4

It's shortly after midnight. The elderly women gather in the salon reserved for them, to rest and chat in peace. On the other

hand, in the crimson salon countless men play cards, wreathed in a thick cloud of smoke. Even so, the ballroom is teeming

and, despite the open windows, sweltering.

Franca stands guard by the door to the buffet room with Emma di Villarosa and Giulia Tasca di Cutò, watching the dancers.

She knows it—she can sense it: if there have been malicious remarks, they haven't caught on. Everything has been absolutely

perfect: before her eyes, Palermo has eaten, danced, gossiped, and enjoyed itself.

"A truly wonderful party, Franca. Congratulations."

Franca turns to see Tina Whitaker, matronly and stern, with her husband, Pip. He has roamed all alone around the salons, admiring

the collection of Capodimonte statuettes, and lingering for a good five minutes in front of a large group of porcelain figures

by Filippo Tagliolini, with Hercules as the slave of Queen Omphale; as for Tina, she has, as always, been the center of attention,

dishing out her repertoire of witticisms and barbs.

"Thank you, Tina," Franca replies, astounded that Palermo's bluntest woman has nothing else to say about her ball. "I hope you've had something from the cake buffet?"

"Yes. Your monsù has outdone himself. The jasmine ice cream is a delight. But now it's time for my husband and me to retire."

"Really? But it's still so early, not even one yet," Franca protests, although she knows Tina's habits.

Tina taps on her wrist while Pip stares uneasily down at his shoes. "You, Franca, are a woman made for socializing, but I

think it inappropriate to overstay one's welcome."

Franca opens her hands in a gesture of resignation. "Very well. At least allow me to gift you a memento of this evening."

She flashes Nino, who's behind her, a discreet signal and he briefly disappears before returning with a willow basket decorated

with white lilies. Curious, a few guests approach.

"For you," Franca says, handing Tina a small jewelry box and Pip an oblong trinket wrapped in marbled paper. "For the ladies,

we thought we'd have a charm made by the Fecarotta jewelers: a pomegranate in honor of the approaching fall," she explains

as Tina closely inspects the knickknack. "And for the men a silver cigar holder." She leans toward Pip and says softly, "I'm

sure you'll appreciate it."

Joseph Whitaker blushes.

Tina rolls her eyes, placing the charm back in its case, and slips it into her satin purse. "Once again, the Florios' hospitality

proves to be unrivaled, my dear Franca." As she shakes hands, she glances at the couples dancing yet another mazurka and mutters,

"Don't these people have families to go home to?" Then she leaves, holding Pip's arm.

Franca's sigh is echoed by Emma and Giulia, who remarks, "She can't help it. That woman must always spew a little poison."

Ignazio comes in from the terrace, sees Franca, and waves at her. She sees him, too, smiles and walks toward him.

One more waltz with him will seal a perfect evening.

***

"Has he arrived?"

"Anytime now... When he comes, we must give him a hero's welcome!"

"The man's been in every jail on the mainland, and now he's a member of Parliament—all thanks to the Florios!"

"At long last, even the masters have realized they have to talk to us workers."

"Here's the steamer! It's here!"

"Hurrah for Rosario Garibaldi Bosco! Hurrah for the Florios!"

It's three o'clock in the morning, and yet it looks like noon in the harbor of Palermo. The pier and docks are crammed with

workers from the Castellammare and Tribunali districts, awaiting their member of Parliament: Rosario Garibaldi Bosco, who

was sentenced over two years ago, in February 1894, for leading the uprising of the Sicilian Fasci , of which he is also a founding member. He is not a worker but an accountant, his hands are not smeared with engine oil,

nor are his lungs covered in soot, and yet he has fought for social justice since adolescence. In high school, he read propaganda

leaflets out loud to illiterate workers, then, as a journalist, he wrote long articles in which he imagined a Sicily where

the workers were free from the oppression of masters supported by the complicity of a repressive government.

Despite being in prison, he was a candidate for the left-wing Chamber and won at least three rounds, including one against Augusto Laganà, Giovanni's son. And when, in March 1896, an amnesty was issued to him and his companions, he was finally able to return to Palermo.

The steamship Elettrico , part of the NGI line, maneuvers slowly toward the pier. A few minutes later, Rosario Garibaldi Bosco appears at the top

of the steps, greeted with cheers, cries of jubilation, and fervent waves of Fasci and Socialist Party flags.

The strain of his long imprisonment is evident: he is only thirty, but looks much older, as though he's suddenly aged, skinny

and moving slowly. He gets off, greets his companions, then gives a long hug to his father, who is unable to hold back his

tears.

As he heads home, surrounded by a stream of people, a carriage sets off, follows him, and stops in an adjacent street. Another

half hour goes by before the crowd disperses and the shutters close on the balcony where Garibaldi Bosco has stepped out several

times to thank everyone for their welcome.

Only then do Ignazio and another man, his face partly concealed by a hat, get out of the carriage, open the small front entrance,

and climb the stone stairs. When Ignazio knocks on the door, the celebratory chatter inside the apartment suddenly falls silent.

Rosario himself opens the door. "You, here?" he exclaims, astounded.

He is in his shirtsleeves, and there are biscuit crumbs on his mustache. A little girl clings to his legs. She looks scared.

He picks her up. "Calm down, nica mia ," he says with a smile. "They're not police officers." He kisses her, then puts her back down on the ground. "Go to Mamma , go," he says with a tap on her back. "Tell her I'm talking to... to some friends." He turns to the two men. "I'm sorry.

I wasn't expecting you so soon. Come in."

He leads the way to a room behind a glass door and lights an oil lamp while the two men sit on a couch. Slightly uneasy, Ignazio speaks first. "We didn't want to draw attention to ourselves," he says apologetically. "You realize, of course, that it wouldn't benefit either of us if people found out we've met. Right, Erasmo?"

The Genoese Erasmo Piaggio took over Giovanni Laganà's position as director general of NGI some time ago: he's a stern, determined,

capable, and unscrupulous man. He puts his hat down on his lap, smooths the tips of his mustache, and nods. Then he looks

at Rosario expectantly.

Rosario rubs his hands on his thighs, searching for the right words. "I don't know how to express my gratitude. I heard you

lobbied for the amnesty, supported my family, and allowed my companions to run an election campaign at the Oretea and the

slipway. It's absurd that my companions and I should have been arrested. The military court didn't realize that if we'd wanted

to, we could have unleashed a protest throughout the island."

"Or perhaps it did realize that," Piaggio remarks calmly.

Rosario nods, then lowers his head. "That's right. There are too many wrongs in this country, things crying out for justice,

but the government seems deaf and blind to them." He pauses. "In any case, you know very well that the Socialist Party now

has many sympathizers."

"Of course I do," Ignazio replies. "Alessandro Tasca di Cutò has been arrested for the same political views." Last September,

he had to endure endless complaints from Romualdo, who had been questioned by the police for a long time about his brother-in-law's

"subversive acquaintances." "As you can imagine, I don't share many of your views. But I do consider myself an intelligent

person, and I believe that workers and farmers should command more importance. In other words, that their voices should be

heard by our politicians in Rome."

Rosario stiffens. "If workers are taken care of, then they be come more cooperative, and so a company can prosper. Is that what you mean?"

"Yes, exactly." Ignazio smiles. "You obtained our help for a series of reasons, not least to prevent the rise of a dishonest

man, the son of someone who tried to harm Palermo and its seafaring in every way he could."

"Laganà's son. Augusto. He stood against me in the same district."

"That's right. His defeat was in my interests, of course, but also in the interests of the workers, because it involved preventing

Sicily being excluded from the share of government agreements and commissions for repairs, which keep both the Oretea and

the slipway alive."

Piaggio sits up and looks at Rosario. "What we're asking you, Signor Bosco," he says calmly but firmly, "is to be our voice

with the workers. So that they understand fully the advantage they will gain by... by cooperating with us."

Rosario doesn't reply immediately. He sits down in an armchair and his gaze travels from Piaggio to Ignazio. "It's true that

I'm indebted to you," he finally says. "And yes, in the case of Laganà, your interests tallied with mine. But don't think

that my companions and I are ready to give up on our sacrosanct rights in exchange for the master's charity."

"Nobody's asking you to—" Piaggio begins.

"Let's be clear," Ignazio cuts in. "We used to be able to rely on Crispi, but he's old now, and after the Adua disaster, he

has even more enemies. And I wouldn't be so sure of the new prime minister either: it's true that Rudinì is from Palermo,

but he's a conservative at heart. No, Sicily needs new men who can listen to both politicians and workers and act accordingly.

That's the future."

"Crispi has always first and foremost served the interests of those who voted for him and gotten others to vote for him." Rosario has dropped his voice, but there is no hesitation in his words.

"Indeed." Ignazio opens his arms. "He owes a great deal to my family, just as we owe him. But that's in the past. He can't

begin to imagine how and why the world is changing. You do, on the other hand, and have the interests of our land at heart.

Together, we can stop Sicily from being cast aside in the country's economy. Are you willing to help us?"

***

"My dear Giovanni, do you know what they say in my city? Si voi pruvari li peni di lu 'nfernu, lu 'nvernu a Missina e l'estati 'n Palermu —if you want a taste of hell, winter in Messina and summer in Palermo. But I'm sure you'll like it in Palermo, despite the

sirocco wind." Marchese Antonio Starabba di Rudinì stroked his beard with a smile, then added, "And you'll do an excellent

job."

Count Giovanni Codronchi Argeli returned the prime minister's smile. But his affable smile concealed the awareness that the

highfalutin position—royal civil commissioner extraordinaire for Sicily—was in reality a very delicate task filled with hidden

dangers.

Indeed, the island was a time bomb. Too much unrest, starting with the Fasci ; widespread corruption and organized crime. Rudinì knew only too well that he needed to review the budgets, reorganize duties

and taxes, examine the different departments of the administration, and replace corrupt civil servants. But in order to achieve

all this, he needed to resort to a politician who was immune to influence and pressure, with no personal interests to defend

and a free rein.

In other words, a non-Sicilian.

The serious, cautious, pensive Giovanni Codronchi Argeli—mayor of his birthplace, Imola, for over eight years—was the ideal candidate. Moreover, he would be useful in further undermining Crispi's influence, at the same time restricting the spread of Socialist ideas. Basically, strengthening the position of the Right on the island.

This was an ambitious design that required important allies, of prominent figures.

Like Ignazio Florio.

Ignazio is in fact invited to a meeting with the commissioner slated for early June 1896. Ignazio has been anticipating this

moment since he first spoke with Rosario Garibaldi Bosco. Keeping the workers' demands under control as much as possible was

only the first step; now the government has to be persuaded that the only way to prevent protests and uprisings—if not worse—is

to create jobs, and a lot of them at that. He's been talking a lot to Piaggio, but in the end, the best solution seems to

be to begin construction of a shipyard adjoining the careening basin, to extend the present slipway. A plan that failed three

years ago because of funding on the city's part.

Codronchi has made him wait. Two whole months. But now Ignazio is here, facing him, in his private office in the Royal Palace.

He studies this stout man with his chubby cheeks and bushy gray mustache, with all the confidence of someone who knows Palermo

and its residents like the back of his hand and not only through hearsay.

The city's sounds bleed through the open windows: peddlers crying, children chasing one another, a melody from a barrel organ.

The two men have had coffee and exchanged pleasantries, but now the secretary removes the cups and leaves them alone, shutting

the door behind him.

Giovanni Codronchi wipes the sweat from his wide forehead — Rudinì was right about summer in Palermo. "So. Personally, I'm in favor of your project, Don Ignazio. Building and repairing

steamers would guarantee long-term commissions, and they, in turn, would ensure social calm."

Sitting cross-legged, hands on his lap, Ignazio nods. "I'm glad you agree." He leans in. "Palermo needs certainty: the crisis

is making people nasty and encouraging them to follow certain bad actors who spin yarns about fabulous wages for all. The

workers in my foundry—"

"—the Oretea."

"That's right. They're protesting because their wages haven't changed for years, but in particular because there have been

many redundancies. But believe me, it was unavoidable: I'm a businessman. I must take care of the health of my business. We

can't support them all." He frowns and gives a theatrical sigh. "They think that here in Sicily you can earn the same money

as up north, as though we had the same roads and the same commissions. But the truth is that money doesn't circulate here;

if it weren't for us Florios, and a handful of others, the island would already be abandoned: everybody would have gone to

America or somewhere else. On the other hand, the government must understand that it's dangerous to have so much unemployment

because there are hotheads who will use any excuse to their advantage."

"Yes, of course." Codronchi leans on the armrest of his chair and drums his fingers on the portfolio in front of him. "In my opinion, this project would weaken the radical elements. It's something close to the government's heart, in particular to our prime minister, who's from Palermo, like you. I'll personally see that it's supported, only..." He sits up in his chair and interlaces his fin gers in front of his face. "You know better than I that Italian shipbuilding isn't in a good state at present. Livorno and Genoa are having difficulties, and commissions for new ships often end up abroad, in England..."

"Work engenders work, Commissioner, you know that. NGI has long been asked to modernize its steamers. If we had access to

a shipyard, we could do so without having to travel to Genoa or even Southampton or the Clyde and dock ships there indefinitely.

Besides, let's speak frankly: it's undeniable that the Genoese are working against Palermo, doing their best to hinder us.

But if we managed to build ships here, we would provide jobs for new workers and receive commissions both for the careening

basin and the foundry. That's why we need government funds: Casa Florio can provide much but not all. We can equip the shipyard,

but we need tax breaks and to appropriate the public property bordering the tobacco factory."

Codronchi nods and rubs his lips. "You do know that those close to Crispi won't support your plan, don't you? And that you'll

also encounter obstacles within the government?"

Ignazio leans back and crosses his hands on his belly. "Crispi's had his time, Commissioner. He's no longer the man my father

respected." He lowers his voice. "Our concerns are very distant, if not incompatible, now. At present, we have other needs.

If we could give jobs to workers, carpenters, and bricklayers, we would pull the rug from under the feet of the Socialists

and anarchists, who would no longer be able to fuel discontent to unleash unrest. We must make room for new, forward-thinking

forces that have Sicily's economic development at heart and see a future where institutions and businesses can work together."

A seasoned politician, able to read between the lines, Codronchi nods. "You're an industrialist and financier capable of putting in genuity and resources at the service of the public. Moreover, you're looking attentively to the future."

Ignazio's mouth forms the slow, self-assured smile of a man of the world. "Finance and politics must work in harmony. And

it's up to people like you and me to make sure that happens."

***

"Heavens, what a mess!" Giulia exclaims, giving her sister-in-law a hug.

Franca has been waiting for her at the foot of the staircase overlooking the garden. They're surrounded by a retinue of gardeners

and servants busy cleaning up after the visit of Wilhelm II, German Emperor and King of Prussia, Empress Augusta Victoria,

and their children, Wilhelm and Eitel Friedrich: the royal family came to take tea with the Florios the day before.

"Yes, it's been a busy week, what with preparing the Olivuzza, deciding the menu, observing protocol... But thankfully

everything went well. The kaiser especially enjoyed the almond cakes and the empress much admired the parrots in the aviary

and the tall yuccas, while Vincenzino talked to young Wilhelm for a long time—after all, they're the same age..." She smiles.

"He made quite a few grammatical mistakes, but his German pronunciation was perfect."

"And now you're clearly very tired," Giulia remarks, blunt as ever.

"Yes, a little," Franca admits, "but what I really need is to talk to someone who..." She looks down and lifts her foot.

"Well... someone who isn't going to tell all Palermo that there's still dust on my shoes because I haven't had time to

change..."

Giulia laughs. "So you sent for me. Come on; let's take a stroll through the garden. That way I'll also have dust on my shoes!"

She takes her arm and they head outside. The sun is setting, and it won't be long before darkness descends over the park.

"So... it sounds like everything went wonderfully well at the Whitakers, too, yesterday," Giulia exclaims cheerfully. "Tina

sent me a note and told me everything."

"Yes, she wrote me, too. And she made sure to point out that the kaiser very much enjoyed her singing," Franca replies, toying

with the string of pearls around her neck.

Giulia notices and squeezes her arm. "Are they new?" Franca lowers her head and nods. "Has Ignazio been foolish again?" she

asks softly. "Is that why you got me to come here?"

"No... I mean yes. He gave me these pearls and you know what that means." Her pause is filled with bitterness. "They say

pearls bring tears. I never wanted to believe it, because to me they're some of the most beautiful things in the world. And

yet, invariably, they have brought me to tears. I don't even know who the... the lucky one is this time..." She sighs

and straightens up. "I definitely know how some things work in a marriage now. Even Romualdo has a mistress, although he only

recently got married."

Giulia shrugs her shoulders. "Unfortunately, Romualdo and my brother are cut from the same cloth." She stops and looks Franca

in the eye. "You've achieved remarkable self-control; you've learned how to swallow such things. But I know you can't help

thinking about it."

Giulia hugs her, wishing she could confront her brother and make him act with more discretion, tell him outright that he's

tormenting Franca, but she knows it would be pointless. So she releases herself from the hug and changes the subject abruptly.

"Now that even the kaiser's praised her voice, we're going to have to hear yet again how Wagner went into ecstasies when he

heard Tina sing Lohengrin ! Still, we should be sympathetic: Mother Nature has been generous to her in terms of voice and wit, though certainly not beauty..."

Franca's lips wrinkle in a wicked smile. "Fortunately, her daughters are more attractive than her and have no artistic pretensions."

They giggle and, for a while, walk in the silence of the garden, broken only by the voice of Vincenzino playing with his velocipede

under the watch of Donna Ciccia and Giovanna. Giulia goes over to greet her mother and brother.

Suddenly, Franca glimpses a man among the trees, just past the hedges. He looks like a peasant, with his brown jacket and

worn-out boots. He looks at her, greets her by raising his hand to his hat, then vanishes.

She frowns and stops. "Is it really necessary to have these people around?" she asks Giovanna, who is now next to her.

Giovanna looks at the man in the trees, little more now than a shape in the shadows, purses her lips, and nods. "You're right,"

she murmurs. "I'll tell Saro to speak with him so that they're more discreet... But it's always best to have them nearby,

because you never know what might happen." She looks at her son. "Don't move," she commands as she strides back to the villa.

The boy waits for his mother to be far enough away, then runs down the paths to the aviary.

"Vincenzo, come back here!" Giulia shouts.

He waves and disappears beyond a rosebush. Giulia opens her arms in exasperation. "My mother will be furious now. Vincenzo

is too spoiled and doesn't obey anyone. He told me the other day that he wants to shoot the parrots and that—"

Franca isn't listening. The man has walked away, but she still feels his presence. She can feel his eyes watching her through

the trees, sensing him. "That man worries and frightens me."

"I can understand," Giulia murmurs. "I don't like having these... these oafs around either, but it can't be helped. Whether it's here, in the country, in Trabia or in Bagheria, there's always someone watching our backs. Pietro's terrified of abductions."

"I see his point, but..." Franca looks around, reluctant to speak too loudly. "You know, not long ago, Audrey, Joss's sister—Joss

is Pip Whitaker's older brother—was kidnapped, and he had to pay, pay a lot, to get her back. It's so sad!"

Giulia nods. "Yes, I heard. Poor darling. Apparently, she had nightmares for days on end. They told me it happened at the

Favorita; it seems there were four of them and they beat up the groom who was escorting her. I don't know what I'd do if something

like that happened to my children."

"You'd pay, like Joss. They asked for a hundred thousand lire, and he paid it without a word of protest. The prefect tried

to intervene, but the Whitakers wouldn't talk. They had a good fright and chose not to make a fuss."

The cry of the eagle, followed by Vincenzino's voice, sounds from the aviary. Giulia's face darkens. "Oh God! If they ever

took my brother, Mother would die."

Franca hugs her. "It's not going to happen," she says, but her voice doesn't instill as much confidence as she'd wish.

She remembers how, a while back, she chided Francesco Noto, the head gardener, for badly pruning a rosebush she had brought

from England. Ignazio waited for her to come back into the house, then took her aside, embraced her, and whispered, "Please,

mon aimée , always treat that man with respect, and his brother Pietro, the doorkeeper, too. They're... friends who help us keep

the peace."

Since then, Franca has noticed that nobody addresses those two without first making a gesture of deference. Nobody. But she

hasn't pressed the issue any further: although she's been wrapped in cotton wool, she knows how certain things work.

Suddenly, she spots Saro, Ignazio's valet, rushing to the stables. He's nervous and almost forgets to greet her.

Seconds later, Giovanna steps out of the villa and gives her a nod.

Franca nods back, takes Giulia's arm, and calls Vincenzino, telling him to come back to the house with them.

She keeps her back to the garden. She doesn't want to see.