9

On March 3, 1901, stressed and worn out, Ignazio is looking through the window of the offices of L'Ora . He has felt the city quiver for two days, as though about to explode. He has sensed the mounting tension on the streets, his unease fueled by his own despair. He has witnessed clashes, cursed Socialists as well as Roman politicians and their official telegrams: one from Crispi—as useless and rhetorical as its sender—and those from Giovanni Giolitti, minister of the interior, and Zanardelli, who actually sent him a personal telegram, asking him to use his influence to calm the waters.

So now he speaks to me , Ignazio thought. Now that he's scared.

Morello makes the final corrections to his editorial, then walks to the window. "They're already arresting dozens of people,"

he says. "If Rome insists on not understanding what truly happened here and continues to suppress, they're criminals. Giolitti

and Zanardelli will have the dead on their conscience." He searches for his cigar case in the pocket of his jacket.

Ignazio lights his cigar for him, declines his offer of one, and bites his lip.

"Oh, and then a—a friend of mine gave me a telegram two Palermo members of Parliament, Pietro Bonanno and Vittorio Emanuele

Orlando, sent Zanardelli: they accuse you of instigating the strike because you're in financial straits and want to use it

as blackmail. And they say I'm your accomplice." Morello shakes his head. "I've seen a lot, Don Ignazio, ever since the times

of La Tribuna , and I've spoken a lot, and never been afraid." He breathes out smoke and walks away from the window, back to the leather

chair by his desk. "I've been accused of many things: of being a lackey to power and of being anti-establishment," he says

with a touch of amusement. "Rubbish. The idea of being the instigator of a strike fills me with pride, not shame or fear,

as those two would wish."

"In spite of Bonanno and Orlando's slanders, Palermo's members of Parliament have sided with the strike and against the exclusion of the commissions: Baron Chiaramonte Bordonaro, the Prince of Camporeale, and, naturally, my brother-in-law, Pietro. The rich and the poor together. Never before has the city been so united." Ignazio slowly walks to the other chair and slumps down opposite Morello. He can smell the warm aroma of his cigar.

"Prefect De Seta also tried to intervene in favor of the strikers' requests..."

"And the police commissioner decided to oppose him. The government going against itself: that's where we're at... and they

go accusing me of speculating with public money and having ‘delusions of grandeur,' as Tasca di Cutò says." He makes a gesture

of annoyance and starts tapping the floor with his foot. There's a burst of angry shouting from the street, but it's immediately

quenched. "Even if that were true, the problem isn't me and my losses: it's the workers we're having to let go because we

no longer have a reason to keep them if there's no work. And that makes me furious: people look at the Florios as if we were

the root of all evil, after all we've done, all I've done for this city... and I'm sure those bastards at the Giornale di Sicilia will pick up these absurdities and even broadcast them!"

"They're doing their jobs, Don Ignazio, just as I'm doing mine." Morello's raised eyebrow speaks volumes. "But you must take

advantage of the moment. You have a respected family name and the support of most of Palermo's politicians. Not all, of course,

since the Socialists and those two are a case apart, but it doesn't really matter. Lobby—do it now. They'll have to give in

a little in Rome if they want to avoid a civil war breaking out soon. Then people will trust you again, the scandalmongers

will be forced to eat their words, and the workers will see that u' principale knows how to command respect."

Ignazio nods, but a fear is taking root inside him and rising to his stomach. He no longer knows how much power his name holds in Rome: once upon a time, the papers would never have entertained certain criticisms, let alone printed them.

All you have of your father is his name. Soon, even that will carry no more influence. And the fault will be yours alone , Laganà prophesied a few years ago.

Ignazio swallows air; even though he can't admit it to himself, that day has come.

***

"This one?"

"Well, the green velvet matches your eyes, Checchina , but the dress doesn't... seem appropriate." Francesca has become a charming, relaxed woman. Having gotten over Amerigo's

death, she remarried a couple of years ago and now divides her time between Palermo, Florence, and Paris with her husband,

Maximilien Grimaud, Count d'Orsay.

"Wait..." says Stefanina Spadafora, who has recently married Giulio Cesare Pajno but put her honeymoon preparations on

hold to help Franca with this difficult decision. She draws on the ebony cigarette holder held tightly between her fingers

and lets out a puff of smoke. "No, Francesca's correct: not quite right yet."

"You're about to pose for one of Italy's—if not Europe's—most famous painters, ma chère. You can't look like a Catholic schoolgirl." Giulia Trigona is lying at the foot of the bed, leaning her head on her hand,

vaguely bored. Her skirt is riding up her ankles, revealing her long, toned legs.

In a robe and slip, Franca holds the dress away from her, indicates the neckline, and gives her friends an eloquent look, but Stefanina waves her hand as if to say no, no point in insisting, it won't do. She gets up and walks across the room, treading on the rose-petaled tiles, to investigate the perfumes. She opens a bottle. "A true symphony of spices! What is it?"

Franca nods without turning. It's called La Marescialla and was created by the Pharmaceutical Workshop of Santa Maria Novella.

A present from her mother, she explains as she paces the room, absorbed in thought, looking at the cherubs on the ceiling.

"What about the pomegranate-red dress?" Francesca says, slipping off her shoes and sitting down in the armchair left vacant

by Stefanina. "You can get away with it. You've an enviable body even after three pregnancies."

"No, that would be too obvious," Franca replies. "I need something..." She taps her lips with her fingertips. She goes

to the large closet to the left of the bed, opens it, and studies it, hands on her hips. She needs something that will astound.

Something that reminds everyone that she is "the One and Only," as D'Annunzio called her, and that no woman can compete with

her, not even that Lina Cavalieri her husband decided to bring to Palermo despite everything, even despite the strikes and

protests that have turned the whole city upside down.

Yes, of course Ignazio is worried. As a matter of fact, he's in Rome right now, talking to ministers and Sicilian politicians

in order to sort out the shipyard business, which is still dragging on. But when he returns—and here Franca feels a pang of

resentment—he'll go straight to the Teatro Massimo to watch the rehearsals for La Bohème rather than to his family or his Oretea workers.

He even had the audacity to justify himself before leaving: "I'm the impresario, so I need to make sure everything's in order."

Fool .

Franca drums her fingers on the closet door. Does he really think she knows nothing? She did tell him once: "I always know everything, Ignazio." By now he should have realized that the more aggressively you hide certain things, the more likely they are to come to light, especially when a peacock like him does them.

All she needs is a sign—a new English suit, a sudden late-evening commitment, special care of his mustache—to know there's

a new conquest on the horizon, a new affair to maintain.

As for people—still whispering, snickering, and hinting—Franca now knows that gossip is an ever-hungry animal, and if it doesn't

find new carrion to pick at, it chews over whatever there is. And so she provides them with a humorous response and watches

them as they tear her to pieces, or else shows off a new piece of jewelry, knowing full well they'll try to find out what

the other one is like.

That's right: here, too, Ignazio is as brazen as he is predictable. After the umpteenth adventure, he will appear before her

with a gift—a sapphire ring, a platinum bracelet, a diamond necklace—in lieu of reparation. And it will often be similar to

the one he has given his current sweetheart.

The jewels always come: sometimes during the betrayal, sometimes once the affair is over. She has learned to measure the importance

Ignazio bestows on the women with whom he cheats on her from the value of the items he gives her. But she knows that his remorse

has the consistency of ash.

It's different with Lina Cavalieri, though.

Lina, the dressmaker's daughter, the violet seller, the folder of newspapers, who first conquered Rome and Naples, then the Folies Bergère in Paris and the London Empire. She has a silvery voice, yes, but above all she's very beautiful, with a face like a Madonna, a pair of very dark eyes, and a sinner's body that moves with brazen sensuality. Men go crazy for her: Franca has heard that eight carts were once needed to remove the flowers that had been thrown to her on the stage. And she knows how to use their fanaticism: that innocent appearance—she always performs without makeup or jewels—conceals a soul of iron. Last year, Lina decided to become an opera singer: she debuted in Lisbon with I Pagliacci and it was such a critical failure that anybody else would have stepped away quietly, crushed by shame. Anybody else but

her. She bravely continued to perform, and now—after filling theaters in Warsaw and Naples—she's coming to Palermo, admired,

awaited, desired.

It's the first time that Ignazio has paraded his mistress before the entire city, pitting her directly against Franca. He

flirted with doing this a couple of years ago, after bedding Agustina Carolina del Carmen Otero Iglesias, known to everyone

as simply "la Belle Otero." Another singer and dancer of obscure origins, a woman who could use her body with ease and had

a healthy dose of cynicism. Ignazio didn't shy away from boasting about that conquest—and of her generous favors—with his

friends at the club, stooping to vulgar details that reached Franca's ears, making her shudder with disdain.

But that was his typical male ego.

This is an insult.

Years ago, Franca would have suffered, breaking down in tears, torturing herself with humiliation. But now she has changed

and has learned to turn sorrow into anger. She's discovered the explosive power of resentment, the strength produced by the

awareness of one's self-worth. She no longer stews in embarrassment, no longer asks herself if she's gone wrong somewhere.

She's learned to think for herself and to protect herself from the pain he inflicts on her. It's an odd feeling, this feeling

she has for Ignazio, a blend of jealousy and affection, of humiliation and regret. Regret for what they were and for what

has been thrown away.

No, Ignazio's no fool. He's just selfish and unable to truly love.

It's this final straw, though, that has made her put aside any lingering reservations and agree to pose for Giovanni Boldini, the most acclaimed, most talked-about portrait painter of the day. He is their guest: Ignazio has invited him to the Olivuzza because he wants Boldini to paint her portrait, like those he's already done of various high-society noblewomen across Europe. And, with his typical arrogance, Ignazio has requested the artist display Franca's portrait in Venice, at the exhibition he's holding next summer.

Franca shakes her head, pondering Ignazio's inability to weigh the consequences, to go beyond the immediate surface of things:

all he has thought about is the social prestige and the envy this charming wife of his will generate. He hasn't realized that

Boldini has a way of painting that seems to bare the soul, and that he paints women as creatures of flesh and desire. His

women have just made love, relishing the pleasure derived from it.

She has no wish to appear so naked and exposed, but at the same time, she's tempted to let herself go and reveal what she

could be. Sensual. Full of passion.

She's tempted to show the world, and her husband, who she truly is.

She picks a cream-colored dress, considers it for a moment, then puts it back.

Someone knocks at the door. It's Giovannuzza, followed by her governess and a couple of pugs, who aren't so much running as

rolling behind her.

"Has the painter arrived, Maman ? Can I see, too?" asks the little girl, staring at the clothes. Fascinated, she reaches out with her small hand and touches

the fabrics. "Beautiful..." she murmurs.

Franca doesn't answer, looking now at a dress hanging in the most remote part of the closet, a dress she hasn't yet worn because

Ignazio thinks it's too daring.

Jealous. Him. It would be funny if it weren't so infuriating.

" Maman? " the child insists in a pleading tone.

The governess is trying to send out the dogs, which have started licking the guests' shoes, making them shriek in protest.

"No, my love. This is not for children." Smiling with satisfaction, Franca turns and gives her a caress. "I'll have a portrait

commissioned of you, too, when you're older. But now geh und spiel im anderen Zimmer, su ."

Giovannuzza huffs and sulks. "But they're allowed..." she says, indicating the women.

" They're grown-ups, Giovannuzza. And please show respect to adults."

Head down and tight-lipped, the child marches out. She doesn't say goodbye to anyone, not even Francesca, who always spoils

her.

"She could have stayed..." Francesca says.

"No." Franca moves about the room slowly, picks up a cigarette in a holder from an ashtray and takes a drag. A habit she picked

up on her last trip to France. She finds smoking very relaxing.

Her friends watch her and wait.

Giulia Trigona detects something the others can't see. As someone who, like Franca, suffers the excesses of an unfaithful

and, it's rumored, violent husband, she says, "What's on your mind, Franca?"

Without replying, she slips off her robe, down to her bloomers and camisole, and looks in the mirror. Then she heads to the

closet and takes out the dress she picked earlier, with Diodata's help.

A murmur of astonishment runs through her friends. The black carved-silk velvet dress, draped so that it accentuates her waist,

makes her look even taller and more regal. It comes with a bib specially designed to highlight her long neck and make the

dress more modest by covering the low neckline.

Franca takes the bib, looks at it, and throws it on the bed.

No.

She doesn't want it to be a respectable society lady's pose.

She wants to be looked at.

She studies herself in the mirror and shakes her head, and her loose, black hair shifts on her shoulders. There's still something

missing.

She pushes her dress halfway down, freeing her chest from the fabric, then removes the camisole. Her breasts—white and full—are

those of a girl, not a woman with three children. Stefanina leans forward and bursts out laughing. "Like that?" she asks,

wide-eyed, while Francesca puts her hands to her mouth and mutters, " Mon Dieu! "

Giulia snickers. "Ignazio will have a shock when he returns to Palermo," she says, implying that he will deserve it.

Franca ignores their reactions, pulls up the bodice, and asks Diodata to secure the row of buttons.

She's almost breathless, but it's what she wants. This is her way to fight Ignazio's blind stupidity. And the envy of the

Palermitani .

This isn't a dress; it's a suit of armor.

Still on the bed, Giulia watches with a vague smile. "Of course, if you want your husband to suffer a moment's embarrassment,

that's the perfect dress. But you know what people will say, don't you?"

While Diodata starts styling her hair, Franca shrugs. "He asked Boldini to do a portrait of me. He'll have to accept my choice

of attire," she replies, applying a touch of red to her lips. She indicates the flap on the bedside table. "Could you fetch

me my jewelry bag, please?"

Giulia obeys, places the heavy bag among the silk dresses and sheets, and opens it.

Pure envy flashes across the faces of the three friends. None of them boasts such a collection of rings, necklaces, and bracelets of comparable weight or elegance.

Franca half closes her eyes, mentally separating Ignazio's gifts—the jewels that have the names of women—from her own. Those

she chose carefully, almost lovingly, because—after her children—there's nothing dearer to her. These jewels are a mark of

what Franca Florio is to the eyes of the world: beautiful, wealthy, and powerful.

She stands up and rummages among boxes and velvet pouches. Here they are, her pearls. She lets them slide between her fingers,

caressing them. Then she links the necklaces together and, finally, adds the one with the twin pearls, as large as cherries.

She puts it on, and the pearls cascade down her black dress like a waterfall of light.

Franca takes one final look in the mirror and tries to slow her breathing.

"Let's go."