The Florios of Sicily Read online

  Vittoria frowns. She puts Vincenzo down and he runs to the bedroom. “There’s nothing you can do about it, Auntie.” She brushes a lock away from Giuseppina’s tired face. “That’s Uncle Paolo’s way. Besides, Uncle Barbaro injured him: he’s right to have acted like that, it’s too serious an injury.”

  Giuseppina does not reply. What can Vittoria possibly know about having nobody you can trust anymore? How can she know about how Mattia welcomed her and helped her?

  * * *

  The carriage standing outside the Florios’ spice store is blocking the traffic in Via dei Materassai. You can hardly walk through the narrow gap. In the air, the first swallows and a fresh smell, full of hay and a few timid flowers.

  Inside, Michele is serving a man, an artisan who’s come to buy lacquer and red lead. Meanwhile, Ignazio is taking care of another customer.

  A noblewoman.

  The lady before him is an attractive woman wrapped in a cloak with fox fur trimming to shield herself from the chill of this inclement March. Her skin reveals a few too many years expertly concealed with makeup. Ignazio gives a half smile and continues to crush wormwood with star aniseed and dittany.

  He is now seldom seen behind the counter. Ever since the Florios parted with the Barbaros, in 1803, the business has taken off. They have contacts among many merchants, both Neapolitan and British; as a matter of fact, the latter have become excellent suppliers. They’re dependable, and it’s entirely in their interest to maintain a good relationship with Sicilians, given the French dominance in the rest of Italy. A few months ago, Napoleon conquered the Kingdom of Naples, and the Bourbons fled to Sicily with their tail between their legs, seeking British protection. Therefore, Palermo is one of the last harbors left that are free from Napoleon’s influence, an important place of exchange for the anti-French coalition.

  Ignazio deals mainly with administration and accounts. Still, he returns to the counter for a few special clients.

  “Coming to your store is always so . . . so exotic. There are so many scents from faraway lands. By the way, where is Don Paolo?”

  “My brother will be back soon. As soon as he saw your ladyship’s carriage, he thought you might be interested in an item he mentioned last time you visited us.”

  The woman’s eyes become attentive. “It’s the amber, isn’t it?”

  Ignazio nods while still crushing herbs in the mortar. “Baltic amber, very pure. It comes from the steppes of Asia, and is already in beads.”

  There’s a squeaking of hinges.

  “Signora.” Paolo Florio greets the lady with a bow. He puts a wood-and-ivory casket on the counter. “Forgive my lateness but I was working for you.”

  The lady stretches her neck impatiently. “So?”

  “To start with, the box is a jewel in itself, but that’s nothing in comparison with what it contains.” A golden glow spreads over the counter. “Look. Isn’t it beautiful? And it’s just the right thing for you: did you know that amber relieves stomach trouble and preserves energy in the body?”

  “Really?” She touches the beads then pulls her hand away. “It’s warm,” she exclaims, surprised.

  “Because it’s not a stone but a resin. They say there’s a spark of life in its glow. But allow me . . .” Paolo leans forward and proffers the string of beads. “Here, try it on.”

  Her dress lights up with the shimmer. The woman runs her fingers lightly on the beads and admires them. Her wonder is followed by desire. She has already decided. “How much?”

  Paolo furrows his brow and feigns reticence. Finally, he mutters the price.

  Her mouth shrivels. “That’s madness. My husband will chide me for days.” Even so, she’s still fingering the necklace. She drops her voice and says, bitterly and spitefully, “He squanders my dowry at the gambling table and I’m not even allowed a whim.”

  “Yes, but you’re not spending money on a whim. You’re buying a remedy for your health, just like the tonic my brother is now preparing for you. By the way, how is the swelling in your stomach?”

  “Much better. You were right, it was nothing serious.”

  “I’m glad. This is an ancient remedy, something for just a select few customers. If it were anything more complex, I’d be the first to send you to Don Trombetta in Porta Carini. He’s an excellent apothecary, as well as our customer.” And one of those who stopped buying supplies from Canzoneri and moved to our spices, he thinks.

  But the lady isn’t listening to him. Her eyes are filled with the light from the amber. She gives a deep sigh. “So be it. I will leave you a deposit and a letter of intent. My husband will come by and settle the rest.”

  Ignazio conceals his disappointment in a cough.

  More letters of intent, payments in installments. Some Sicilians are wealthy only in name and their titles aren’t even worth the stone on which their coats of arms are carved.

  His brother, however, doesn’t bat an eyelid. “And I will be here to attend to him.”

  Paolo goes into the back room to get paper and inkwell. Ignazio, meanwhile, pours the ground herbs into a bottle with some alcohol, then stirs the mixture with a little glass rod. He calls the lady’s maid.

  “Now listen carefully. The tonic has to stand for eight days. You must give your mistress a small glass every evening after filtering it. Do you understand?”

  The girl mumbles, “Caciettu,” an assent that reveals her rural origins. “I understand.”

  Ignazio seals the cap and covers the bottle with a dark cloth. He hands it to the maid while her mistress signs the letter of intent.

  Paolo escorts the noblewoman to the door. At last, the carriage frees Via dei Materassai of its bulky presence.

  Paolo smooths his waistcoat. “Nice having customers who don’t ask for discounts.”

  Ignazio is wearing a very similar garment, over a white shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows. “Let’s just hope Cavalier Albertini doesn’t make a fuss. Whenever his wife comes to buy things, he then complains that she’s cleaning him out.” He reads the letter of intent the lady signed. “He could say he never authorized his wife to incur this expense. You know that, don’t you?”

  “He won’t. Albertini is related to notaries, judges, and owns a fondaco in Bagheria. He’ll pay in the end, because he doesn’t want to be embarrassed.” Then he looks at his brother. “You should roll down your sleeves. We’re not laborers.”

  And yet this is still how they are viewed. Neither admits it openly. Perhaps this is the reason they are so particularly attentive to the store decor and their clothes.

  Ignazio knows that’s what people call them, and it stings him.

  Some memories are like open wounds salt is rubbed into.

  He remembers. It was two weeks ago.

  At the Steri customs, at the accounts office, where the spices are recorded and the accounts of goods coming in and going out are kept. A large, rectangular room that opens onto the square ground-floor courtyard.

  He was waiting to pass recently disembarked goods through customs then go to the master notary’s office to pay the taxes. In the meantime, he had stopped to talk to a young Englishman, Ben Ingham, recently arrived in Palermo.

  “I think it’s a very lively city but . . . how can I put it? . . . really chaotic . . . Do you see what I mean?”

  Ignazio smiled slightly. “It’s not easy to live here, I grant you that. It’s an ungrateful city, worse than a woman. It flatters you, then . . .” He opened his index finger and thumb and waved them. “Promises a lot and gives nothing.”

  “Yes, I noticed that. That’s why I realized one has to be careful and . . . What’s the expression?”

  “Taliàrisi u’ cappotto?”

  The Englishman frowned, trying to understand the sentence. He sensed its meaning and tried to repeat it. Then he burst out into a raucous laugh because he couldn’t quite pronounce it. Watching your back.

  Suddenly, Carmelo Saguto’s voice filled the room. Ignazio had seen him jump th
e queue and go straight to the master notary, who had greeted him with great reverence.

  Some people had grumbled but no one really protested, only muttered: Saguto was Canzoneri’s son-in-law and nobody stood up to him.

  Shortly afterward, it was Ignazio’s turn.

  As soon as Saguto came out of the manager’s office, he started picking on Ignazio. “Oh, look who’s here, Don Florio. The little one.” He made a mocking hand gesture and sought the staff’s complicity with his eyes. “How’s business? Doing well?”

  “Quite well, thank you.”

  “That’s right, you people are doing well.” Saguto approached the desk and saw the figure. “Oh, my, all this money!”

  The employee heard. “The Florios work hard. You should tell your father-in-law to watch his back.”

  “They’ll have to eat a lot of bread and onion before they get as far as the Canzoneris. No disrespect, of course,” another scribe added. “An honorable family. I can still remember your father-in-law’s father. A hard worker . . .”

  They talked as though Ignazio wasn’t there. As though nothing about him, his work, his money, his very existence, was of any worth.

  Ignazio nearly snatched the receipt from the scribe’s hand. “If you’ve finished . . .”

  But Saguto had no intention of letting him go. On the contrary. He raised his voice and stood in Ignazio’s way, preventing him from leaving. “But tell me something, how’s your brother-in-law? I mean that Bagnara man in Via dei Lattarini who had to sell everything off. Oh, don’t you have anything to say?” He started to laugh. A dry laugh, like a file rubbing against iron. “Even animals don’t behave like that.”

  Ignazio had to call on all the saints to remain calm. “We’re all fine, thank you. And don’t meddle in our business; after all, I’m not telling you how to act with your relatives.”

  The volume of the conversations around them had dropped. Saguto took a few steps then turned back. “Are you still trying to teach me how a real family behaves, you mangy dog? You don’t hold on to your money when it’s a matter of blood ties. Do you know how much money is here?” He waved a stack of receipts.

  “Actually, it doesn’t look much more than I have. And at least it’s just me and my brother. How many of you are there? Four? Five? How many have to split that? Besides, you’re Don Canzoneri’s secretary, not an apothecary like his sons. You’re a paper pusher.”

  The color drained from Carmelo Saguto’s face, but then he turned scarlet. “Fuck, I may be a messenger but you and your brother are just two laborers, I can still remember your brother clearing rubbish from your store.”

  It was as though frost had just fallen on the customs office.

  Behind him, somebody whispered, “True, these Bagnara people used to be laborers,” and another, “God only knows how they made their money.”

  By the door, merchants, sailors, and other employees looked like stray dogs waiting for a bone, frothing at the mouth, ready to pick up the story and spread it throughout the entire Castellammare district, trimming it with more violence and spicing it up with details.

  Ignazio felt a hand on his arm. “Have you finished? Because if so, it’s my turn.” He turned and saw the young Englishman, Ben Ingham.

  “I owe you a favor,” Ignazio said as they went out.

  “You’ll pay me back,” the Englishman replied. “Although you would have done the same thing. Making a spectacle of yourself is never a good idea, especially in front of such an audience.”

  Ignazio still quivers at remembering this. The scene is branded in his memory and will not go away. At the same time, he’s still grateful to Ingham for his words, which stopped him from smashing Saguto’s face in front of everybody.

  Ignazio removes his apron and puts on his jacket and cloak. “I don’t like working with my cuffs down: they get stained and dusty. In any case, when that lady came in she already wanted the amber. The tonic was just an excuse.”

  Paolo laughs. “I’d described it in such a seductive way that it must have made an impression.”

  There’s the sound of pestles in stone mortars coming from the back room: an uneven rhythm that punctuates their days. They now have two store boys in addition to Michele, and they’re in charge of preparing the powders. And Ignazio has Maurizio Reggio, a bookkeeper who helps him with the invoices.

  Ignazio is about to leave but turns back. “But there wasn’t just the string of amber in the casket, right?”

  Paolo caresses the casket, which is still on the counter. He opens it. “No.” He takes out a pair of earrings. Coral beads and pearls. “I asked Captain Pantero to find a present in Naples for Giuseppina, for the Feast of Saint Joseph. He found these. I hope she likes them.”

  Giuseppina is still hard but lately she seems to have softened somewhat. Perhaps it’s the sign of a weary peace she shares with Paolo, dictated by the habit of living with a man she does not love and yet has grown fond of.

  At that moment, a customer walks in, a servant in livery. Ignazio takes advantage to slip away and go to their bookkeeper.

  For some time now, the Florios have been renting a warehouse at the back of the customs offices, within the large Palazzo Steri property. Cool, well-guarded rooms down a long corridor that ends in the service courtyard, behind the accounts office; there, they keep spices in transit to other ports or waiting to be sold to other merchants. The import tariff is paid only when the goods actually enter Palermo, and not before. It’s common practice among wholesalers: better pay rent on one room than incur more taxes. There are spices from India obtained through the British, and those from French colonies, sold in Livorno and throughout the Tyrrhenian Sea, purchased by Italian sailors and sold in Palermo. They have top-quality goods from all over the Mediterranean. They can’t claim to be as rich as the Canzoneris, that’s true. But they’ve come ahead in leaps and bounds.

  In any case, the stockroom in Via dei Materassai became too small.

  When he arrives at the accounts office, he discovers that Maurizio has done almost everything already.

  “I’ve cleared the incoming packages and organized the dispatch of the bark to Messina and Patti. The sacks will be leaving by tomorrow evening.” He shows the receipts and indicates a cart being watched by one of the aromateria workers.

  “In that case, go to the store and record all the transfers. Tell my brother I’ll be back soon.”

  Left alone, Ignazio indulges in the luxury of a stroll to La Cala. The horizon is a clear blue line. The light is growing bright and the wind is no longer as biting as in the previous weeks. Spring is a fragrance in the air.

  It’s a snap decision.

  He finds himself walking down Vicolo della Neve, escorted by a coolness that sweeps away the smells of humanity crammed in the alleys. He walks past the little door where the snow that comes from the Madonie Mountains is sold; somewhere above he hears the sound of a violin and the voice of a tutor correcting his pupil. In the streets, in the fondaci, and in the stores, there’s a mixture of voices and accents: Genoese, Tuscan, some English and Neapolitan, all together.

  He continues down Via Alloro without looking at the wealthy Palermo palazzi; he reaches Strada dei Zagarellai, full of women carrying conical baskets or dragging screaming children behind. They pause outside the stores, evaluate, buy.

  Ignazio approaches a counter beneath a stone arch. There are all kinds of ribbons on it: silk, lace, embroidered, velvet.

  His eye is caught by a gold ribbon. He pictures it on the green twill bodice Paolo bought his wife some time ago.

  The woman behind the counter helps him out of his hesitation. “What would you like, signore? This ribbon?”

  “Yes.” He clears his throat. “It’s a present. How much would I need for a bodice?”

  There are perplexed looks around him. “That depends. Who is it for? Your wife?” She indicates his mother’s wedding band on Ignazio’s finger. He raises his hand and gestures, no, he’s not married.

  “I
t’s for my sister,” he says, improvising. He doesn’t know why, he’s blushing like a child.

  The woman looks at him, skeptical. “How much do you want?”

  Panic.

  “How much do I need?”

  “It depends on what she’s like.”

  He tries to reply. He has no idea. How did he get himself into this mess?

  “Does she have a full bust? Does she like things to be plain or very ornate?”

  “Will she be wearing it as a bow or on the seams?” another woman asks, while fiddling with lace.

  A chorus of women is suddenly engaging with him.

  For heaven’s sake, he doesn’t know. Ignazio tries. “She’s a little . . . like you.” He indicates a girl trying out a cord. She laughs, revealing a mouth full of decaying teeth.

  “Cristina, just give him two bolts, this way at least he’ll have enough.” It’s an elderly woman speaking, sitting in a corner, her face like bark. She’s probably the owner. “And take a clasp, too.”

  So Cristina, the worker he’s been talking to up to now, takes out clasps made of bone. The old woman is right: some are very beautiful. He chooses one decorated with a mermaid.

  Shortly afterward, Ignazio is walking back home with a package concealed under his cloak. It’s not far to Via dei Materassai. He’s walked the long way around and is now in Vicolo dei Chiavettieri, attacked by the smell of iron being filed and the screeching sound of the lathes.

  It’s for the Feast of Saint Joseph, he tells himself. Giuseppina has worked so hard for our family, she deserves this and much more, we forced her to come all the way here and she’s always been very respectful toward me and—

  The package under his cloak suddenly feels cumbersome.

  He can’t give her a present like this. He’s not really her brother . . . or, actually, what does it matter? They’re brother- and sister-in-law, and she’s known him forever.

  They’re family, right?

  * * *

  It’s the Feast of Saint Joseph. Giuseppina receives Paolo’s gift with a smile of surprise that turns into thanks. She takes the earrings, holds them up high to stop Vincenzo from snatching them from her hand, and puts them in.