The Florios of Sicily Read online

  A shaft of light is shining through the hatch. Barbaro leans forward and listens to the creaking with a mixture of surprise and annoyance. “Brother-in-law, is that you?”

  Paolo Florio’s head pops out through the hatch. “Who else?”

  “How should I know? With all that’s happened tonight . . .”

  But Paolo Florio isn’t listening to him anymore. He’s now looking at Ignazio. “And you! Not a word. Just took off and disappeared. Now come on, get up here.”

  Then he vanishes into the belly of the boat and his brother also jumps aboard. Their brother-in-law stays on the deck to check the left side, which slammed against the dock.

  Ignazio slots into the hold, amid the boxes and cloth sacks that will go from Calabria to Palermo.

  This is their work: trading, especially by sea. There were serious upheavals in the Kingdom of Naples a few months ago: the king was ousted and the rebels founded the Neapolitan Republic. A group of noblemen and intellectuals spread notions of democracy and freedom, just as had happened in France during the Revolution, which cost Louis XVI and Marie-Antoinette their heads. Ferdinand and Maria Carolina had been more alert and escaped in time, with those in the army who were still loyal to the British, France’s longtime enemies, before the lazzari, the common people, could run them over with their anger.

  But only the final wave of this revolution arrived here, over the Calabrian mountains. There were murders, the soldiers no longer knew whom to take orders from, and the brigands who’ve always infested the mountains also started looting the tradesmen on the coast. Between brigands and revolutionaries, the streets became dangerous, and although the sea has no churches or taverns, it certainly offered more safety than the streets of the Bourbon kingdom.

  It’s stifling inside the small hold. Cedar in wicker baskets, required by perfume makers; fish, stockfish especially, and salted herring. Farther in, bolts of leather, ready to be taken to Messina.

  Paolo inspects the sacks of merchandise. The smell of salted fish spreads through the hold, as does the slightly sour odor of leather.

  The spices are not in the hold, however. They keep those at home until they leave. The sea humidity and salt could damage them, so they are stored with care. They have exotic names that bring tastes to the tongue and summon pictures of sun and heat: pepper, sandalwood, cloves, tormentil, cinnamon. They are the true wealth.

  Ignazio suddenly realizes that Paolo is anxious. He can tell by his movements, hears it in his words, muffled by the lapping against the planking. “What’s the matter?” he asks. He’s worried he might have argued with Giuseppina. His sister-in-law is far from subservient as a wife should be. At least the right kind of wife for Paolo. But that’s not what’s troubling him, he feels. “What’s the matter?” he repeats.

  “I want to leave Bagnara.”

  His words fall in the fleeting pause between waves.

  Ignazio hopes he’s misheard, but he knows Paolo has expressed this wish on other occasions. “Where to?” he asks, hurt more than surprised. He’s afraid. It’s a sudden, primeval fear, an animal with the sour breath of abandonment.

  Mattia and Paolo have always supported him. Now Mattia has a family of her own and her brother wants to go away. To leave him alone.

  His brother drops his voice. It’s almost a whisper. “Actually, I’ve been thinking about it for a long time and after tonight’s earthquake I am ever more convinced that it’s the right thing to do. I don’t want Vincenzo to grow up here, with the danger of the house falling on top of him. And also . . .” He looks at him. “I want more than this, Ignazio. This village isn’t enough for me anymore. This life isn’t enough for me. I want to go to Palermo.”

  Ignazio opens his mouth and closes it again. He’s disoriented, he feels his words turn to ash.

  Of course, Palermo is an obvious choice. Barbaro and Florio, as they call them in Bagnara, have a putìa, a spice store, over there.

  Ignazio remembers. It all began a couple of years earlier with a warehouse, a small fondaco for storing the goods they acquired along the coast to then sell on the island. In the beginning, it had been a necessity, but soon afterward his brother Paolo realized it could be turned into a profitable venture: they could increase their sales in Palermo, one of the Mediterranean’s major ports at the time. And so their warehouse became an emporium. Moreover, there’s a large community of people from Bagnara in Palermo, Ignazio thinks. It’s a lively, wealthy place full of opportunities, especially since the arrival of Bourbons fleeing the revolution.

  He makes a sign with his head to indicate the bridge above him, where they can hear their brother-in-law’s footsteps.

  No, Barbaro doesn’t know yet. Paolo signals at him to keep quiet.

  Solitude is squeezing Ignazio’s throat.

  * * *

  They are silent on the way home. Bagnara is trapped in limbo, awaiting daylight. When the two brothers reach Pietraliscia, they go into the stable. Vittoria is asleep and so is Vincenzo. Giuseppina, however, is awake.

  Paolo sits next to her. Giuseppina remains tense, on alert.

  Ignazio looks for a spot on the hay and finds one by curling up next to Vittoria. The little girl emits a sigh. He instinctively puts his arm around her but can’t sleep.

  The news is hard to accept. How will he manage alone, when he’s never been alone?

  * * *

  Dawn pierces the darkness through the gaps in the door. A golden light that heralds imminent autumn. Ignazio is shivering from the cold: his back and neck are stiff, his hair full of thistles. He gently shakes Vittoria.

  Paolo is already up. He huffs while Giuseppina is rocking the baby, who has started to protest again.

  “We have to go into the house,” she says aggressively. “Vincenzo needs changing and I can’t remain like this. It’s not proper.”

  Paolo huffs again and opens the door: the sun pours into the cowshed. The house is still standing and now, by the light of dawn, they can see some flaking plaster and broken roof tiles. But no cracks, no damage. She mutters a blessing. They can go home.

  Ignazio follows Paolo into the house. Giuseppina is right behind them. He hears her hesitating footsteps and waits, ready to help her.

  They walk over the threshold. The kitchen is full of broken ornaments.

  “Holy Mother of God, what a mess,” Giuseppina says, holding tight the baby, who is now wailing uncontrollably. He smells of soured milk. “Vittoria, help me. Tidy up. I can’t do everything on my own. Hurry up.” The little girl, who has stayed behind, comes in. She tries to meet her aunt’s eyes but can’t find them. Tight-lipped, she leans down and starts to pick up pieces of crockery. She’s not going to cry. She mustn’t.

  Giuseppina goes into the corridor that leads to the bedrooms. Every step she takes is a lament, a pang in the heart. Her house, her pride, is full of rubble and broken objects. It will take days to tidy everything up.

  When she comes to the bedroom, the first thing she does is wash Vincenzo. She puts him down on the bed so she can also clean herself. The baby kicks his legs, tries to grab his little foot, and gives a shrill laugh.

  “My love,” she says, “my life.”

  Vincenzo is her puddara, her “North Star.” She loves him more than anybody else. She finally puts on her housedress and her shawl, which she pins behind her back.

  As she lays the child back into his cradle, Paolo comes in.

  He throws open the window. The October air penetrates the room, along with the rustling of the beeches, which have started to turn red in the mountains. A magpie is chattering away not far from the vegetable patch Giuseppina takes care of personally. “We can’t stay in Pietraliscia.”

  Her hands freeze on the pillow she has been plumping up. “Why not? Is there any damage? Where?”

  “The roof is crumbling but, no, there’s no damage. We’re just leaving. Getting away from Bagnara.”

  Giuseppina can’t believe it. She drops the pillow. “Why?”

  “
Because that’s the way it is.” His voice leaves no room for doubt: there’s an irrevocable decision behind this announcement.

  She stares at him. “What do you mean? Leave my house?”

  “Our house.”

  Ours? she wants to ask. She faces him, jaw clenched. My house, she thinks resentfully. Mine. The house I brought as my dowry because you and your father wanted more and more money and were never satisfied . . . Because Giuseppina remembers very clearly all the going back and forth to obtain the dowry the Florios wanted, and what it took to finally please them while she didn’t actually want to get married. And now he wants to leave? Why?

  On second thought, she doesn’t want to know. She runs out of the room, away from the argument.

  Paolo goes after her. “There are cracks on the inside walls, a few roof tiles have fallen off. Next time there’s an earthquake, it’ll all come down on our heads.”

  They go to the kitchen. Ignazio understands immediately. He knows the signs of a storm and they’re all here. He gestures at Vittoria to leave and she vanishes toward the stairs, outside. He moves back toward the corridor but remains just beyond the threshold: he fears Paolo’s reaction and his sister-in-law’s anger.

  No good will come from this quarrel. Nothing good has ever come between them.

  She grabs the broom to sweep the flour off the floor. “Fix it: you’re the head of the family. Or else call in the roofers.”

  “I can’t stay here to keep an eye on roofers and I don’t have the time to do it myself. If I don’t leave, we’ll have no food on the table. I keep sailing from Naples to Palermo but I don’t want to be a Bagnara man anymore. I want more for myself and my son.”

  She responds with a mixture of contempt and a guffaw. “You’ll always be a Bagnara man even if you go to the Bourbon court. A man can’t erase what he is, no matter how much he bathes in the fragrance of money. And you’re a man who sells stuff on a skiff he bought in partnership with a brother-in-law who still treats him like a servant.” Giuseppina busies herself with pans in the sink.

  Ignazio hears the sound of dishes clattering and pictures her impatient gestures. He glimpses her back moving jerkily, bent over the tub.

  He knows how she must be feeling: angry, confused, frightened. Anxious.

  Just as he has been feeling since last night.

  “We’ll be leaving in the next few days. So you’d better tell your grandmother that—”

  A plate flies to the floor. “I’m not leaving my house, so forget it!”

  “Your house!” Paolo barely refrains from swearing. “Your house! You’ve been throwing it back in my face ever since we got married. You and your relatives, and your money! I’m the one who makes it possible for you to live here, with my work.”

  “Yes, it’s mine. It’s what my parents left me. You’d have a house like this only in your dreams. You used to live in your brother-in-law’s hayloft, remember? You got my father and uncle’s ducats and now you want to leave?” She grabs a copper pan and throws it violently on the floor. “I’m not leaving! This is my house! The roof is broken? So it can be fixed. You’re never here anyway, you go away every month. Get out, go wherever you please. My child and I aren’t budging from Bagnara.”

  “No, you’re my wife. It’s my child. You’ll do as I tell you.” Paolo is icy.

  The color drains from Giuseppina.

  She covers her face with her apron and starts punching her forehead, raw anger begging to burst out.

  Ignazio wishes he could intervene, calm both her and his brother, but he can’t and he has to look away to stop himself.

  “Damn you. Do you really want to take everything away from me?” Giuseppina sobs. “Here I have my aunt, my grandmother, my mother’s and father’s graves. And you, just for the sake of money, you want me to abandon everything. What kind of a husband are you?”

  “Stop it!”

  She isn’t even listening. “No? You’re saying no? And where do you want to go, damn it?”

  Paolo looks at the fragments of the terra-cotta dish and pushes one away with the tip of his shoe. He waits a moment for her sobs to die down, then replies, “To Palermo, where Barbaro and I opened the aromateria. For now it’s a very wealthy city, not like Bagnara.” He approaches and strokes her arm. A clumsy, rough gesture but one that means to be kind. “Besides, there are people from Bagnara living in the harbor, so you wouldn’t be alone.”

  Giuseppina shakes off his hand. “No,” she snarls. “I’m not coming.”

  Paolo’s pale eyes harden. “I’m telling you no. I’m your husband and you’ll come with me to Palermo, even if I have to drag you by the hair all the way to King Roger’s tower. Start packing. We’re leaving by the end of next week.”

  Part One

  Spices

  November 1799 to May 1807

  Cu manìa ’un pinìa.

  Those who roll up their sleeves don’t endure.

  —SICILIAN PROVERB

  Since as early as 1796, the winds of revolution have been blowing over Italy, carried by troops led by an ambitious young general: Napoleon Bonaparte.

  In 1799, the Jacobins of the Kingdom of Naples rebel against the Bourbon monarchy and establish the Neapolitan Republic. Ferdinand IV of Naples and Maria Carolina of Austria are forced to take refuge in Palermo. They return to Naples only in 1802; the republican experience ends in fierce repression.

  In 1798, to hinder the growing French presence, various countries, including Great Britain, Austria, Russia, and the Kingdom of Naples, form an anti-French coalition. However, as early as following the defeat at Marengo (June 14, 1800), the Austrians sign the Treaty of Lunéville (February 9, 1801), and, a year later, Great Britain, too, makes peace with the French through the Treaty of Amiens (March 25, 1802), thereby succeeding in safeguarding its own colonial possessions if nothing else. This way, the Royal Navy strengthens its presence in the Mediterranean, especially in Sicily.

  On December 2, 1804, Napoleon proclaims himself emperor of the French and, after a crucial victory at Austerlitz (December 2, 1805), he declares the end of the Bourbon dynasty and sends General André Masséna to Naples with the task of placing Napoleon’s own brother Joseph on the throne, which makes the latter king of Naples. Ferdinand is once again forced to flee to Palermo under British protection, even though he continues to reign over Sicily.

  CINNAMON, PEPPER, cumin, aniseed, coriander, saffron, sumac, cassia . . .

  No, spices aren’t just for cooking. They’re medicines, they’re cosmetics, they’re poisons and memories of faraway lands few people have seen.

  Before reaching a sales counter, a cinnamon stick or a gingerroot has to go through dozens of hands, travel on the back of a mule or a camel in long caravans, cross the ocean, and reach European ports.

  Naturally, the costs rise with every leg of the journey.

  Rich are those who can buy them, and rich those who manage to sell them. Spices for cooking—and much more so those for medicinal use—are for the select few.

  Venice built her wealth on the spice trade and customs duties. Now, at the beginning of the nineteenth century, it’s the British and French that sell them. Ships arrive from their colonies overseas loaded not only with medicinal herbs but also with sugar, tea, coffee, and chocolate.

  The prices drop, the market diversifies, the harbors open, the amount of spices increases. It’s not just in Naples, Livorno, and Genoa. In Palermo, the aromatari set up a guild. They even have their own church, Sant’Andrea degli Amalfitani.

  And the number of those who can afford to sell them also rises.

  * * *

  Ignazio holds his breath.

  It’s always the same.

  Whenever the skiff arrives within sight of Palermo’s harbor, he feels a pang in his stomach, just like a man in love. He smiles, squeezes Paolo’s arm, and Paolo reciprocates.

  No, he didn’t leave him in Bagnara. He wanted him to come with him.

  “Happy?” he asks. Ignazio nods, his e
yes shining and his chest flooded with the beauty of the city. He clings to the ropes and stretches toward the bowsprit.

  He left Calabria and his family, or what was left of it. But now his eyes are filled with sky and sea, he no longer fears the future. The terror of solitude is just a ghost.

  His breath catches in his chest before the different overlapping shades of blue against which the walls enclosing the harbor stand out, in the middle of the afternoon. His eyes glued to the mountains, Ignazio strokes his mother’s wedding band on his right ring finger. He’s put it on so he wouldn’t risk ever losing it. In actual fact, whenever he touches it, he feels as though his mother is still close to him, as though he can hear her voice. She would call him, and listen to him.

  The city unfolds, and takes shape before him.

  Majolica domes, crenellated towers, roof tiles. There’s La Cala, the port, crammed with feluccas, brigs, and schooners, a heart-shaped cove between two strips of land. Through the forest of ship masts, you can make out the gates set inside buildings erected literally on top of them: Porta Doganella, Porta Calcina, Porta Carbone. Houses clinging one on top of another, bundled together as though trying to push through to get a glimpse of the sea. On the left, partly hidden by the rooftops, there’s the belfry of the church of Santa Maria di Porto Salvo; a little farther, you notice the church of San Massimiliano and the narrow tower of the church of the Annunziata, and then, practically behind the walls, the octagonal dome of San Giorgio dei Genovesi. To the right, another short, squat church, Santa Maria di Piedigrotta, and the imposing form of Castello a Mare, surrounded by a moat; a little farther, on a strip of land jutting into the sea, there’s the leper hospital, for the quarantine of sick sailors.

  Monte Pellegrino towers over all of this. Behind it, a belt of forest-covered mountains.

  A fragrance wafts from the ground and hovers over the water: a blend of salt, fruit, burned wood, algae, and sand. Paolo says it’s the smell of dry land. But Ignazio thinks it’s the perfume of this city.