existence. Or else they have

moved, perhaps to Tuscany or Rome, as she has. And they try to travel as often as possible: the hotel rooms of Paris, of the

Austrian Alps or the Trentino are comfortable, elegant places without a soul, without memories.

Only Giulia has found a way to remain linked to the past. Constantine, the ex-king of Greece, has chosen Palermo for his exile

and Giulia spends her days with him, Queen Sophia, and their small entourage, who are often at Villa Igiea.

A ghost who has chosen the company of other ghosts.

Franca's eyes come to rest on the drawer of the little desk against the wall, one of the items of Ducrot furniture she managed to bring to Rome. She knows there's a bundle of papers in it, left there by Ignazio a few months ago, on the occasion of his last visit. Perhaps it was carelessness, or perhaps he did it deliberately—who could say? She saw them and, in that jumble of numbers and bureaucratic formulas, one thing was clear to her: the mortgage on the Olivuzza, arranged with the Société Fran?aise de Banque et de Dép?ts, had been cancelled—God knows how—and much of the building, with a substantial section of the grounds, had been sold to Girolamo Settimo Turrisi, Prince of Fitalia.

She closed the portfolio abruptly and immediately put it in that drawer, trying to forget it. It was painful to think of the

end of her own world, but unbearable to have concrete proof.

No, at least for a while she won't be going back to Palermo.

But nor does she want to stay in Rome. What may happen after that gigantic gathering of Fascists in Naples, at which Benito

Mussolini said, "Either they give us the government or we will fall on Rome and take it," as if the city were his prey?

"Listen, Giugiù, what would you say to going on a little trip?" she asks Giulia as soon as the telephone call is over. "We

could go to Stresa, and then to Viareggio, to the Hotel Select as usual. And we could ask Dory to come with us."

Giulia gives a little cry and starts dancing happily. Mother's new American friend, Miss Dory Chapman, is a woman who has

traveled all over the world and who knows lots and lots of incredible stories, but above all she's always in a good mood.

Even Giulia has noticed that when she talks to her, her mother is less sad than usual. "That'll be wonderful," she says, giving

her a kiss on the cheek. "Yes, we need a little cheering up."

***

Franca doesn't know why Ignazio has joined her at the Hotel Select in Viareggio on this cloudy November evening. She has noticed

that he has a troubled air and has brought a couple of suitcases with him, as if he left in a hurry. As usual, though, she

doesn't ask any questions. In silence, she takes a string of pearls and a bracelet from her gold mesh bag, puts them on, and

puts the bag back in the little trunk. Then she drapes her sable-edged cape over her shoulders and says simply, "Are you coming?"

"Where are you going?"

"To the casino, just for a few bets and a little chat. Not that there's much else to do here."

He shrugs. "Do you mind if I don't go with you? It's cold, it's about to rain, I'm exhausted, and I'd happily go to bed."

"Your room is opposite Giugiù's. Here's the key," she replies curtly. "And besides, I'm going with Dory and the Marchese Di

Clavesana. I'm not alone."

In the corridor, Ignazio walks away without even saying goodbye.

He's seen more dawns than the sun and now he's become an old man who complains about a few drops of rain , Franca reflects with a smile as she descends the stairs to the lobby, where Dory, who has been waiting for her, immediately

comes up to her. "Here you are, my dear!" she cries, pulling her fur stole around her. "Are you wrapped up warm enough? You

Sicilians have such need of heat! The Marchese Di Clavesana is waiting for us in the car. Shall we go?"

Franca smiles. Yes, Giugiù is right: this woman really does cheer you up . "Of course," she replies.

A distant peal of thunder is heard as one of the hotel's valets closes the door behind them.

***

It's just after midnight. Two black-clad men are walking rapidly along the service corridors of the Hotel Select. They climb

a flight of stairs, then noiselessly open the door of a storage closet. There, amid the brooms and the baskets of dirty linen,

they find an apron. One of the two men grabs it, shakes it, and smiles.

Jingling. Keys.

The two men leave the storage closet and climb to the piano nobile , where the most luxurious rooms are. By the light of a little wall lamp, they insert the skeleton key in the lock, which

clicks open without a squeak.

They are inside.

The room is spacious, illuminated only by the light of the streetlamps outside. They make out the bed, a robe lying between

the pillows, the dressing table, and a chair on which there is a slip.

One of the two men slides a handkerchief into the lock of the door, then points to the dressing table. There in front of it,

on the stool, is a little trunk.

The little trunk.

With a knowing nod, they put it on the mattress, and force it open with a picklock.

There it is, the gold mesh bag with Franca Florio's jewels. They open it, rummage inside, find the little velvet pouches,

remove them, and before emptying their contents go to the window. The pearls and precious stones flash in the dark.

Then one of them replaces the pouches in the bag, while the other man goes to the opposite side of the room and places his

ear against the door that partitions Franca's room from the American's.

No sound. They can continue.

They put the little trunk back on the stool. Then they fling open the wardrobes, open the suitcases and hatboxes, and carelessly rifle through the clothes. Finally, they grab the bottles of cream, uncap them, open wide the window, and toss them down among the hedges. Everyone will be convinced that they escaped that way, jumping down into the garden.

Next, they go into Dory's room. The booty here is less impressive: a gold pen, a little notepad, also bound in gold, an envelope

with five thousand lire.

Then they close the door behind them, and as silently as they arrived, they leave.

***

Inspector Cadolino is holding the sheet of paper in hands that are almost trembling. Even his voice is hesitant. "I'm sorry

to disturb you again, Signor Florio, but Commissioner Grazioli will be here soon from Rome and I'd like to make sure the list

is complete. May I?"

Ignazio, holding a fist against his mouth, nods.

"Thank you. So: one string of one hundred eighty large pearls, with diamond and ruby clasp; one string of three hundred fifty-nine

pearls with diamond clasp; one string of forty-five large pearls; one string of four hundred thirty-five small pearls; one

platinum necklace with large drop pearls and large diamonds; one small platinum and gold purse with pearl monogram and pendant;

one gold brooch with diamond monogram and royal crown with Turkish knot..."

"My wife is a lady-in-waiting to Queen Elena and that's her badge."

"Oh, yes, of course... One wristwatch with ribbon diamonds; one square gold wristwatch; five large pearl rings; one ruby and diamond ring; one long diamond chain segmented into three parts..."

Franca isn't listening. She sits, her hands in her lap, staring into the distance. Not only does she no longer have her jewels — her protection against the ugliness of the world—but ever since the theft was discovered, two days ago, it has felt to her

that she's in prison, as if she were the thief. Constant interrogations. Policemen everywhere. Journalists waiting outside

the hotel. Questions after questions, to her, to Dory, to Ignazio, even to Giulia. Unknown hands rummaging among her clothes

and in the drawers, spreading a powder for fingerprints, searching and interrogating chambermaids and valets. For what? They're

not even sure if the thief was alone or not, if he got in through the door or the window, or how he escaped. Yes, there was

a smear of cold cream on the window, but...

"...one large bracelet with platinum chain; one bracelet with two rubies and diamonds; one platinum bracelet with four

large pearls; one bracelet entirely of diamonds; one platinum and turquoise bracelet..."

I have nothing left.

"...one diamond and sapphire bracelet; one platinum ring with three diamonds; various ruby and diamond brooches; one diamond

and ruby braid..."

I am nothing anymore.

"Have you finished?" Ignazio asks. He's weary, at the end of his rope, and makes no attempt to hide it.

Cadolino nods, bows to Franca, and leaves the room.

Ignazio goes to her and lightly touches her face. She looks at him as if she hasn't even noticed his presence.

"We'll find them—you'll see," he says, trying to console her. In reality, he, too, is shaken and incredulous. Those jewels are worth a fortune and could be collateral for the debts that are choking him. Linch knows that, too; he called him immediately to find out "the extent of the damage."

Franca twists a handkerchief. "What was most dear to me after my daughters..." she whispers. "It seems I can't keep that

which I cherish most, that my fate is to lose in the most painful way possible the people and things of which I'm fondest.

What sin am I meant to be atoning for? Why must I be punished like this?"

Ignazio embraces her. "Now, now, my dear Franca... We've been through much worse. Remember, these jewels are easy to identify.

The thieves can't have them dismantled by the first jeweler they come across. And nobody will want to be accused of receiving

stolen goods. For what you'd get out of it, it's far too risky."

Franca opens her eyes wide. "Taken apart?" she stammers. "My necklaces? The rings... my pearls?" She shakes her head frantically.

"No, no..." she keeps repeating. Ignazio's words are futile. Franca starts to shake, hugging her chest as if trying to

hold herself together. "Do I have to suffer that too?" She weeps softly, her face distorted by a pain that's the sum of all

the suffering she's had over the years. As if the thief, besides robbing the jewels from her, has stolen the one thing that

still protected her soul: the memory of happiness.

***

And yet, at least this once, fate is kind to her. Leading the investigation is a highly capable deputy inspector from Milan, Giovanni Rizzo. He's a bulldog, someone who really knows his job. He quickly identifies the two thieves, the Belgian Henry Poisson and the German ex–Air Force officer Richard Soyter. They had been following Franca for days, studying her habits and those of her friend, and committed the deed at a time when they were sure both Ignazio and Giulia would be asleep.

Rizzo lays a trap for them in Cologne, thanks to the na?véte of Poisson's girlfriend, Marguerite. What with unlikely and contradictory

testimony, bold declarations—"What was Signora Florio supposed to do with her jewels, she who has so many?" Poisson apparently

said when he was arrested—suitcases stopped at the border with Italy, and legal blunders, it will take until 1926, in other

words, four years, for the two thieves to be sentenced in absentia by the Italian courts. By the time the trial is held, people

have lost interest, even Franca, who doesn't bother to attend.

It was enough for her that she got back all her jewels, in January of 1923. With a mixture of surprise and compassion, Giovanni

Rizzo watched her open the pouches, one by one, lift the pearls to her face, stroke the diamonds, and slip on the rings. "They're

back... they're here and they're mine," Franca murmured, weeping with happiness.

Her life, or at least a part of it, has been restored.

***

Even though more than ten years have passed since Ignazio had to abandon his office on Piazza Marina, for him the creaking

has never stopped and the cracks have never been filled in. On the contrary. The Olivuzza torn to pieces, reduced to a new

neighborhood of the city. Villa Igiea, which by now has lost its reason for being: the rooms are deserted; the casino brings

in hardly any income. The ceramics factory practically transferred to Ducrot. The head office of the Banco Florio and the

premises on Via dei Materassai sold to men of cunning and of dubious reputation, who got rich while Italy sank into war. Even

L'Ora has for some time been in the hands of the rich miller Filippo Pecoraino. Then, in 1926, the regime will close down the paper and restart it the following year with the subtitle Fascist Daily for the Mediterranean .

In this endless storm, the one bulwark is Carlo Linch. Omnipresent, punctilious, tireless, he stubbornly continues to press

for a reduction in expenses, especially Franca's—"They're still too high!"—and sometimes even brings up Igiea's wedding, even

though that was four years ago. "It cost an arm and a leg! Clothes, jewels, even three receptions! Oh, if only you hadn't

squandered so much..." he cries in exasperation when times are particularly hard. And yet he's not an insensitive man:

saving what remains of Casa Florio is a task he carries out with a sacrifice deserving of a better cause. Wicked tongues insinuate

that he has benefited financially and that certain choices made during his tenure were not entirely aboveboard. Be that as

it may, he still has hope, and because of him, so does Ignazio.

For a brief moment, that hope had three names: Ignazio Florio , Vincenzo Florio , and Giovanna Florio .

It wasn't easy, but in the end the Banca Commerciale granted the Florios a line of credit for the purchase of three English

ships, intended for freight. With one of them—the Giovanna Florio —Ignazio even entertained the idea of a route between the Mediterranean and Baltimore. But all these ambitions were scuttled

by the crisis in the Italian merchant industry, which has been undermined by unsustainable costs and ever more meager profits.

Over the course of a few years, the three ships will end up decommissioned in Palermo harbor, the sad reminder of yet another

dream gone up in smoke, until a captain from Piano di Sorrento, Achille Lauro, rents them for a ridiculous sum and, thanks

to them, starts to build his naval empire.

Another flame, another hope: after months of discussions with the ministry for the Merchant Navy, in December 1925 in Rome, a new company, the Florio–Società Italiana di Navigazione is set up, and some lines across the Tyrrhenian Sea will be assigned to it. This desire not to give up the sea is Ignazio's, aware as he is of how closely the name of the Florios is linked to the sea. But it's Linch who has seen to everything, overcoming the ministry's mistrust and taking charge of the operation, while Ignazio has launched himself into another enterprise entirely: he has gone to the Canaries with the intention of there opening a tonnara to intercept the banks of tuna before they enter the Mediterranean.

Of all the crazy ideas he's had, this is the craziest of all, thinks Franca, curling her lips as she reads the letter that has just arrived from her husband. She's in the bedroom of her

house in Rome, a small villa on Via Sicilia, elegant in its sober architecture that vaguely recalls that of Villa Igiea, and

filled partly with furniture designed by Ducrot, but also with many precious objects from the Olivuzza, like the Bohemian

crystal service and the set of Saxon plates. Those parties with hundreds of guests are a distant memory, but a dinner in Franca

Florio's house still has to be a major social occasion.

Ignazio's letter brings little cause for cheer: the tuna are actually becoming scarcer, but there are banks of sardines he's

planning to exploit, provided he can find a little money for the plants and the workers. Vincenzo and Lucie are with him right

now: they have rented a small villa where they live without luxury or any particular comfort, just like the locals. The photographs

enclosed with the letter are less grim. One shows Ignazio and Vincenzo together on a bed; in another Ignazio is alone, sitting

in an armchair; in yet another Lucie is cooking. There are also scenes of fishing, the interior of the tonnara , fishermen's huts, a beach at sunset.. .

Franca angrily throws aside the photographs. Ignazio hasn't once asked her to join him, even if only for a few weeks. People have asked her why she hasn't gone there, and she has replied that the islands are too remote and primitive, unsuitable for Giugiù... "And besides," she always concludes with a smile, "I can't see myself organizing a dinner surrounded by savages."

Lies.

She isn't in the photographs, but Franca is sure that Vera is there with him. She can sense her presence, even though she

can't see her. Ignazio may be thousands of kilometers away, but she can read him like a book; she discerns the truth behind

his words as no one else can. It's a code she has learned at her own expense.

"Is that a letter from Papà ? Can I read it?"

Giulia has entered the room like a gust of spring wind. Franca smiles and hands her the letter. How beautiful her Giugiù is.

She's sixteen, with slim legs and fair hair. Igiea has a delicate, classical beauty, whereas Giulia is as vivacious and charming

as her father, with whom she has a strong bond.

Giulia reads the letter out loud and lets out a cry of joy on discovering that her father intends to return to Rome soon on

some business or other. At that moment, the maid appears in the doorway.

"Signor Linch is here, Signora."

Surprised, Franca gets up from the dressing table. "Linch? Whatever can he want?"

Giulia shrugs. "Maybe he's brought some papers to give to Papà , seeing that he's about to come back," she says and makes to follow her mother into the little drawing room where the butler

has admitted Linch. But Franca stops her in the doorway. Linch is often the bearer of bad news, and she doesn't want her daughter

to be upset. "Giulia, my dear, go check if the cook is preparing the parfait de foie gras for tonight's dinner." Slightly peeved, the girl sets off for the kitchen.

Carlo Linch is standing there, still in his coat. He seems to be in a hurry. "Good day to you, Donna Franca. Forgive me for

coming without notice, but I must speak with you."

She motions him to a seat and takes one herself. "With me? Of course, go on," she says once the butler has closed the door

behind him.

"I shall be brief and... I fear, unpleasant," Linch says with a frown. "I must remind you once again that you go out too

often and—"

"Oh, how tired I am of that same old story!" Franca interrupts with obvious irritation. She looks down at the rug, which once

adorned a room in the Olivuzza. "We've already made all the cuts we can and even asked for an extension on what we owe for

the work done in this house, while waiting for the money that should arrive from our shares in the navigation company."

"But in this villa, you have nine people at your service. You need only half that number. Not to mention your gambling debts

and your constant traveling. In your husband's absence, it therefore falls to me to ask you to show more... self-control."

Franca's cheeks grow flushed with indignation. "How dare you? My husband has never told me what to do and now you—"

"I haven't finished, Signora."

Franca adjusts the folds of her skirt and stares at Linch, waiting.

"I appeal to your common sense. Reducing your expenses here in Rome is no longer enough. You should go back to live in Palermo."

"What?" Franca's voice is like a thread on the verge of breaking.

"Go back home. There, you will be able to take care of what you still own and help your family."

Franca looks at him for a long time in silence. Then, all at once, she throws her head back and starts laughing maniacally. She laughs for a long time, so loudly that tears come to her eyes. She continues to weep even after her laughter subsides. She leaps to her feet. "Home?" she says, her voice now grim but steady. "Tell me, Signor Linch, you who knows everything: What home am I supposed to go back to? The Olivuzza and its grounds no longer belong to us. A house where we welcomed the whole world: heads of state, musicians, poets, actors! Or else Villa Igiea, where I'm now just a guest?" She pauses and gives him a long, hard look, her green eyes brimming with anger. "Or perhaps you're telling me that the home I should return to is Palermo?" She swallows saliva, tears, and bitterness. No dam can hold back her rage now: she has been nursing it for too long. It's a tidal wave, a storm surge that rips through sand and rocks. She walks up and down the room, the hem of her dress swaying about her calves. "Palermo that had bread and work from the Florios for more than a century, that donned the airs of a great European city with that Teatro Massimo my husband financed. They all came to us, cap in hand, asking for help or a subsidy, certain that the Florios would never refuse them charity. It was a city that asked and promised but deceived us. In Palermo, gratitude lasts three days, like the sirocco." She stops and passes a hand over her forehead. A lock of hair falls across her face. "So tell me, tell me who I should go back to! There's no longer anyone waiting for me there. Those who called themselves our friends, who came to ask for a loan, who accepted our gifts and now turn the other way when they meet us? Or else those who bought the Olivuzza for a pittance, after dividing it up among themselves?" She straightens up and crosses her arms over her chest. Her eyelashes are beating faster, and her voice breaks. "You can tell me many things, Signor Linch. But you arrived in Palermo when the hyenas were already tearing to pieces what little remained of our life. It's impossible for you to understand what it means to lose respect, because you never saw my Palermo. The city of the Florios was vital, rich, full of hope. And now it no longer exists. It's only a spiderweb of unknown streets, lined with buildings inhabited by ghosts."

Silently, Linch puts his hand in his pocket, takes out a handkerchief, and holds it out to her. She takes it and thanks him.

A line of face powder remains on the batiste fabric.

"I understand," Linch says, bowing his head. "What can I tell you? Try to live as best you can with what you have left. It's

never too late to be prudent."

These words provoke another sob.

"But you, too, must understand that I cannot withdraw my... request," he goes on. "The business really isn't doing well.

I'm making the case for the new maritime conventions with Minister Ciano in person, but there are many obstacles, starting

with the fact that your husband has again hardened his position toward the Banca Commerciale, even though the bank owns most

of the shares and titles of credit involving Casa Florio. He should be more accommodating, instead of which..."

"He doesn't inform me of those things. You know that perfectly well." Franca lowers her head and looks at the carpet.

"I supposed as much." Linch takes his hat and plays with the rim. "Our hopes are tied to the fact that your husband fought

hard for the industrialists to support Mussolini's list in the administrative elections in Palermo. He still has influence

down there, and he was listened to... Now we just have to hope that the government remembers and is grateful." He makes

a slight bow. "Thank you for hearing me out, Donna Franca. If you change your mind, you know where to find me."

Franca is left alone.

A sudden need for fresh air makes her fling the French window wide open. She throws back her head and takes a deep breath, the air wiping away her tears. The wind lifts the curtain, and for a moment she is surprised to see her own reflection in the glass. But this time she can't tell herself she is still beautiful despite the years and the suffering. This time she sees the marks made by the absences, the vanished affections, all that she has lost. They are there in her eyes, which have lost all liveliness, in the ever-deeper lines, and in her now gray hair.

I've become a shadow surrounded by shadows , she tells herself. Nothing but a reflection in a pane of glass.