The Florios of Sicily Page 5

Only sometimes, he longs for an embrace, so that he can fall asleep feeling warm and loved.

  * * *

  Giuseppina slams the door shut. Paolo was out there.

  She wonders where he’s going.

  She feels something heavy sitting on her chest.

  My heart is dark, they would say in Bagnara.

  Her heart is black. She hates this house. She hates this city and this damp weather. With the winter and the rain, she has to keep the windows shut and the lamps lit.

  On top of that, she’s not having a good day. She’s not feeling well and had to stay in bed for a while, getting Vittoria to help her with the house chores.

  She’s pregnant.

  She’s been certain of it for a few days now. She’s skipped her cycle and her breasts are sore.

  As if she didn’t have enough on her plate: to expect a child here, in Palermo, in this house with no light.

  I should tell Paolo, she thinks. But she hasn’t yet found a way or the right time.

  The truth? She doesn’t know if she wants it.

  She doesn’t trust Paolo, not at all. She is wary of him, sometimes even afraid. At other times, the deferential respect a woman should feel for her husband turns into burning hatred, a knife that twists in her belly. And now his child? Another one?

  She’s ashamed even to think it, but this child doesn’t have to be born.

  She throws a shawl over her head and puts on her shoes. She goes out, follows the perimeter of Piano San Giacomo and goes down to the harbor. There, in one of the hovels behind the walls, lives Mariuccia Colosimo, the Bagnara midwife. A smell of soap and laundry wafts through the door. She hesitates. “Donna Mariuccia!” she suddenly calls. “Are you in?”

  The woman looks out. Her face looks chiseled from volcanic rock and her lips are thin. Her skin is sweaty. “Donna Giuseppina . . . I was making lye. What can I do for you?” she asks, drying her red hands with her apron.

  For a moment, Giuseppina hesitates. What she wants to do is not right, it’s a sin. Her grandmother used to say that the Blessed Virgin turns away when a woman throws away her child.

  And yet.

  Giuseppina comes closer and almost whispers into her ear. “Can I come and see you one of these days?”

  The woman bends her head a little. She has a primeval smell, of hay and milk. “Whenever you like. What is it—an egg in the nest?”

  Giuseppina nods. “My husband doesn’t know yet,” she whispers again.

  The midwife straightens up. She asks no questions, and just opens her hands. She understands. She understands everything and knows that the things women cannot say are more than men could ever understand. “You know where I am. I’ll be expecting you.”

  Giuseppina nods and the midwife disappears behind the door.

  She slowly walks back home. The rain has soaked through her shawl and is now seeping through her bodice. Fat, heavy drops that make it difficult to walk. Once she’s in Piano San Giacomo, she glances at the aromateria. She glimpses forms through the windows, customers perhaps.

  She sighs. If her grandmother had chosen Ignazio to be her husband, maybe everything would have been different.

  She remembers when, years ago, they buried their relatives after the earthquake that destroyed Bagnara. She recalls the face of that boy with gentle eyes and an angular face all red from crying, staring at the heap of soil under which his mother, Rosa, had been buried. And she, who had lost both her parents, was little more than a dried, crooked branch with fists clenched against her dress, angry with the whole world for having taken away her mamma and papà. She approached and gave him a handkerchief to wipe away the snot dripping from his nose.

  She told him off. “Don’t cry. Boys don’t cry.” But she said it grudgingly, perhaps because she envied those tears of freedom, because she had no more tears left herself. He looked at her and sniffed. He did not reply.

  * * *

  She comes back home. The hem of her skirt is soaked, and her shawl needs wringing. Vittoria’s eyes question her. “You’re all wet, Auntie! Are you all right?”

  “Yes, yes . . . I had to go and ask Auntie Mariuccia something.”

  Vincenzo distracts her, pulling at her skirt. “Mamma, pick me up.”

  Giuseppina holds him tight and smells the warm scent in the crook of his neck. Her child is the only good thing her husband ever gave her. And he is enough for her, she doesn’t want another, the one that’s growing in her belly and making her feel tired and breathless. He could turn out to be like her husband . . .

  The hatred toward her husband flares up again. It’s an old resentment, one she harbors lovingly in her chest, right under her heart. She did want a husband and children, but if she’d known that this is what marriage was like, she would have run away to the mountains.

  Of course, Paolo is respectful. There are only ever two things on his mind: work and money. Even on Christmas Day he went to the aromateria to check the packages, leaving her and Vittoria alone, eating chestnuts and staring at each other.

  He isn’t like Ignazio.

  * * *

  The rain is heavier. It’s almost midday by the time Paolo goes through the carriage entrance, the one on the customs side inside Palazzo Steri: a cube perforated with slender mullioned windows, a fortress within the city, built as the house of the Chiaramonte family, then used as a jail by the Inquisition, then as a barracks, a silent witness to the city’s history. He shelters in the passage between the two courtyards of Palazzo Steri, with other men, porters and traders.

  He’s still there when he sees, in the square courtyard, Ignazio following a man and arguing with him. He recognizes him. “Paolo! Ignazio!”

  They can’t hear him. Barbaro gives Ignazio a shove and the young man opens his arms.

  Paolo rushes out of his shelter. “What’s wrong with you two? What’s happened?”

  Barbaro comes at him. “You, too! I nurtured a viper in my bosom, that’s what’s wrong. Is this the thanks I get after sharing my bread with you when you were starving? You go and rent things without saying a word to me? And even sign with your own names?”

  Paolo doesn’t understand. “What do you mean?” He looks at his brother-in-law, then at Ignazio. “What’s this about?”

  Ignazio tries to explain. “One of Canzoneri’s workers told him we rented the warehouse and he thinks we’re trying to cheat him—”

  “Well, isn’t that the case?” Barbaro retorts. “I have to hear it from strangers that you do things without telling me? We’re business partners and relatives, damn it. Is this how you screw me? Don’t you forget who’s putting up the money for this! If I want, I can take everything away from you and you’ll end up belly-up.”

  Paolo snaps. “And what do you do? Who are the ones working here, you or us? We’re the ones who fixed the store and relaunched it. When we were in Bagnara, you told us everything was all right but it was a room with silverfish and damp inside. And now people come, we’re making money, and instead of thanking us, you want us to justify everything? You try to come and work here, and then you’ll see for yourself if we were right to rent a warehouse. What are you shouting at us for?”

  “Listen, you, you should have told me first.”

  “Why? To ask your permission?”

  Barbaro gives Paolo’s chest a shove. Ignazio stands between them before his brother can retaliate. “Now stop it, both of you,” he says. “Everyone’s looking at us.”

  Dozens of anger-hungry eyes are upon them.

  “Let’s go home. Better talk there.”

  They walk away. Barbaro walks ahead, followed by Paolo and Ignazio. At a distance. Side by side.

  * * *

  Carmelo Saguto watches the scene from the portico. He doesn’t gloat or show the slightest pleasure.

  Apparently, at least.

  After the Florios have left Palazzo Steri, Don Canzoneri comes up to him. “Did you see the row the Calabrian gave them? Any minute now, they were going to club each other
.”

  His father-in-law nods. “Nothing to do with you, is it?”

  Carmelo opens his arms. His expression is one of innocence laced with poison. “Me? I didn’t do anything. It was Leonardo, the longshoreman, who spoke loudly.” He does not add that it was he who prompted him to speak like that, and that he’s the one spreading rumors among customs workers that the Florios have fallen out among themselves and are piling up debts. He does not say that his favorite weapon is gossip, but his father-in-law knows this. That’s why he keeps him close, even closer than his own children.

  They laugh.

  “Jamuninni.” Canzoneri indicates the carriage. “Let’s go home.” Then he turns to look at his son-in-law. “See what happens when you do business with relatives? You have to mind how you behave and learn your place.”

  Saguto’s laugh stops abruptly. “Do you mean I don’t? Have I ever been disrespectful toward you or my brothers-in-law?”

  “Exactly. I’m telling you so things don’t turn sour.” He gives a tap on the roof and the carriage starts. “You’re clever enough to know how to behave. You’re a dog who knows his master. Right?”

  He says yes and swallows bile. Because that’s precisely what he is: a guard dog. He knows it, repeats it to himself every day when he sees his reflection in the mirror. He’s not free like those two Calabrians who aren’t afraid of anything and don’t need anybody. And that’s why he hates the Florios so much: because they are what he will never be.

  * * *

  That night, Paolo Barbaro doesn’t spend the night at the Florios’, like he usually does when he’s in Palermo. The argument—heated and at times violent—lasted a long time. At one point, Paolo got up and left the store, slamming the door, tired of hearing over and over again that he’d tried to cheat him. Ignazio stayed behind and carried on trying to explain. Patiently. Calmly.

  In the end, Barbaro said goodbye to Giuseppina. “Tell your husband to be reasonable,” he said on the doorstep, “or else it’ll end belly-up because there’s no way I’m having anything to do with a man who cheats me.”

  Giuseppina did not reply because a housewife doesn’t respond. But one thing she does know: Paolo and Ignazio are honest. Her husband is more devoted to his work than to his family. And Ignazio wouldn’t be able to cheat anyone if he tried.

  They eat late, when Paolo comes back. Nobody mentions the argument.

  Ignazio looks tired, feverish. He doesn’t even finish his food and goes to bed practically without saying good night. Vittoria and Vincenzo follow his example.

  Paolo and Giuseppina are left alone.

  Paolo clasps a terra-cotta cup. “Shall we go to bed?”

  She carries on clearing up. She doesn’t answer.

  He puts the cup down. He lays his hands on her hips. Giuseppina knows what he wants.

  “Leave me alone.”

  He presses harder. “You’re always saying no. Why not?”

  “I’m tired.”

  Paolo squeezes her hips harder. “What am I supposed to do? Beg for a little of what I’m entitled to? What’s so strange about what I’m asking you?” There truly is a hint of supplication in his voice. He’s practically crushing her between the stove and his body; Giuseppina thinks for a moment that he wants to take her here and now, at the risk of the others hearing everything. His hand has lifted her skirt, and she pushes it away, disengaging herself.

  And yet she feels a quiver, yielding on the part of her traitor sex that cannot keep desire at bay. “No. I’ve told you, leave me alone!”

  He stops. He doesn’t know whether to shout, slap her, or leave the house, slamming the door, and find the first available woman so he can let off steam. Because that’s what he needs: a little comforting. That’s all he wants.

  He takes her by the wrist and leads her to the bedroom. He undresses her. She keeps her eyes shut while her husband searches for love inside her and she has to give it to him.

  * * *

  In the next room, behind the curtain that acts as a door, Ignazio has woken up because of the cold. He stares into the darkness and listens.

  * * *

  The morning after, Giuseppina gets up while it’s still dark and gets dressed in a hurry. Her husband is asleep. She doesn’t look at him.

  She opens the door. Winter is attacking Palermo ruthlessly.

  Except for a few passersby heading for La Cala, Piano San Giacomo is deserted. She lights a lamp for a little light, and prepares slices of bread and honey. She takes a pan with pieces of cheese from a shelf and puts it on the table. Vittoria appears in the doorway, mutters good morning, then goes to get dressed.

  A sharp pain makes Giuseppina freeze, her hand on her belly.

  She’s been taught that children are sent by God and that refusing them is a mortal sin. She believes that. She knows the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away, and that He will punish her if she harms this child in any way. But what is she supposed to do if she doesn’t feel this child is hers? It’s not like Vincenzo, who clung to her flesh even before he was born. This creature is alien to her . . .

  But maybe it’s just a matter of time, she keeps thinking, trying to convince herself. She must get used to it, let nature take its course and teach her once again how to be a mother.

  Or maybe she’s committing a sin just by wishing not to be a mother anymore.

  She will carry this thought within her for all the years to come. Whenever she remembers this thought, a nail will dig deep inside her.

  Another cramp. She has to sit down and breathe deeply. Vittoria joins her soon afterward. “Auntie?”

  “Women’s pains.”

  Vittoria isn’t fully grown yet but she already knows what this is. “You stay there. I’ll get everything ready,” she says. She’s intelligent and alert. She also understood the night before, when she heard the noises coming from her uncle and aunt’s room. One thing Vittoria does know: she doesn’t want a man who orders her about like her uncle. She wants a husband who respects her, who lets her speak out, never mind her aunt telling her that’s not the way things are.

  Shortly afterward, the entire family is gathered around the table. A freezing cold draft comes in through the door, lowering the room temperature.

  They eat quickly, heads buried in their shoulders. Ignazio and Paolo put on their cloaks and go out, one heading for customs, the other to the aromateria.

  Paolo, however, stops and turns back. He approaches his wife and gives her a caress.

  Giuseppina does not react, then watches him walk away.

  * * *

  Floors to sweep, beds to make, vegetables to prepare, pans to scrub. Vittoria comes in with buckets of water from the fountain, her hands pale from the cold. Vincenzo protests, he wants to go out. Giuseppina’s tiredness grows by the minute, as do the pangs in her belly. She wishes she could rest but she can’t: there’s washing to be done, lye to boil. Sweat is running down her back and between her breasts.

  Vittoria suddenly freezes. “Auntie,” she whispers, her hand over her mouth. “What’s happening to you?”

  Giuseppina looks down. There are dark stains on her skirt. “What . . .”

  She suddenly realizes that the heat between her legs is not sweat but blood. Her confusion turns to terror. She barely has time to mutter that the midwife should be called before she collapses on the floor.

  * * *

  Barefoot on the flagstones shiny from the rain, Vittoria runs toward San Sebastiano. She slips and gets back up. She looks for Mariuccia, the Bagnara midwife. Paolo told her women and girls often go to her for herbs.

  The little girl finds the address. “Auntie Mariuccia, my aunt’s bleeding!” she screams, frightened that the last shred of family she has left will also be snatched away. “She’s fainted. Come, come!”

  A face framed by a head scarf looks out the window. “Who is it? Who?”

  “Donna Giuseppina, Don Florio’s wife. Come!”

  “Oh, sweet Saint Anne!”

  The w
oman disappears inside. Noisy footsteps come down the stairs and a few seconds later Mariuccia is in front of Vittoria, holding a basket. “Calm down. Tell me what happened.”

  “We were about to do the washing when I noticed stains on her skirt.”

  At that moment, a voice makes her stop. “Vittoria! What are you doing here?”

  “Uncle Ignazio!” The little girl throws herself into his arms and bursts into tears.

  “What happened?”

  Vittoria tells him and he turns pale. “But . . . was she pregnant?”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t know anything, Uncle.”

  He grabs his niece and pulls her under his cloak to shelter her. “Michele, take the goods to the warehouse and tell Paolo to come home. Let’s go!” They all run to Piano San Giacomo.

  Mariuccia has gotten there before them.

  She’s kneeling next to Giuseppina, who is awake and crying softly, her skirt pulled up to her hips. From the next room, they can hear Vincenzo screaming. There’s a pool of blood on the floor.

  “Go and calm Vincenzo down,” Giuseppina murmurs to Vittoria.

  The girl obeys, her eyes fixed on the blood. The little boy immediately stops screaming.

  Mariuccia looks up. “Is it just you here?”

  “I’m her brother-in-law. I must—”

  She waves a hand. “Never mind. Come on, even if you’re a man. Help me, we have to get her to bed.”

  But Ignazio doesn’t move. “Was she really pregnant?”

  The midwife nods. She takes a cloth from the basket and starts to wipe Giuseppina, who gives a moan of embarrassment and hides her face in the crook of Mariuccia’s arm.

  “That’s right. She shouldn’t have worn herself out like this. There’s nothing to be done now.”

  Ignazio throws off his cloak and lifts Giuseppina. “You go ahead,” he tells Mariuccia in a tone that bears no refusal. “I’ll carry her.”

  “You’ll get your clothes dirty.” Giuseppina moans. “It’s always you who’s there for me,” she adds, clinging to his shirt. “You and not him.”

  She says it softly, so softly that he thinks he’s misheard. But it’s not the case, and that adds to his sorrow.

  Mariuccia puts sheets and towels on the bed to avoid staining the mattress, because she now has to end what nature has begun.