8

On this April Sunday, the sun is already bright, chasing after the shadows of the trees on Piazza Marina, while the southwest

wind raises clouds of dust on the balate of the Cassaro. Ignazio had to go to Villa Igiea first thing in the morning to talk to the foreman about the finish on the railings

overlooking the sea. Afterward, he would have gladly lingered and taken a stroll in the garden, only he had an important appointment.

He is now in the NGI building, rereading a letter.

It is the draft of the missive he sent almost a year ago to the Giornale di Sicilia : a long, detailed list of everything necessary to lift the island from its perennial difficulties. "Project Sicily" was what he called it, and it proposed converting extensive farmland to intensive, building oil production plants, relaunching the mining of sulfur, experimentally growing sorghum and beet, replanting vines corroded by phylloxera, campaigning farmers to adopt modernized farming techniques, and facilitating legislation. That was the plan of action for the Sicilian Agriculture Consortium he had longed for, gathering around him eighteen thousand people—aristocrats, intellectuals, and politicians—all united by the belief that the time had come to act to revamp the island's economy.

But the government proved more generous with its words than its purse. The project lost momentum. From the ashes of disappointment,

though, a new idea was born, which immediately aroused Ignazio's enthusiasm: to set up a newspaper.

He has thought about it carefully. The interests of Casa Florio would gain high visibility in the columns of a paper. Besides,

a newspaper could become an indispensable tool for influencing public opinion. For example, it could criticize the decisions

of a government making everybody unhappy by imposing taxes but providing no assistance. Once politicians realize that ordinary

people are no longer following them, but are actually hostile to them, they can only change their line of action.

Last, but not least, a newspaper is the way to show everyone what the future holds. A newspaper will give a voice to discontent

and hope.

To his concerns.

These are no longer his father's times, when a man could alter the destiny of an entire city by himself. Besides, his father had Crispi watching his back. Crispi has faded, so has Rudinì, and now Luigi Pelloux is head of the government, knows nothing about Sicily, and thinks he can solve everything with carabinieri and their rifles. Ignazio makes a gesture of annoyance. A few days ago, on April 8, Pelloux actually suspended support to shipbuilding, plunging the completion of the Palermo construction site into a serious crisis. You can't talk to these northern politicians anymore, he thinks angrily. There are things they just don't understand, and then you have to call in an army and face them and give them a fright. You

must involve the people.

He looks around. The building is silent. No squeaking, no creaking today. Even the cracks seem to have vanished.

There is a knock at the door. An imposing figure of a man appears.

"Come in, my dear Rudinì, come in!"

Carlo Starabba di Rudinì, the former prime minister's eldest son, is a large, elegantly dressed man with thick, dark whiskers.

"Are you ready?" Ignazio asks.

"Above all, I'm honored. Being the owner of a new paper is no mean feat. The director is waiting for us at the office, isn't

he?"

"Yes, Morello must already be there," Ignazio replies with a nod, focusing his attention on a pilot's book hanging on the

wall, showing the Calabrian coast and the Strait of Messina. "You know, he's from Bagnara Calabra, like my great-grandfather.

Strange coincidence."

"I thought he was from Rome. Didn't he used to write for La Tribuna ?"

"Yes. Right—time to go."

It is cool, dark, and comforting inside the vehicle. Toying with his diamond cuff links—two large stones that light up his

wrists—Ignazio holds back a sigh and crosses his fingers to conceal his tension.

"And how is your father?"

"He's well, thank you. Still mad at Pelloux," Rudinì replies with a shrug.

"I can understand that—he has every reason to be," Ignazio says. "You know I've always supported him with conviction and been his loyal ally. And I understand why he's opposed to the current government, which is obsessed with a normalization that certainly isn't helping Sicily and the south as a whole. As if Sicily was identical to Piedmont or Tuscany! We survived the Bourbons, and yet we can't shake off the shackles and the wicked taxes imposed on us by the Rome government... while enterprises in the north have free rein, of course!"

Carlo di Rudinì pulls a bitter grimace. "When my father was in the government, he always made sure he protected the interests

of Southern Italy, and Sicily in particular. We're still a very young nation, and we come from different administrations.

We were all unified too hastily. Italy, my dear Don Ignazio, was born divided. Those who made Italy forty years ago didn't

realize how different the south and the north were, and now we're paying the consequences."

Ignazio nods. "That's right: after the unification, Sicily and Sicilians were cast aside like an old shoe. No plans, no innovations;

only accusations of leeching money, having no skills, and being... peasants." He practically spits out the word. "It's

one of the reasons I founded the Agriculture Consortium, because I was confident we could achieve something concrete and modern.

While elsewhere landowners are a political force people listen to and help, here they're considered on a par with idiots."

Rudinì gives him a skeptical sideways glance. Casa Florio has received many subsidies and has never been short of political support, starting with the naval concessions. But Ignazziddu Florio has neither his grandfather's authority nor his father's temperament. He has goodwill and brilliant ideas, certainly, but he's fickle: a flag that waves with the wind. And when it comes to production, he definitely hasn't distinguished himself for his innovation: he should be spending more—and more wisely—on his companies, whereas they are in fact limping along, like the Oretea, unable to keep up with the businesses in Northern Italy. Even so, Rudinì gives him credit for his awareness of social issues and knows he's a rich, powerful man with an extensive network. That's why he has gotten involved in the creation of the newspaper.

As though reading his mind, Ignazio leans forward and squeezes his arm. "I'm sure that with this venture we'll stir things

up. This newspaper will operate under the banner of free information! I'll exploit my international contacts for news from

all over the world and many prominent people will write for us: Colajanni, Capuana... even the great D'Annunzio assures

me he'll work with us. The Giornale di Sicilia has done a lot, but now it's time someone truly defended the interests of Sicilians. Everybody agrees on this point: even

Filippo Lo Vetere, a Socialist and not some aristocrat perched on his throne. Fighting between landowners and farmers is pointless,

he says. No one will help us; we have to help ourselves."

Ignazio wants to add that he has even thought about how to attract a readership by offering prizes, like vases or dinner sets

from his ceramics factory, but he has no time. The vehicle has reached Via dei Cintorinai, location of the newspaper's headquarters.

Its first issue is to be published today, and it will go a long way, a very long way. For many generations, it will narrate

the bitter life of Palermo with sincerity and courage; some of the most important figures in Sicilian and Italian journalism

will learn their trade at its desks. And, before it finally closes down, some of its journalists will die at the hands of

the Mafia.

L'Ora, Sicily's new daily political gazette.

***

Costanza Igiea Florio is born on June 4, 1900. She is called simply Igiea and welcomed by her family as a promise of happiness

for the new century.

Only, this time the Casa Florio workers do not partake in the festivities. None of them shows up at the Olivuzza to celebrate

the birth. There's nothing to celebrate when there's no work.

Between June and November, in fact, the subsidies for building new ships are cut, and this measure causes damage to the shipyards

in the north—except that they already have orders—and brings the ones in the south to their knees. The Palermo yard, still

incomplete, is the first to suffer. NGI has to suspend work, and Ignazio is forced to lay off hundreds of workers.

In circumstances overshadowed by the assassination of King Umberto I, it seems pointless to turn to Rome, which issues only

empty reassurances, indicating its fear of a possible uprising and issuing a call to keep an eye on potential instigators

and, if necessary, have them immediately arrested. In Palermo, even charity is denied: the prefect requests a subsidy for

struggling families, but the government refuses; the prefect ends up withdrawing the application, afraid to set a dangerous

precedent.

There is a rise in the number of unemployed families—almost two thousand at the start of 1900.

The city taxes go up, too, in a clumsy attempt to bring the budget, now in chronic deficit, into line.

And a single sentence, whispered by all—the Oretea workers, the clerks, the artisans, the porters, the sailors in the shipyard—rides

the long, endless wave of hunger, despair, and uncertainty. An unforgiving accusation.

Ignazio Florio is a liar.

He said the shipyard would bring well-being to the city. He claimed that the economy would be given a new impetus. He promised bread and work for everyone.

Instead, Palermo is now inactive and can only watch from afar that colossal, unfinished shipyard that's slowly becoming obsolete

before it was ever operational.

And it's Ignazio Florio's fault.

***

The dawn of February 27, 1901, is full of shivering, of shawls thrown over shoulders, mountains dusted with snow, and a lead-gray

sky. It is only really cold in Sicily during the month of February.

This chill comes to the Olivuzza, cuts through the walls and the windows wedged with woolen rags to stop the drafts, dampens

the heat of the warmers, and reaches Ignazio under the blankets.

Strangely, he is already awake. As a matter of fact, he has hardly slept. He is thirty but feels twice as old this morning.

Shivering, he gets out of bed, puts on his robe, goes into his study, asks for coffee and a cognac, and gives orders that

he not be disturbed.

He looks at the stack of papers on his desk, not wanting to even touch them. And yet here they are, demanding to be reckoned

with. Debts to banks, above all to the Banca Commerciale Italiana, which loaned him cash after that mess with Credito Mobiliare.

He got into debt back then, so had to offer a portion of his NGI shares as collateral.

And now he has discovered that the orders for military ships he was counting on after the government cancelled the funds to build civilian steamers have been given to the shipyards in Naples and Genoa. Palermo and the Florios have been excluded. Nothing for them, not even crumbs.

Which means those shares are worth little, very little now, and the banks want other collateral, other guarantees.

He rings the bell. "Call Morello at the paper right away," he tells the servant who appears at the door. Then he sits back

down at his desk, feeling as though the ground has vanished from beneath his feet, and that he has nothing to hold on to,

to keep from falling.

He suddenly hears a vague sound, like a subdued moan.

Here they are, the creaks that herald collapse.

Ignazio bangs a fist on his desk. If only he had delved deeper into the soundness of Credito Mobiliare years ago, before investing

capital in it. If only he had listened to those who were advising him to stay away from it during the Banca Romana scandal.

If only he hadn't covered the savers' losses out of his own pocket...

Instead, Casa Florio has been paying the consequences of those choices for eight years.

There has been very little help from Rome and, he now realizes, there will be increasingly less. Politics has become a constant

gamble, with alliances that are both precarious and unstable; the government is forever changing leaders—Luigi Pelloux was

succeeded by the elderly Giuseppe Saracco, and, from a few days ago, by Giuseppe Zanardelli, another politician from the north—and

it's impossible to form a continuous, productive relationship with a minister or an undersecretary, because they do nothing but grab whatever they can and protect their own

interests and the interests of those who have done them favors.

Northern industrialists are the ones with all the political power now. They have the factories and the shipyards as well as the forward-looking steel industries. They are able to load their prod ucts onto trains and get them anywhere quickly, not giving a damn about transportation by ship.

For a moment, the air presses against his stomach, as though iron dust has landed in the bottom of his lungs. He abruptly

expels it with a hoarse sound, part stifled cry, part sob.

How did we get to this point? How did I get here? he wonders, staring at a painting of his Valkyrie , commissioned shortly before he sold the yacht. It brings back happy memories: he recalls the days when he had time on his

hands and a mind free to devote himself to regattas, tournaments, games of lawn tennis. He has little of that left now: there

are the parties, of course, and... those small distractions he grants himself every now and then.

He has always loved life, sport, adventure. Instead, he is nailed to a desk—just like his father—and has to find a way out

of this impasse, and nobody, nobody seems willing to help him. Not even Alessandro Tasca di Cutò, who has become an influential

Socialist, wants to listen to him. The last time they spoke, he told Ignazio that his shipyard's fate had been sealed by his

delusions of grandeur, and the workers would be the ones to pay for his irresponsible actions. On his way out, he warned him:

"People are scared of losing everything, Ignazio. And fear gives rise to chaos. Remember that." Then he left without saying

goodbye.

People?

I'm the one who's scared of losing everything.

Because now there's a risk that the Palermo shipyard will never be completed.

And that he will go bankrupt.

"No," he utters softly, slapping his hands on the desk. "It can't be."

He must react. But how? Who can he turn to for help?

How dare they do this to me? To the Florios?

***

On February 28, 1901, the editorial in L'Ora , written by Rastignac—aka Vincenzo Morello—has a harsh title: "Forgotten."

So Sicily has been forgotten!... Palermo has been awarded special treatment; but only to exclude it from all the benefits

enjoyed now or in the future by the other regions... In the laws and regulations, it is always Sicily that is forgotten,

even though the crisis here is more serious than in other places, even though work has long been suspended in Palermo's factories.

This adds fuel to the fire, stoking the fears of a city that has been denied everything: its glorious past, the possibility

of counting for something in a now-united Italy, a future of hope and progress.

And so Palermo raises its head. It does so with a wrath aroused by fear, yes, but above all by a violated dignity.

The concrete result is the first proper citywide strike, not just a protest by the workers at the Oretea Foundry or the shipyard

site. Naturally, the strikes start with the trade unions in the Molo district, where the shipyard site is located, but laborers,

coachmen, tailors, fishermen, barbers, gardeners, fruit sellers, bricklayers, bakers, and carpenters also take part. Because

everyone knows that if the Florios don't resume construction, everything will collapse, and it's not as if the government

cares about there being no more bread or work in Palermo; they just mind their own business, as they always have.

The Cassaro is filling with people: women and children head the procession, marching with the workers. They file past the NGI building to the Royal Palace, a torrent that swells at every street, every crossroads, until it becomes an overflowing river. The carabinieri are patrolling the streets, going after the leaders of the protest; the police are raiding the homes of workers who belong to the union.

But the residents of Palermo do not comply, they shout and react, and spitting turns to punching, to kicking the bars, and

the strike turns into a guerilla struggle, with law-enforcement agents hunting down the protesters and the latter attacking

barracks and stores; they sow devastation, they loot, because that's how it goes, because hunger is hunger and fear is fear.

Semu fangu d'in tierra , the Palermitani think: we are mud from the earth, people worth nothing, who must be whipped into submission, jailed like criminals, shot at.

So the clash worsens and the violence increases: a bayonet attack by the Bersaglieri is met with stones, billboards are stacked and set fire to, while daggers, sabers, and pistols are produced. The unions that

started the protests now fear they can no longer control the people's fury.

In fact, after one last message from Zanardelli, filled with vague reassurances and improbable promises, they take fright,

yield, and announce the end of the strike.

But nothing has changed.