6

March 1898 is unsure of itself and takes hesitant steps, like a toddler. Even on sunny days, a chilly wind shakes the garden

of the Olivuzza, ruffling the tops of the trees.

Through the window of the small parlor adjacent to her bedroom, Franca watches the shadows forming under the palm trees and listens to the rustling leaves. It reminds her of the sea lapping the hull of the Aegusa and the cruise Ignazio organized in the Eastern Mediterranean last summer. She recalls the rugged beauty of the Aegean Islands;

the clear waters of the Turkish coast; the charm of Constantinople, as insidious as poison; the narrow streets in Corfu she

and Giulia traversed laughing, while Giovannuzza trotted behind them with the nanny; that wind that smelled of oregano and

rosemary...

She sighs, her heart heavy with nostalgia. She would like to see the Aegean sunsets again, have another glass of Nykteri—called

"night wine" because the grapes are picked before dawn—and feel Ignazio's arms enfold her, embracing her and nobody else but

her.

Only, he can't, not while she's in this state.

She pats her belly. Not long to go before she gives birth.

Matri sant'Anna, let it be a boy has been her prayer ever since she discovered she was pregnant. A boy for Casa Florio, for me. For Ignazio, who finally might stop looking elsewhere for what I can give him.

Because that's how it is. Ignazio is still collecting women—as long as they're young and beautiful, and never mind if they're

aristocrats or of ill repute. It's a miracle he hasn't caught any diseases: he's clearly cautious in that respect.

Besides, why should he be discreet when, among their Palermo acquaintances, there's not a couple one could call faithful?

With a blend of anger and sorrow, Franca remembers what Giulia, Romualdo Trigona's wife, told her a few weeks ago. That her

husband now has a steady mistress and that she's made up her mind: she will no longer just sit and watch. She doesn't care

what people think: she wants to be free to live her life, to love and be happy.

And yet people still find a way to hurt Franca.

The last time was only a couple of days ago. Luckily, Maruzza came...

For some time now, she's had a companion, Countess Maruzza Bardesono, a middle-aged woman with sharp features and a stern

expression. Raised in a wealthy family, she was left alone and with no means of support when her brother died. Someone told

Franca she was looking for work, and Franca arranged to meet her, more out of a sense of duty than need. But she was struck

by her ladylike manners, her education, and the aura of self-confidence she gave off, and immediately offered her the position.

Franca has never regretted it.

That day, Maruzza came into Franca's bedroom to return her copy of L'Amuleto , the latest novel by Neera, a female author they both love. She found Franca in tears, her head resting on her dressing table,

and clutching a sheet of paper. The floor was strewn with hairbrushes, combs, perfume bottles, and skin creams hurled in a

fit of anger.

"What's the matter, Donna Franca? Are you unwell?" Maruzza asked, putting the book down on the bed.

Still sobbing, Franca handed her the sheet of paper.

Maruzza's face turned scarlet as she read the letter. "Filthy people!" she exclaimed. "Anonymous letters are the tools of

cowards... and to send them to a pregnant woman on top of everything else! Shame on them!"

"I don't know who these women are that he frequents, and I don't want to know," Franca said. "I've always accepted it because

I know that he loves me and will come back to me." She stood up and looked into Maruzza's eyes. "But lately I've been increasingly

wondering whether I would do better to leave. Just my daughter and me on our own."

Maruzza took her by the arms. "Donna Franca, I've gotten to know you a little. May I speak frankly?"

She nodded.

"You have everything a woman can wish for. Health, beauty, an angel of a daughter, affectionate and intelligent. And...

all this." She made a sweeping gesture to indicate the bedroom. "You're about to become a mother again, remember?"

"But..."

"We're all of us alone, Donna Franca, men and women. Money, titles, and social standing don't matter. We're all of us looking

for something we don't have, something we lack. Except that a man is given the weapons to fight his battles. A woman, on the

other hand, has to earn these, and if she obtains them, it's usually at a high price. You're lucky because you have many weapons

at your disposal and have even learned to use them. Many women don't have any at all. They're useless things , like the one who wrote this letter..."

Franca frowned and looked down at the letter, as though trying to find something to confirm what Maruzza had just said.

"Yes, of course, it's a woman," Maruzza continued. "You see, some women don't even search for weapons, because in order to find them they'd have to change too many things, starting with the way they think. They'd have to stop deluding themselves—just as Neera says..." She picked up the book, leafed through it, and found the page she wanted. "‘Not having the energy to seek out that which would be truly to their advantage, they latch on to the nearest, most comfortable lesson,'" she read. "They're afraid to live, so they turn into little women who're frightened of everything, only finding strength by judging others. But their bitterness turns to bile and stifles them, so they have to expel it somehow, even if it means writing letters like this one. They're unhappy people, Donna Franca. Yes, they envy you your money, your clothes, and your jewels. But trust me, they attack you above all because they see the kind of woman you are. You have courage. You know of your husband's exploits, but you continue with your head held high, you don't hide, you don't stoop to the same level, you don't allow anyone to compromise your dignity. You're always conscious of the name you carry."

Franca sat back down. "Are you saying I should feel sorry for the woman who wrote this letter?"

"Yes. Then there are the other women..."

"The... the other women?"

"The debauchees your husband showers with jewels. Of course, they only have a few weapons... but know how to use them only

too well!" Maruzza laughed joylessly. "Think about it: they're also pitiful. They see themselves as important but fail to

realize that men use them just for fun. Mistresses who last only a few weeks, who end up jilted without the slightest regret,

cast aside like old dolls."

Franca could not conceal her surprise at these words, so unpleasant and yet so true. Her mind drew a parallel between Maruzza

and her sister-in-law, Giulia. Two very different women who had, however, told her the same thing: that she was a plant with

solid roots and shouldn't be afraid to blossom and reach out for the sky with her branches. She was destined to grow and become

stronger and stronger.

And yet...

"But why does it still hurt so much even after all this time?" she asked herself more than Maruzza.

The woman sighed, then replied with an embittered smile, "Love is an ungrateful beast, Donna Franca. It bites the hand that

feeds it and licks the one that strikes it. To love forever, to love truly, means to have no memory."

***

A stabbing pain in her back, so sharp it shakes her whole body.

Franca practically leaps out of the armchair in the parlor and catches her breath. Could it be a contraction? she wonders. She reaches out for the bell to summon a maid, who immediately appears at the door.

"Yes, Donna Franca?"

"Call Countess Bardesono, please. Tell her to come right away."

Another pang. Since the conversation about the anonymous letter a month earlier, her bond with Maruzza has grown stronger,

more intimate. Franca instinctively gave her name, not her mother-in-law's.

Quick footsteps echo on the landing. The door opens. Franca lifts her head and catches Maruzza's gentle gaze. But she doubles

over immediately afterward, restraining a moan; she turns pale and struggles to breathe.

Maruzza puts a hand on her forehead, then pulls it away. "Have the pains started? Would you like me to call the doctor? Or

your mother?"

Your mother , not Donna Giovanna . Yes, Maruzza knows her well.

"The midwife and the doctor... and yes, my mother. She can stay here for a couple of d—"

Another pang in the belly. Franca wraps her fingers around Maruzza's wrist.

"They're too close together," she mutters, panic in her eyes. "They just started out of the blue..."

Maruzza waves her hand. "The second child always comes quicker than the first. Would you like me to call your husband?"

Ignazio. Franca wants him at her side. Knowing that he's waiting at home would lend her strength, of course. But where is he? At the NGI office or out and about? He left without saying a word, just planting a hasty kiss goodbye on the tips of her lips, before she saw him run off, impeccably dressed as usual, with the customary carnation in his buttonhole.

"Ask Saro where he is," she murmurs.

With one hand gripping Maruzza's arm, the other supporting her lower back, Franca stands up and takes a couple of steps. The

bed has been made, the clothes hung back in the closet. A mellow light filters through the window, and everything is immersed

in calmness and expectation. There are some white flowers standing on the chest of drawers and their perfume nauseates her.

"Take them out," she tells Maruzza. Another pang radiates through her lower belly. There is no doubt: her second child is

about to be born.

***

Focusing, breath after breath. Blood pumping through her veins as waves of pain wash over her, receding only to strike again

more fiercely. Her body rebels and opens. Her mind goes blank because it cannot bear these contractions, the feeling that

her belly is about to be torn in two.

Then calm arrives with the final contraction. It's a kind of dull resignation. Yes, I'm about to die , Franca accepts, bathed in sweat, blood, and amniotic fluid, and almost wishes it would be so, because she's exhausted and

can't tolerate the distress any longer. She shakes her head and lets out a sob.

"I can't," she murmurs to her mother, who's holding her hand. "I can't do it."

Also perspiring, Costanza squeezes her hand and wipes her daughter's forehead. "Of course you can," she says. "You did it

with Giovanna! And it was very hard with her, remember?"

Opposite her, bent between her legs, the midwife emits something between a giggle and a huff. "Signorina Giovanna wasn't well positioned. I had to turn her! But this one is the right way round, only he's quite big. Push, and may Saint Anne help us."

Franca does not reply. She feels the pressure of another contraction, hunches forward, and suppresses her impulse to vomit.

She has to free herself now and allow her child to be born. She pushes.

"Stop... That's enough..." The midwife puts a hand on her belly, straightens, and pats Franca's hand. "He's about to

come out. When I tell you to, push, then stop. Now!"

Franca screams. She feels something sliding out of her, as though a vital organ is being removed from her. She outstretches

her hand, but she's exhausted; she has no strength to ask, to know. She collapses back on the pillows, eyes closed.

It's over. Whatever it was, it's over.

A long moment elapses.

Then, a wail.

She opens her eyes and sees her mother. She's happy, laughing and crying at the same time, hands over her mouth, nodding.

" Masculu è! A boy!"

He's still attached to her, bloodstained, covered in the white amniotic sac. But the baby's a boy, healthy, alive, with large

eyes and a mouth pursed in a crying fit that speaks of all the pain of his first breath.

It's a boy. It's the heir.

***

" Masculu è! " The shout echoes throughout the house. Giovanna has broken the news to Ignazio, who's been waiting in the first-floor parlor with Romualdo Trigona, Giulia, and his brother-in-law, Pietro. It's been years, perhaps not since childhood, since he last saw the radiant smile his mother flashes as she tells him, "It's a boy, my son! At last!"

Ignazio immediately orders champagne and for all the servants to have a glass, too, then drinks a toast with his friends and

relatives, hugs them, and lifts his arms to the sky. The nanny brings Giovannuzza to her father to celebrate, and he picks

her up, twirls her in the air, and plants a kiss on her forehead, before kissing his sister, Giulia.

He's happy. After five years, finally, an heir! Financial problems? The sailing crisis and the money that's never enough?

It's all so remote. The demands of the foundry workers? They don't matter. There's a new Ignazio—because that's what he'll

be named—now. Like his father, he'll carry on the family name and history.

Another glass of champagne, then he calls Saro.

The man stops by the door and bows. "Hearty congratulations, Don Ignazio."

Ignazio goes up to him, beaming, takes him by the shoulders, and looks into his eyes. "I need a few bottles of marsala wine.

But not just any bottles—my grandfather's ones, stored at the far end of the cellar. Send someone to fetch them and bring

them upstairs, quickly."

Saro stares, astounded, and walks away. Ignazio looks around, then lifts the silver bowl in the middle of the table before

tipping it over to empty it of an arrangement of dried flowers. Tapping it like a drum, he strides across the house to the

red salon that connects his and Franca's apartments. Romualdo follows him up the stairs with a laugh. Pietro, though, looks

puzzled, and before he can climb the first step, he is stopped by Giovanna and Giulia, who carries Giovannuzza in her arms.

"What's my brother doing?" Giulia asks, confused.

Pietro shrugs. "How should I know? He told Saro to bring up some marsala wine."

Giovanna shakes her head, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. "God knows what he has in mind..."

Giulia leaves Giovannuzza to the care of the governess, grabs her skirt, and rushes up the stairs, followed by her mother.

All we need is for him to distress Franca with one of his "bright" ideas , she thinks. She knows what it is to give birth, just as she knows that men can't begin to imagine it. The two women march

down the corridor, then stop amid the plants in the winter garden. All of a sudden, they hear heavy breathing and the clink

of glass.

It's Saro, loaded down with dusty bottles.

Giovanna is outraged. "What are you doing?"

"Don Ignazio told me..." Saro begins, stopping to catch his breath.

Ignazio's voice booms nearby. "Saro! Saro, where are you?" He looks out of Franca's room, eyes sparkling with excitement,

gestures for him to come in, then steps back inside.

This singular procession sets off again and reaches Franca, who is sitting up in bed, pale and exhausted, but smiling. Her

mother is holding the baby in her arms, waiting for the wet nurse to finish preparing his swaddling clothes.

Ignazio puts down the bowl on the dressing table, then takes the bottles of marsala wine and pours them in. The room fills

with the sharp scent of alcohol, adding to the salty odor of sweat and a subtler, metallic note of blood.

Once he has finished, Ignazio turns to his mother-in-law and holds out his arms. Costanza doesn't know what to do and looks to her daughter, but Franca is laughing. She nods because she knows what her husband wants to do and is happy. Giulia, too, realizes and seizes her brother's hand. "Wait!" she shouts, laughing. She picks up the pitcher of water for the baby's bath and pours it into the bowl before everyone's astonished eyes. "You must dilute the marsala or he could get hurt! He's only just been born!"

Naked in his father's arms, the baby opens his eyes. Ignazio pauses for a second and gazes at this creature with its wrinkled

face and red skin. It's his son. His and his adored Franca's.

Holding the baby over his forearm, he lowers him over the bowl, scooping up some of the liquid in his cupped hand, and wets

his head. Then he immerses him completely.

There are cries of outrage behind him.

"What are you doing? Christening him?" Giovanna shouts, such a baptism blasphemous to her.

Giulia has a hand over her mouth, torn between laughter and indignation. Behind her aunt, Giovannuzza watches the scene, eyes

wide open.

But Ignazio doesn't see or listen to anyone. He searches for Franca with his eyes. She laughs and claps her hands. Her face

has a gentleness he will carry within him all his life.

Life, yes. The one he has always pursued, and that seemed to have escaped him for so long.

He has been haunted by death since his grandfather died on almost the same day as he was born. Then by his brother Vincenzo's

death. And finally by his father's. He has tried to forget this grief with Franca, and not just with her.

With many, too many, women. And with the whims and follies his huge wealth allowed.

Only now does he know he can find some peace. Because there's life cradled in his arms. There's a future—for him and Casa

Florio.

The baby opens his eyes wide and bursts into uncontrollable bawling, but Ignazio moistens his lips with a finger covered in liquor. "You must remember this taste, even before the taste of milk." He rests him on his chest, heedless of the fact that he, too, is going to stink of liquor. "This is what made us what we are: the Florios."