7

"Don Ignazio... the factory workers are here." Saro has come into the office and is peering into the square through the

curtains. Sitting at his desk, Ignazio exchanges a puzzled glance with Erasmo Piaggio, who occupies the chair opposite him,

then rises and takes a peek over his valet's shoulder, followed by the NGI director. Indeed, there are ten or so workers waiting

outside the entrance, talking with Pietro Noto, the doorkeeper.

"What are they doing here?" Ignazio grumbles.

"Perhaps they want an explanation for the delay in the works," Piaggio suggests.

Ignazio sits back down at his desk. "It's hard to explain to them that since Codronchi left his post last July, everything

has become very complicated. We can only hope that this new company we've decided to set up," he says, tapping his index finger

on the papers in front of him, "will restart things..." He suddenly gets up. "I really hope they haven't come here to ask

for another raise! Would they have the gall, after what happened in January? We should speak to Garibaldi Bosco again: he's

the only one who can get them to pipe down. These constant protests are such a bore..."

"They've come to pay their respects for the baby's birth." Giovanna is in the doorway. She has appeared without a sound and now regards her son with an air of reproach. "I told the doorkeeper to let them in." Then she turns to Saro. "Bring some more chairs here, then lay the desk with biscuits and wine. They're our workers and we must receive them with courtesy," she adds, preempting her son's objection, since his eyes have already widened. "That's what your father would have done." As she walks away, she thinks with some bitterness that her Ignazio would have gone to the Oretea Foundry in person to announce the birth of his heir, just as he did when Vincenzino was born.

Shortly afterward, the workers' heavy footsteps echo in the Olivuzza corridors, leaving dust on the rugs and staining the

parquet. Dressed in their Sunday clothes, the men look around, intimidated by the enormous paintings, the elaborate flower

arrangements, the gold and the stuccos, and, above all, by the house's seemingly endless labyrinth. They were not expecting

to come in; the doorkeeper had said he would pass on their message to Don Ignazio and that they could return home. Then Donna

Giovanna, u' principale 's widow— recamatierna , peace be with him, he was a great gentleman—had appeared and simply said, "You are welcome. Come in," and had headed to

the office, once her husband's, now Ignazio's.

They walk past the green salon and glimpse Donna Ciccia, sitting in an armchair, slumbering with her mouth open. Some laugh,

but only for an instant: immediately afterward they see Ignazio's portrait in a silver frame. They stop and cross themselves.

Giovanna watches them and feels her eyes well up. A worker of an advanced age, with a large gray mustache, steals a look at

her. "He was a true father to us all," he conveys. "The Lord took him away too soon."

She nods hastily, then turns her back on them and continues walking to the office. Ignazio is by the door, with Piaggio. On

the desk, cleared of papers and folders, stand bottles of wine and trays with biscuits. Beside them lie linen napkins embroidered

with Ignazio's and Franca's initials.

The workers line up against the wall, and the worker with the gray mustache approaches Ignazio. "Your Excellency, I've—we've—come

to... to..."

". . . congratulate you," finishes a young man at the end of the room. His eyes are intelligent, and he's the best dressed among them.

"Congratulations—yes. The birth of the picciriddu is a blessing not just for you but the whole Casa Florio, and we're very glad you decided to name him after your father,

u' principale , peace be with him."

"Amen," Giovanna whispers from the end of the room.

"Thank you. It's very kind of you to come all this way," Ignazio mumbles, sticking his thumbs into the pockets of his waistcoat.

"Can I offer you some refreshments? I imagine you came on foot."

"On foot and with an escort."

It's the young man again, and the sarcasm in his voice hasn't escaped anyone. Piaggio raises his eyebrows, goes to the window,

and sees, in a corner of the piazza, a group of carabinieri. Then, as the men shuffle to the desk to take a glass of wine

and a biscuit, he turns to the young man. "And you are...?"

"Nicola Amodeo. Lathe turner at the Oretea."

"Well, Signor Amodeo, I should say the escort is a necessary precaution, considering the protests outside the NGI offices

last January." It has taken Piaggio a fraction of a second to realize that this fellow is no ordinary factory worker. He holds

his head high and answered confidently. He's a union man, or worse. "They were difficult decisions for us, too, you know? Making people redundant is never pleasant, but until work on the shipyard

begins, the foundry cannot afford to employ more people than is absolutely necessary."

Ignazio approaches the two men, nodding.

"You don't realize how unfortunate January was for Palermo's poor." Amodeo shakes his head. "Firing the apprentices was a hard blow. They only asked for a raise because everything has gone up in price, starting with bread. Instead of hearing them out you threw them out and reported them to the police. And now nobody will hire them because they've been smeared as anarchists."

"Come now, you exaggerate!" Piaggio exclaims. "They were only apprentices, ungrateful hotheads who'd set up a picket line

for no reason. Besides, you said it yourself: everything is getting more expensive everywhere. Taxes, for one!" He gestures

at the waiter, who draws near balancing a tray with glasses of marsala wine. "In my shoes, you would have done the same. Punishing

a few reminds everyone else who's boss."

Amodeo refuses the wine. "You fired them without giving them a chance to explain," he replies curtly.

"What were we supposed to do after the protests—hire them back?" Ignazio says. "Some thugs are like rats in a granary: they

eat everything in a second."

Amodeo lowers his head. "Don Ignazio, you don't understand that there's hunger here, severe hunger, and hunger is dangerous.

The January protest wasn't just made up of us from the foundry and the slipway but carpenters, bricklayers, stonecutters,

too... There were folk from the Tribunali district and Monte di Pietà, Castellammare—even from Zisa and Acqua dei Corsari.

Palermo needs jobs."

"Do you think I don't know?" Ignazio raises his voice, his lips curled in an exasperated grimace. "For as long as we had Codronchi,

the shipyard project was moving forward... The ground was soon to be broken. I even went to Rome to push, beg, and plot...

Now everything's come to a standstill at the ministry, you can't mention money, and no one wants to back us. Not to mention

the fact that there are protests all over Italy and the government has other things on its plate. It doesn't depend on us!"

The young worker shakes his head again, with a disheartened smile. "It also depends on you, Don Ignazio."

"I—"

Giovanna interrupts him, a hand on his arm, making him turn. "Here's Franca with the picciriddu . Come."

Ignazio looks up. His wife has appeared in the doorway, supported by Maruzza. Behind them, the nanny is holding the lace bundle

in which the baby is wrapped.

The workers welcome them with a round of applause, muttering blessings—"May the Lord always watch over you and protect you"—and

congratulations to the mother and the child.

My Franca is still pale , Ignazio thinks. It's only been a few days since the birth and she's struggling to recover. A wave of tenderness melts his

chest. He will organize a summer trip for her and the whole family, maybe on their train, so they don't have to tire themselves

and can enjoy all the comforts of private carriages. Yes, they'll go back to Paris and perhaps Germany, too, he tells himself,

the thought claiming his first smile of the day.

The main thing is to get away from Palermo and all this misery.

***

Ignazio is pacing up and down the room nervously, trying to vent his ill humor.

The second-floor dining room in the Olivuzza has never been his favorite; the mahogany furniture is too large and too dark, the silver chandeliers too heavy and antiquated. And he has always hated the two antique coral and brass peacocks that form a wheel over the mantel, just as he's hated the giant fireguard. But a year has passed since the birth of Ignazio—whom everyone calls Baby Boy—so it's time for him and Franca to take up being the beating heart of Palermo's social life again. Even if that means welcoming with full honors certain characters he particularly dislikes, as he's doing this evening.

He stops by the table. "Montebello-style eggs?" he says with a huff, looking at the menu. "For an after-theater supper?"

Franca comes in, draped in a black lace dress and an ivory silk shawl. She isn't wearing a necklace, only two bangles and

the Cartier pearl earrings Ignazio gave her during their honeymoon. Once again, she has recovered her pre-pregnancy figure.

The costliest creams—from Charles Fay's Veloutine to Pinaud and Meyer's cold cream—the cold baths to tone her skin, and regular

massages have helped, but she's now thinking of going to Paris to undergo a treatment that should make her face like glazed

porcelain. She's been told it's a very painful process and that, at twenty-six, she doesn't need it yet .

"If you must know, my dear," she says in a velvety voice, "D'Annunzio adores eggs. But as you can see, there is also lobster

in tartare sauce, asparagus in a frothy dressing, and, to crown it all, a trionfo di gola ." She turns away and sighs. "What a charming, peculiar man... We spoke at length during the interval between acts three

and four, you know."

"Oh, so he came to you as soon as the booing started..."

"What do you mean? It was a triumph! Eight curtain calls in the first act alone... It was those stupid students in the

gallery making a racket. Apparently, they even smashed the panes in the theater's double doors. Besides, Gabriele's works

are always daring and provoke debate. And this wonderful Gioconda is no exception. Partly thanks to Eleonora Duse and Zacconi, who are—"

"You call him by his first name," Ignazio interrupts coldly. "He's a lothario who's unafraid to flirt."

Franca focuses on the bodice of her dress and blows away an invisible speck of lint. "Takes one to know one, right?" She gestures at the servant and hands him her shawl, asking him to return it to Diodata.

Ignazio stares. "It's too revealing without the shawl."

Franca shoots him a glance that's a blend of frostiness and disbelief. "I believe this may be the first time you've said that

to a woman. Or do you also say it to your... your lady friends?"

"What's that got to do with anything? Everybody knows that D'Annunzio is very sensitive to beautiful women. You're a beautiful woman and he wants to add you to his conquests. And don't bother denying it! I saw

it in the way he was looking at you this evening, by the manner he was speaking to you—"

"I guess you can spot certain male hunting characteristics."

Ignazio scowls. "Don't joke, Franca."

She waves her hand with annoyance. "He's asked me for a ‘lucky charm' for his new play and I promised I'd give him one. I

was thinking of a grain of coral... Besides, if you'd really been paying attention, you would have seen that we were talking

with Jules Claretie."

"But he's the manager of the Comédie-Fran?aise, and I'll bet he's half a pederast, like so many theater people. I'm not joking,

Franca: keep away from D'Annunzio." Ignazio grabs her by the wrist.

She frees herself. "I know all about you. I know how much you spend on your mistresses, where you go, and even which perfume

they use because I can smell it on you. The gossip about you is so predictable I no longer listen to it. And now you act the

jealous husband all because I spoke to a man in front of an entire theater? How ridiculous!"

"I've no intention of being seen as a cuckold by the whole of Palermo."

Franca throws her head back with a loud laugh. "Good! How does it feel to be on the other side, for once? To see others long for something you have but have no regard for?" She strokes her neck and slides her fingers into her neckline, determined to provoke him. "What do you suppose other men think when they see you fool around with their wives?"

Ignazio turns scarlet. "How dare you..."

"I'm your wife and I do dare. But enough now. Or do you want to make yourself ridiculous in front of everybody?"

They are interrupted by a discreet but peremptory cough. Master Nino is by the door. "Count and Countess Trigona and Monsieur

Claretie have arrived. Shall I let them in?"

Franca lifts the hem of her skirt. "I'll go welcome them," she says, and after flashing Ignazio one last frosty look, she

bustles past him and out of the room, with a spring in her step.

***

"Your wife looks splendid tonight, curò ," Romualdo whispers, jutting his chin in the direction of Franca, who is engaged in a lively conversation with Giulia and

Monsieur Claretie. "Everyone's noticed, including our poet. He's watched her more than the show."

Giuseppe Monroy laughs into his thin mustache. "You shouldn't say that to our Ignazziddu. Can't you see he's already on edge?"

"Noodles, that's all you two are," Ignazio hisses.

"But apparently Eleonora Duse knows how to rein him in." Giuseppe seizes a bottle of champagne and pours himself a drink in

front of the astonished waiter. "She's quite a woman, that one. Look at those eyes: they're oozing flames! And what poise,

what a bosom!"

Meanwhile, footsteps echo in the corridor, and there's the sound of male voices and a deep, throaty woman's laugh. Franca and Giulia exchange glances and go to the door. Gabriele d'Annunzio is the first to make an entrance in his very own style, arms open and palms facing upward. He goes straight to Franca, takes her hands, and lifts them first to his lips, then to his heart. "Donna Franca, this house is a worthy frame for your splendor."

"Thank you, Maestro," she replies with a smile. "May I present Countess Giulia Trigona, a dear friend of mine?"

Dressed in a fiery-red dress, Giulia makes a comical curtsy.

D'Annunzio smiles and bows in return. " Enchanté, Madame . Palermo must indeed be very happy that the beauty of her daughters rivals that of the nereid Actaea. You are as graceful

as a light breeze, as the southern breath of the Mediterranean."

"Come now, stop flattering us," Franca exclaims. "Or else our husbands, jealous as they are, will feel honor bound to challenge

you to a duel."

"They wouldn't be the first!" D'Annunzio replies in a booming voice. "I've heard the rumble of death on other occasions..."

By the entrance to the dining hall, wrapped in a pale gray cloak embroidered with glass beads that range in color from white

to silver, a woman observes the scene with a smile that's a blend of irony and bitterness. She walks up to Franca. "He can't

help it. He always has to show off to a beautiful woman." She proffers her hand. "I am Eleonora Duse. It's a pleasure to meet

you, Donna Franca."

Franca briefly hesitates. Close up, without stage makeup, her long hair down to her shoulders, Eleonora Duse is not simply attractive or sensual. She is magnetic. She is the embodiment of elegance in her gestures as well as maintaining a figure of such perfect beauty that she seems unreal. "The honor is mine," Franca finally replies. "It was a privilege to see your performance this evening. You gave a voice to Silvia's inner torment, and you were able to convey something even more difficult: her physical suffering. With a simple blink of your eyelashes—"

"Only a sensitive woman knows how tightly love and suffering are bound together," Eleanora replies.

Franca smiles and invites her to sit down. A man suddenly appears in the doorway, breathless, with soft but determined features

and lively eyes.

"Ah, here's my sculptor!" D'Annunzio exclaims.

Ermete Zacconi, who plays sculptor Lucio Settala, Silvia's husband, in Gioconda , gives Franca a bow and shakes her hand. "It's an honor, Donna Franca. Forgive me for being late, but I always need a moment's

quiet after the show..."

"I can imagine, Signor Zacconi. Your character is so intense that... it made me shed more than one tear."

"Not from horror, I hope!" D'Annunzio has rushed to her and is squeezing her hand with a falsely modest look in his eyes.

"From pure and true emotion, I can assure you, Maestro."

He kisses her hand and smiles. Ignazio tries to meet Franca's eyes to communicate a silent reproach, but she turns her back

on him and motions to all the guests to take their seats at the table.

***

As soon as Franca and Ignazio are seated at their respective ends of the table, with D'Annunzio to Franca's right and Eleonora

Dusa to Ignazio's left, the waiters serve dishes covered with silver domes. The fragrance of eggs and freshly baked bread

spreads through the room.

"Montebello-style eggs? You spoil me too much!" D'Annunzio exclaims, sampling a mouthful without taking his eyes off Franca.

Ignazio seethes. Giuseppe exchanges glances with Romualdo, who sniggers.

During the pause between the lobster and the asparagus, D'Annunzio interlaces his fingers under his chin and looks at her.

"You have a swan's neck, Signora. The earrings you're wearing make it look shorter and distract from your wondrous beauty."

He waves at the Cartier drops. "Take them off."

"Really?"

"Yes."

Franca obediently removes one and looks at her reflection in the surface of the silver carafe in front of her. He draws closer,

practically brushing against her cheek. "You see? You should wear only necklaces and corsages that show off your throat."

Franca nods, removes the other earring, and again looks at herself.

"You're right," she says, admiring her reflection.

Exasperated at the other end of the table, all Ignazio can think of is when he will be alone with his wife. He definitely

can't bear all this familiarity. Moreover, he's convinced that Franca is taking advantage of D'Annunzio's attentions to take

her revenge on him. I'll show her! Does she think she's the only one allowed to make a scene?

He pulls himself together only when he catches Romualdo looking at him, clearly trying to let him know that his ill humor

is now obvious to everyone present. He orders a white Pinot to be served and gets to his feet. "I'd like to propose a toast

to our guests," he announces. "But especially to Signora Duse, whose talent outshines even her charm."

The actress gives him a grateful smile, then looks at the hostess. "It's as important for a woman to see her intelligence recognized as it is to receive a compliment on her beauty. Don't you think, Donna Franca?"

Franca nods. "Men often think our sensitivity is a limitation rather than an asset, and that it places us beneath them. We

see and understand everything, often choosing to keep silent, but they don't appear to notice."

Giulia Trigona bows her head and stares at the embroidery of the linen tablecloth. "Or, worse, they think that their status

as husbands and fathers puts them above boundaries," she says, "and that allows them to humiliate and insult their wives in

front of everyone."

Romualdo Trigona turns pale and bows his head over his plate.

"My muse cannot be stifled by the thick fog of everyday life." D'Annunzio looks at Eleonora Duse and raises his glass to her.

"That is why I have rejected countless daily miseries and elected to live beyond them, free from the nets and ties that a

mediocre society like ours tightens around the individual. For me, freedom is sacrosanct, and applies to both men and women."

Eleonora shakes her head and puts her fork down. "That also means evading any obligation that comes with a relationship. In

other words, not taking moral accountability for one's own choices."

"On the contrary: to honor individual freedom as our only goddess means taking all the responsibilities that derive from this choice." D'Annunzio indicates the manager of the Comédie-Fran?aise. "Monsieur

Claretie will no doubt confirm that in France, thanks to divorce, the vow of marriage no longer means eternal suffering...

A sign, precisely, of admirable freedom of thought."

Claretie nods, then dabs his lips. "Far be it from me to diminish the sanctity of marriage," he says calmly. "However, I do think that artists should avoid relationships. Art demands freedom, partly because it often generates internal changes that can hurt others."

"Paradoxically, the theater, with its masks, uncovers the hypocrisy of human relations," Zacconi says, joining in. "You can

allow yourself to say everything and its opposite through the words of a poet."

"Come now, let's not exaggerate!" Ignazio says in slightly too shrill a voice, his eyes fixed on Franca. "Marriage is the

foundation of a virtuous society. It defines the roles, helps us raise children, and marks the boundary between what's licit

and illicit. Denying its importance is pure madness."

Franca raises her eyebrows. "Really?" She puts her glass of wine down and strokes its base. "I think it's our behavior that

speaks for us—our actions, not words or statements. It's a question of dignity, of self-respect and decency, because form

and substance often coincide. You, Signor Zacconi, define it as ‘hypocrisy,' but I prefer to think of it as a genuine respect

for others, starting with one's own family and the name we carry."

Eleonora Duse studies her, then a smile slowly appears on her lips. She raises her glass. "How can I disagree with you, Donna

Franca?"

Franca will remember this evening and these words many years later, in the darkness of a movie theater, watching a frail,

intense elderly woman play the part of a mother reunited with the son she once abandoned, now an adult. She will search her

face in vain for the Eleonora Duse she knew and admired. And she won't be able to stop herself from wondering if in the end,

her spirit, like her body, and like the title of the movie, turned to ashes.

Because not even the most combative, intelligent women can escape such a fate. Franca has learned that lesson.

***

A mild winter welcomes the new century to Palermo. The city a reporter from Corriere della Sera has described as "Italy's most beautiful" is celebrating it by finally showing off its sophisticated soul to everyone. Villas

and houses with pretty wrought-iron gratings and well-manicured gardens emerge in the area occupied by the 1891 National Exhibition;

silent streets unfurl from Via della Libertà, the city's broad new road that echoes a Parisian boulevard. It is indeed Paris

that Palermo seeks to emulate: you can tell by the stores with their stained-glass windows, the jewelers who display brooches

and rings inspired by Cartier, the milliners appropriating patterns from La Mode Illustrée and La Mode Parisienne , and, of course, by the ever growing cafés chantants , filled with lights and mirrors, wide zinc counters, and tables with velvet chairs. Next door is the historic Gulì cake shop,

the Cavalier Bruno confectionery, and the Caffè di Sicilia, where men discuss politics and business. Tearooms exclusively

catering to women open shop: here, surrounded by walls decorated with floral paintings and oriental- or Arabian-style furnishing,

ladies can drink tea or enjoy water ices and sorbets without fear of being hassled by dandies. The Teatro Massimo—completed

at last—is closed, but its reputation as the third largest theater in Europe after the Paris Opéra and Vienna's Staatsoper remains intact, and Palermo's residents can still satisfy their desire for socializing at the seaside resorts of

Acquasanta, Sammuzzo, and Arenella.

Exactly halfway between Palermo and the Arenella, where Villa dei Quattro Pizzi—now seldom used by the Florios—stands, there

is the Domville family villa, a neo-Gothic house Ignazio has bought and completely transformed. Renaming it Villa Igiea, he

intends to turn it into the most à la page sanatorium in Europe . An airy building with wide-open spaces, filled with light, and equipped with two hundred rooms overlooking the garden and, therefore, the sea. Behind the complex is Monte Pellegrino, from which wafts a scent of earth mixed with rue and oregano. The contrast of colors and fragrances is as unusual as it is energizing.

"And this is the terrace: three thousand square meters... almost thirty-two thousand three hundred square feet," Ignazio

says in English. "It's winter, and yet here, in the open air, the temperature is very pleasant and the air invigorating, very

useful for treating bronchial and lung disease."

He watches his guests' reactions to the splendid terrace and the magnificent Gulf of Palermo bathed in the January sun. The

men nod, commenting in low voices, but seem reluctant to commit. And yet he is proud of this place and has spent a considerable

sum on bringing to Sicily these eleven British physicians, so that they can attend the villa's opening. How can they not be

excited by its potential?

"You may have noticed the linoleum floors. The entire building is fireproof and heated with tiled stoves and fireplaces—"

"If you will allow me, Don Ignazio, I'd like to add that the disinfection and laundry facilities, as well as the laboratories,

are situated at a certain distance from the complex, to avoid disturbing the stay of our guests and ensure more hygiene."

The man who interrupted is skinny, with jet-black eyes and a large gray mustache. He is Vincenzo Cervello, professor of medicine and pharmacology at the University of Palermo, and about to be appointed health director of Villa Igiea, where he will have the opportunity to test his innovative treatment method for pulmonary disease: keeping patients in a room filled with paraldehyde, or formaldehyde, chloral, and iodoform vapor. A treatment as innovative as it is controversial: the group of British doctors has listened to his explanations with clear reservations and repeatedly tried asking him embarrassing questions. But Cervello has always ardently defended the efficacy of his treatment.

"—a stay which, as you see, we've crafted with attention to every detail in order to ensure comfort and discretion," Ignazio

says, completing his sentence. "And now, gentlemen, I'll leave you for a couple of hours. Should you wish to visit the city,

there are carriages at your disposal. May I remind you that there's a gala dinner this evening and that it will be my pleasure

to have you as my guests."

The odd smile finally appears among the men's faces. A few look around, peering between the hedges and the trees in the garden.

There is a moment of hesitation. "And your wife... She will be there, won't she?" the youngest of the group asks shyly.

Ignazio smiles through clenched teeth. "But of course. My wife can't wait to meet you, gentlemen."

There is a contented murmur in the group as they walk away.

With a sigh, Ignazio leans on the balustrade overlooking the sea. "Thank God it's over," he whispers to Professor Cervello.

"Are you sure they didn't get as far as the second-floor rooms?"

"I'm absolutely certain. And they only saw the main area in the kitchen. Moreover, they visited just one laboratory and one

of the therapy rooms."

Ignazio nods. The work is far from complete; it will be weeks before the sanatorium can receive guests. There have been the

usual delays owing to lazy workmen, materials failing to arrive, and a bureaucracy slow to issue permits. In addition, there

are the maintenance costs, already considerable, as one of the guests noted during a tête-à-tête with Ignazio over a brandy

a few evenings ago.

Ignazio smiled diplomatically and avoided replying.

Never mind. Everything must appear perfect to these luminaries, and Villa Igiea ready to open. That way they will recommend

this elegant place, kissed by sun and sea, fitted out with the most modern equipment, to their wealthy patients. And once

they're here, Professor Cervello's effective treatment will do the rest.

Just as the two men go back into the building, a servant, barely older than a boy, appears at the end of the corridor and

runs straight to Ignazio, who chides him sharply. "Slowly, damn it! There must be peace and quiet here!"

" Mi scusasse , excuse me , Don Ignazio. But there's a telegram and—"

Ignazio snatches it from his hand and dismisses him. The boy walks away practically on tiptoe.

Ignazio reads quickly, then squeezes Professor Cervello's arm. "Thank you, God! He's not coming! Minister Baccelli can't attend

the opening of Villa Igiea! We have to postpone!"

Professor Cervello smiles in disbelief, his hand over his mouth. "We have time to complete the work and open in the spring..."

They shake hands.

"What a stroke of luck! I'll announce it at the gala dinner tonight. Oh, and I'll look devastated, I'll apologize profusely..."

"I gather few will be paying attention anyway," Cervello remarks, emboldened by the news. "I do believe the Englishmen's primary

objective is to meet your wife."

Ignazio crumples the telegram and puts it in his pocket. "They can look at my Franca all they like. There's something they'll

notice right away."

"What?" Cervello asks, intrigued.

Ignazio smiles. "My wife is pregnant again."

***

"My dear Ettore!" Franca exclaims.

A cigarillo firmly wedged between his lips, Ettore De Maria Bergler is busy stirring various shades of green in a bowl. At

the sound of Franca's voice, he immediately raises his head and turns with a smile. The recollection of a spring many years

ago, of a charcoal portrait from a time when she was still a young ingenue, certain that Ignazio did not even notice other

women, flashes between them. He holds out a paint-soiled hand and kisses her knuckles. "Donna Franca, what a pleasure to see

you! Have you come to see how we're getting on with the work?"

She nods and crosses her hands over her belly.

Her third child is due a couple of months from now: after her adored Giovannuzza and Baby Boy, another son would fill her

with joy. This hall will have to be ready by then, since it is where the guests for the baby's christening will be entertained.

"Well, we've already done a great deal. Michele Cortegiani and Luigi Di Giovanni are almost ahead of me."

Franca looks up at two men sitting on scaffolding, putting the final touches to a wreath of roses. "Hello, Signor Cortegiani!

Hello, Signor Di Giovanni!"

"My respects, Donna Franca," they reply in unison.

Nymphs draped in diaphanous clothes are dancing above her. "Magnificent," she murmurs, turning in a circle to see the frescoes

coming to life. "There's something... something magical about these creatures."

"I'm convinced that art is magic and that it should be experienced without prejudice—don't you agree?"

She sighs and nods. A friend to writers and painters, she knows only too well how important it is for every work of art to

be shrouded in mystery. By now, though, she has learned to spot the artists' minor and major obsessions, their pettiness,

and, above all, their fears, since she finds these even in the letters Puccini and D'Annunzio write her. "That's right. You

artists are creatures both powerful and frail."

The painter raises his eyebrows, takes a handkerchief from his pocket, and dabs a trickle of sweat from his face. "The problem

nowadays is that there's no humility. Some people think they're entitled to make harsh criticism after seeing just one painting

or hearing just one opera." He hands the bowl to an assistant and tells him to continue mixing the color, then wipes his hands

with a cloth. "Come, let's go into the garden," he says with a smile. "It's a mild April and I don't want you to strain yourself

any more than you should."

They walk along the corridor and down the winding staircase to the large terrace overlooking the sea, where wrought-iron furniture

has been arranged. Franca sits down with a sigh of relief, feeling all her pregnancy-related tiredness.

De Maria Bergler does not appear to notice. "You look so... so radiant," he exclaims. "Oh, how I'd like to paint you right

now, in this spring light!"

"You're always too kind," Franca replies, although she knows the painter is right: in recent months, Ignazio has started loving her passionately again, and the rumors about his "distractions" seem to have dwindled. Her rediscovered serenity is obvious. She has almost stopped thinking about the other women: they may hold Ignazio's attention, but she is the mother of his children. They have the crumbs, she the banquet. Above all, she is proud of herself: her outward image has never been marred, not even for a moment.

"So—how are you?"

"The little devil is champing at the bit," Franca murmurs, patting her belly. The baby responds with a light kick in her side.

"We'll have completed the work in time for the birth. Can you smell primer, oil, glue, and especially wood? It's from the

furniture designed by your dear friend Ernesto Basile; the porters have just delivered it from the Vittorio Ducrot factory

and it's still in packaging. If you like, I can show it to you later. You'll see; in the end it'll feel like being in a garden

during spring."

"Or in a dream place outside time," Franca replies, smiling. Because that is what she has in mind. An exclusive hotel reserved

for international aristocracy, facing what Goethe described as des sch?nsten aller Vorgebirge der Welt , "the most beautiful promontory in the world." A refuge for regenerating body and mind.

It was her idea.

When Ignazio realized that Villa Igiea would never become the luxury sanatorium he had pictured—too much red tape, money,

and, above all, too many doubts about the efficacy of Professor Cervello's course of treatment—he withdrew into an angry silence,

emerging only to hurl invectives at ill fortune, claiming he was cursed for living on such a backward island.

Franca let him vent. Then, one evening, she recalled nostalgically their trip to Saint Moritz, Nice, and Cannes and, with

a sigh, added how lovely it would be to have, here in Palermo, a luxury hotel like the ones they usually frequented...

Ignazio stared at her, then cried, "But of course! How true, my dear Franca! To hell with the sanatorium! Our Villa Igiea can be come the finest luxury hotel in Europe!" He took her hands and kissed her.

They spent entire afternoons with their good friend Ernesto Basile, discussing their picture of the place: from the furniture

in the bedrooms and salons to the lawn tennis courts (Ignazio was an enthusiastic player); from the scenic garden, with its

bridges and staircases, to the telegraph station; from the possibility of making a few boats, and even one of their yachts,

available to their guests, to the excellent cuisine, which—Franca would not budge on this—had to be run by a French chef and

team, just as the ma?tre d' and sommelier would be French, too. Thanks to the mild Sicilian climate, the hotel would always be open, even in winter. Ignazio told them

how one of the British doctors had said, "Here in Sicily, January is like a warm June in England!" before going to bathe in

the sea, followed by his colleagues.

She and Ignazio laughed so much together, complicit as never before. Franca made suggestions and explained; he listened. She

felt—and still feels—like a part of this project. Besides, she loves this place far from the city, its fragrance of flowers

and algae, and the way the sunlight bounces off the sea and along the city's coastline, bathing it in gold and bronze. She

loves it so much, she has decided to reserve an entire floor of Villa Igiea for herself, Ignazio, and their children.

She runs her fingers down her gold and Sciacca coral necklace. "I'd like to move here as soon as possible, you know? The Olivuzza

is like a seaport... there's always chaos, what with all the servants and guests going back and forth. I need peace and

quiet now more than ever."

"Of course! Besides, what better place than one named after the goddess of health?"

Franca laughs. "Ah, if only you knew... At the beginning, when my husband was still thinking of making this complex into a sanatorium, he tortured himself for weeks, unsure whether Igiea was spelled with an i or without. In the end, dear D'Annunzio told him that the goddess's name was actually Igiea." Her face softens. "If it's

a girl, that's what my husband wants to call her. But I so wish it's a boy."

"Fate will decide. The important thing is that he or she is healthy. And how is Donna Giovanna?"

"She's well, thank you. She's decided to stay at the Olivuzza," she adds even though the painter did not ask. But Franca is

so relieved that her mother-in-law decided to stay at the villa with her youngest son, she cannot conceal it; it shows in

her voice as well as on her face. Ever since she arrived at the Olivuzza, now seven years ago, Giovanna's lifestyle has remained

the same, punctuated by prayer, embroidery, melancholy, and regret. The veil of grief and sadness over her apartment is now

a shadow no amount of light can dispel.

No, it's far better to breathe the sunlight, the life, and the warmth of this place.

"A few days ago," the painter says, "I heard your husband talking to Ernesto about the possibility of building a little house

in the grounds of the Olivuzza for your brother-in-law."

"Yes. He's been mentioning this project for a while. I'm not sure I fully agree, because it would mean turning the garden

upside down and knocking down the little temple, but there you go. Where his brother is concerned, he won't listen to either

me or his mother. Vincenzo is seventeen now and has asked him for more room and more freedom ." She stresses the last words.

The painter represses a jab behind his diplomatic smile. In actual fact, the youngest Florio is already taking all the room and freedom he wants: on the one hand, with his passion for automobiles—he boasts about knowing every bolt and strap—on the other hand, with his collection of female conquests, not unlike that of his brother. How two reprobates like them came out of a virtuous couple like Ignazio and Giovanna Florio is a mystery , De Maria Bergler thinks, but takes care not to voice aloud.

He stands up. "I'm very sorry, Donna Franca, I must get back to work. But may I tell you something first? My contribution

aside, I'm sure Villa Igiea will be an extraordinary place, and everyone will envy us for it. I don't think it would have

been the same with a sanatorium. It was a good thing your husband changed his mind."

"Only people lacking imagination refuse to change their minds. And fools," Franca replies with a smile. "And yes, I agree

with you. Maybe my optimism comes from my joy at this new pregnancy, but I'm also convinced that Villa Igiea will show the

world the extraordinary beauty of Palermo."