The Maestrale Voice

By Nunzio Russo

Nunzio Russo’s The Maestrale Voice could be defined as a painting, rather than a novel. The author’s delicate pen gently describes a century of Sicily, specifically the part of the island that gave birth to the product that most represents Italy: the pasta. His vivid descriptions include all aspects of the reality of those days, never forgetting the wonders of that land. So its colors, its perfumes, its sunsets, but also its people’s faces and their moods, their behaviors, their real essence: all these elements emerge on the surface of a canvas made of words.
This novel is not only the story of a pasta plant, but also the story of the families that gravitate around it; the background of a country that went through war, governed by the Fascist Regime which, in that land kissed by the sun, has merged its interests with the ones of an obscure power: the Mafia. But besides all these events, what mostly delights the reader’s minds and eyes are the images of a 20th century Sicily, cradled by the immense blue sea, caressed by the intense Maestrale.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Edizioni Esordienti E-book
• Release date: Dec 18, 2016
• ISBN: 9788866903529

Book preview

being.

Part One (1910 – 1940)

I

On Garibaldi Avenue the dust was prominent. The royal administration was delaying funds for the paving of this village’s main road. And the mayor, the only person the citizens could express their anger with, was chided with threats and harsh words. The notary Cangemi, who despite his age had not abandoned his old Bourbonic official style, had even asked Maria Sofia for a recommendation. How was it possible that he was convinced that the revolutionary and creative ideas of the former Queen of Naples against the current sovereigns could have the strength to contribute to make the avenue decent, was the question people wondered, as well as the mayor, with anger.

At dusk, after a long day of work, Turi Musumeci, the miller of the village, walked down the avenue, but the dust did not give him any discomfort. As always, his mind was busy devising new ways to compete with the cylinder mill of the Prince of Granata, lord of the area, landowner and founder of the village.

"Mastro¹ Turiddu," called the nanny, looking out from the balcony of his building.

Turi Musumeci raised his eyes and his red beard, mingled with the color of his face that was flushed with fury.

What do you want this time! He yelled. And the anger was not in response to the hour on the clock, but to the harassment he suffered because she called him mastro. -Family members, employees and servants had to understand that I spent a huge sum to buy the barony of Mezzocannolo, a remote location in the countryside of Sicily above Granata! Turi thought angrily as he watched Donna² Gaetanina’s disproportionate breasts and matron hips.

Master, Baron... whatever your title is, your daughter-in-law is giving birth now, the woman said, like she was reading his thoughts, and disappeared quickly into the house.

Turi Musumeci blanched. Suddenly, his face drained from too red and became too white. It was a male and that was a certainty. This other Turi would be a Baron and industrialist. He went back to Station Square, to the mill.

Vincenzo, stop for the day and go home. Your wife is in delivery, Turi screamed, still on the square in front of the factory.

The door of the storage building that held the outbound goods opened and a tall young man with light brown hair as beautiful as the sun came outside quickly.

What did you say, Dad? asked the young man.

"Look how fituso³ you are; you’re disgusting. Why did I let you study, so I could always see you covered in white flour?" thundered the Baron.

Dad, you always say the same thing. You gave me the mill, and I have to know wheat and how to grind it the right way. On the contrary, I’m afraid that in the future I won’t have much opportunity to work on accounts behind a desk. There are no more mules to turn the millstones and with machines it’s quite different, said Vincenzo Musumeci in one breath.

The words of the son shut him up. My son is a genius, Turi thought, admiring him. If only he appreciated the feud that I bought for him. But for him, the factory is everything and I hope it lasts. The prince is rich and his money can crush anyone. He tried, however, not to express himself aloud.

Turi Musumeci pointed his stick with the handle of pearl in the direction of the building and, adjusting the right lapel of his corduroy jacket with his left hand, turned back to the young man.

Go home and let us hope that your son wants to be a great man in life. He’s about to be born. Your wife is in labor.

Oh, Dad. You’re wasting my time! and Vincenzo Musumeci ran away like crazy.

Run, kept thinking Turi. This industry has been built for you too.

So, while deep in his thoughts, he crossed the door of the prosperous establishment of the Musumecis. He had built the mill from nothing, with one stone millstone and two mules. Many years had passed by, a whole lifetime. The adventures and the hardships in the beginning gave way to the success of the industry and the new respect of the inhabitants of the village, and especially the prince’s, who graciously authorized him to increase the production to eighty quintals per day of flour to make bread.

Beyond that amount, the prince did not allow him to produce: Granata was his reign. The repeated requests of Turi to the Chamber of Commerce, aimed to obtain a license for greater quantities, went unanswered for a decade.

Meanwhile, the prince’s operation continued to grow, selling two hundreds quintals of flour daily from the sea mill of his Granata House.

It was only from exasperation and not for the other benefits that Turi Musumeci bought Mezzocannolo and become a Baron. He hoped that the new rank would give more credit to the aspirations of the expansion of the industrial activity. Unfortunately, he had forgotten about another reality: the prince was also a senator of the Kingdom and nothing could get by without the political bureaucracy linked to the ownership of the land. Not much changed in Sicily; in fact the noble heirs of the Gattopardi’s were in decline and already saw the dissolution of their immense fortunes, but some of them enjoyed the power too much and refused to accept this. Next to them, in the twilight of that civilization, had come the hyenas. First, they would have served them and then they would have overtaken their position. Meanwhile, the only seat of the Parliament in Rome was occupied, for life, by the prince of Granata.

That bitch of politics is as valuable as a piece of land, reflected Turi, in silence, and even if I wasn’t too old to work on it, I couldn’t buy it anyways.

There was another miller in the village. It was the Chevalier Matthew Rao. The Chevalier was a good man. A bourgeois as the Musumeci family, but he didn’t compete with the prince. His small mill produced durum wheat flour, but only for the pasta factory he owned. And since Excellency cared more about bread than pasta, he let him live.

The Princes of Granata were the Lords of bread for centuries and the people knew it. When someone tried to enter the field of flours, they either failed and closed the factory, or devoted their production to pasta, as the nearby pasta makers of Termini Imerese.

Turi Musumeci, however, did not build a pasta factory, and his mill produced for the bakers: those few prepared to have the prince as an enemy and those that the great factory of Granata couldn't serve. Worried, Turi observed twenty workers at work. All family men, to which his son had added himself to proudly.

Vincenzo had learned as a child how to select the flours to be produced and could choose the best beans to ground up. He was a graduate in accounting and an accountant in the company; in a period when no one thought they could give an education to their children, this was priceless capital. Credit and finance would soon make companies a fortune.

From the balconies, the sun of May was entering. Inside the room of Corso Garibaldi, soberly furnished with solid pieces from the 1800’s, Ada Caronia, Vincenzo’s Musumeci wife, was laying on the bed, squeezing the rosary between her hands. She was in the grip of pain and the family nanny was worried. Labor was lasting far too long.

Tana, I'm dying. Can't do it anymore! Ada cried, with a hysterical voice.

Mrs. Ada, breathe. Don't be afraid, everything is normal, said Donna Gaetanina, while wiping the sweat from the face of the woman with a lace handkerchief.

The bedroom double doors opened and Vincenzo walked in. In his green eyes there was joy and excitement.

How long? he asked.

A few moments. Maybe a couple of hours, said the nanny. Then, she lowered the tone of voice. The lady is worrying me. She is too nervous.

I’ll take care of her. Please prepare the necessities, said Vincenzo.

Ada looked at her husband. He didn't seem as happy as when he entered the room. She sobbed. In two years of marriage, Vincenzo had intervened several times to reassure her. She was often a victim of non-existent fears and depressive crises of any kind.

Ada, said Vincenzo, taking her hand. You have to be strong. Our son is coming.

Ada Caronia felt like a little, lost girl and even younger than her age. One meter and fifty-five inches high, before pregnancy she weighed forty-five kg. On Sunday mornings, at the church, Vincenzo looked like her father. He had blue crystal eyes, but the fog that sometimes enveloped his mind made them often inexpressive.

Ada's lost gaze rested on the reassuring face of Vincenzo and for a moment she was able to find rest and refuge. Vincenzo was smiling at her sweetly.

I will give you a nice son, Vincenzo and… you will not hate me if this is a baby girl, right?

Of course not, my love. Not at all.

The smile, the typical shape of Vincenzo’s mouth, and his nose became large and full. The skin of his face and his lines, almost Nilotic, inherited by his mother, made him look like an Egyptian god in her eyes. She felt better and she began to prepare herself for the labor, feeling serene.

Then I'll see how to treat you, Vincenzo thought in silence.

The eyes of Ada now had the sparkle of the most precious stones.

Donna Gaetanina leaned in again and observed that the dilatation was good. Based on her experience, she determined that it was almost time and ordered the house cleaners to bring water, warm towels, and pillow cases. Then, she arranged the old chest on which Turi Musumeci was born next to the bed of the future Baroness.

Vincenzo left the room. In the living room, the whole family had already been waiting for a few hours.

From the window, Vincenzo looked down on the street and checked that Capizzi was at the carriage, ready to bring the news to the Baron. He smiled. He just couldn't imagine someone like Capizzi driving a car and his father had intended to make that step up. Turi Musumeci dreamed of buying a car, to make the prince die of envy.

The wait was feverish. Occasionally, Aunt Norina Reitano Musumeci, sister of the Baron and owner of part of the mill, peeked out from the bottom of the marble stairwell that connected the floors of the building.

Vincenzo, Vincenzo, still nothing?

Auntie, can you hear crying? Vincenzo answered every time with the same question, trying to be courteous. After half an hour of useless waiting, the aunt began again.

It would be nice if you came down here to say something to your family. They are so impatient, the aunt said, calling out to her nephew and teaching him the duties of hospitality that needed to be respected, even during circumstances when privacy was more appropriate.

They’re all anxious to know if the son of a crazy woman will be handicapped, or maybe a screamer, Vincenzo thought before answering.

I am coming right away, so I can apologize for making them wait so long.

Mario Fidone, the new doctor of Granata, arrived at the Musumeci house at 1 PM, as he had told the midwife who had preceded him he would. He was feeling hot and tired, but tried not to show it.

Vincenzo Musumeci, informed by a house cleaner, came to meet him.

Dr. Fidone, I’ll lead the way, he said.

The doctor stopped a moment and, without a smile, replied: I know the way, accountant.

Vincenzo hesitated, but the doctor’s look discouraged him from asking the questions he had in mind. In the village, everybody feared Mario Fidone’s attitude; however, they all loved him.

You can wait in the hallway, accountant, said Fidone as he entered the room.

Vincenzo looked absently at the shelves, in Empire style, and sat on one of the two chairs placed on the either side of the cabinet. The poor chair creaked, maybe surprised to stay intact under the weight of ninety kilograms.

Another two hours passed.

Donna Gaetanina placed Ada on the Baronial chest. Then, aided by the midwife, poked the legs of the young lady inside the pillowcases and lifted them up to encourage childbirth.

He is breeching, said Fidone, tersely.

Gaetanina answered with a croak, a kind of pained moan like the yelp of a dog taken away from his master.

The baby was coming out with the lower part of the body first and could have stifled at birth. Internal lacerations due to that position were often the cause of severe bleeding in mothers, who died in a few hours.

Gaetanina looked at the doctor, pleading.

My bag, he said, quietly.

His shirt and forehead were drenched with sweat, but his disposition remained strong. A house cleaner handed him the suitcase and he took a pair of scissors out. He cut the sides to try and help. It was not enough. So, he went with his hands into the vagina and tried to realign the child. He succeeded and noted with satisfaction the retropulsion of the coccyx; the last part of Ada’s spine moved back naturally to make room. Come on, Mrs. Push... good, one more time, said Mario Fidone, as he pulled out a limb of the newborn.

Ada Caronia screamed in pain and lost consciousness, but the baby was born and it was a boy. Mario Fidone quickly cut the umbilical cord and tied the two ends with pharmaceutical eyelets. Then he held the little baby upside down, to help the baby breathe regularly. The strength of the tears that life imposed on the newborn moved him, as always.

Hold him, he said to the midwife. I have to stitch.

When he finished, he paused a moment to admire his work, pleased at the perfect job. Ada began to recover.

Donna Tanina, let’s check that there is no bleeding. If everything is normal, I'll see you tomorrow for the dressing, he said to the nurse. He washed his hands and up to the elbows and then grabbed his jacket that he had taken off when he had entered the room. He left, without leaving the package of required medicines and a kg of meat for the mother and child. After all, this was a rich house.

Turning up a giant cloud of yellow dust, a mixture of sand and flour, the carriage stopped in front of the mill.

Capizzi, great cuckold, you’ll ruin the horse this way, yelled Turi Musumeci, coming out of the factory.

Baron, your grandchild has been born. It’s a boy.

The Tuscan cigar butt, red with heat, fell down from the lips of Turi Musumeci. It hit his silk shirt at the bottom left, close to the hand-embroidered initials, and immediately made a gash.

Baron Mezzocannolo did not care; he possessed a vast collection of them, which was completely replaced every year.

Take me home, Capizzi, Turi said to the driver, and got into the box.

Capizzi turned the vehicle with extreme caution and from Station Square turned down Via dei Mulini.

Capizzi, start trotting, Turi Musumeci, impatient, tapped the platform of the buggy with his stick. And if that’s too slow, you can take it to a gallop.

The employee looked at his master, then grinned and snapped the reins. The horse of Turi Musumeci perked up and began to run through the streets of Granata. He stopped at the front door of the building, which the Baron crossed in a fury.

II

On the other side of the railroad tracks, the castle of Granata had been built near the harbor, close to the sea. On the shoreline and at the two sides of the manor, the prince’s factories and warehouses extended. Its activities were sprawling, and his power immense. He took care of the land and the collection of ancient tariffs; he managed businesses and produced food; he fished tuna, and exported oil to America.

The building was immersed in a varied world of tropical plants. The rooms were huge and decorated with glitz. The circumferences of the crystal chandeliers were impressive. The towers were equipped with terraces for sunbathing and some others were sheltered by curtains, always wet, to stay cold in the hottest hours.

Your Excellency, tall and elegant, was looking at the sea from the west tower. He had just gotten up from the desk that, during spring, he moved to the terrace, and he was drinking coffee. He was unsatisfied. Business was good, but there were always problems caused by some new hotshot whose success was flourishing. He had made tempting offers to purchase the mill in Station Square and he was willing to spend much on it. Turi Musumeci, who became Baron and was the landowner, would have been able to sell the company without making a fuss. But no. The prince clenched his jaw, not because Musumeci was a Baron, but for the outrage that was continuously caused from his stubborn rival. Bread was his product, and into that broad coastal area between Bagheria and Finale, no one challenged that. The fact that Turi Musumeci, a citizen of Granata, had remained the only serious competitor made him furious. He even asked him to convert the establishment and transform it into a modern pasta factory. The pasta makers made a decent living after all. The more far-sighted industrials were building empires thanks to the pasta business and he left them in peace. After all, he could not work in all sectors. He was a senator and the majority of the middle class had to be on his side. No complaints could reach Rome and thus he had relationships with all the traders. He obtained grants and loans for entrepreneurs and then was able to, partly, steal from them. He paid a private army that helped him in this kind of financial transaction, acting on the frond between productive activities in the area.

He had been able to maintain what he had inherited, multiplying his capital, and he thought himself to be different from the Sicilian wimps, who were still plagued by inexplicable inner conflicts that had forsaken themselves to the fate of their old rulers. Once the Savoy family arrived he had received the notables of Turin with all the honors, and they found themselves dealing with a clever and unscrupulous partner, who had accepted immediately, unlike the others, the appointment of senator to the Kingdom of Italy, obtaining carte blanche for all the affairs of the coastal region. So things had continued the same way as always, the immutability of his power had been guaranteed and he could still rule as an absolute monarch.

Your Excellency, Capizzi is outside, Pietro Bellomo, overseer of the house of Granata and longtime hand of the prince, appeared on the west tower.

What news does he bring? asked the prince.

Musumeci Turi’s grandson has been born.

Prince Gioacchino of Granata turned slowly toward Don Pietro and looked at him. The prince remained silent, while the other waited. That birth would make the Baron of Mezzocannolo even more inflexible.

Order to extend my best wishes, he said, interrupting his own thoughts. Indeed, you will take him a card.

Pietro Bellomo waited for a little longer with his master. After about an hour he was knocking at the door of Corso Garibaldi. He brought an elegant envelope with the embossed coat of arms of Granata.

In the hall, he was welcomed with formality and detachment from Norina Musumeci. Ventimiglia Maddalena was also there, the stepdaughter of the Baron.

Mrs. Norina, this is from Your Excellency, he said.

We are grateful for the kind thought.

Don Pietro was standing at the entrance of the first floor. He was waiting for an invitation to enter that, however, was not to come. Therefore, he bowed and, putting his cap on his head, he returned to the road. Retrieving his horse from behind the building, he headed, trotting, in the direction of the castle on the sea.

In this house, we don’t give coffee to the Mafia men, Norina opened the envelope and read the stately message. Ah, so this is what it’s going to be like. It’s better if my brother does not read this message, she said, while concealing the document inside her dress. The prince is a coward! He constantly has an attitude of superiority towards Turi. The ticket is addressed ‘To Mr. Musumeci of Granata.’ My brother is the Baron and he pretends like he doesn’t know this.

Calm down, Aunt, said Maddalena of Ventimiglia, with an affectionate tone. There is no point in getting angry. Lena, this was her nickname, was a doctor and a missionary in the colony of Eritrea. She had returned three months prior to attend a course at the Laboratory of Hygiene and Prophylaxis of Rome. Then, before leaving for Africa, she had stopped in Sicily. She wanted to celebrate the birth of Vincenzo’s son.

The congratulations of the illustrious prince just arrived, Norina said aloud, returning to the living room.

Everyone nodded, recognizing the respect that Musumeci’s family enjoyed. Only Lena, like Aunt Norina, in her heart disapproved of the attitude of the family. The prince was the sworn enemy of Turi and in her still lived the memory of a summer a few years ago.

She was in Mezzocannolo when Don Pietro Bellomo arrived on his horse and asked for the Baron. Turi and Calorio Bonsignore, the overseer of the feud, had received him and had secluded themselves for a discussion. Distancing themselves, something in their movements aroused the curiosity of Lena, who was studying them from under the porch. Bellomo was, in fact, under the pull of the revolver that Calorio held against him. Concerned, she followed them from a distance. She was running towards them without being seen. She reached the field where, behind a barrier of prickly pear, a wild olive tree stood alone. Calorio had already made Pietro Bellomo jump off the horse and had tied his feet with a rope and, while Turi remained still, wrapped a rope around a branch and hung the poor man upside down from the tree.

Baron, let me go. You will pay for this, Don Pietro screamed, struggling.

Be quiet, Bellomo. I don’t want to kill you.

Don Pietro was able to take the rope from between his feet and stood up. Then he sucked up phlegm from his lungs and aimed a greenish spit in the face of the Baron. Turi Musumeci dismounted from the horse, and with a handkerchief wiped the crap off his face. His face was flaming and Calorio looked at him puzzled, while shoving the rope, bringing down the prince’s man. Lena thought she was about to witness a murder. Turi could not bear insults and feared no one. Not even the Mafia man in front of him could frighten him.

Killing you would be a wonderful gift to mankind, said the Baron, approaching Bellomo.

The man was now silent. Evidently he believed that threat to be real, and pissed himself with fear. A large stain of liquid spread over his light shirt and soaked it. Then the urine fell down his neck and bathed his face.

I do not fear someone who pisses on himself, Turi Musumeci growled. And not even your boss.

The whip of rhinoceros skin, one of Turi’s weird Oriental objects, began to strike Bellomo.

The Baron whipped the delinquent, methodically and with a heavy hand. The shirt, wet with piss, became stained with blood. Turi struck until Pietro Bellomo no longer had the strength to scream. Then he ordered Calorio to untie the rope, and the thug fell to the ground with a thud, dull and chilling.

Calorio, put this man on his horse and send him home, said the Baron.

The overseer of Mezzocannolo helped Don Pietro get up and walked him, hobbling, toward the tied animal. He gave him a drink of fresh water, quenching his thirst. Then the man mounted the horse and walked towards the barrier of prickly pear, right where Lena was hiding.

She cowered in the bush and felt the prick of thorns through her dress, when suddenly Pietro Bellomo turned his steed, making it tower on its hind legs.

You will die, you bastards! he cried and turned back, throwing the animal into a gallop. He jumped over the prickly pears, almost hitting her head, and disappeared.

The story had traveled around the village, because despite the warnings of Turi Musumeci, Calorio could not contain his enthusiasm and keep his mouth shut. It was the first time someone challenged the nobles and their minions without getting killed. He recounted the incident to all, enriching it with fantasies and ridiculing the figure of Don Pietro. But it was not as simple as he thought. One day, six months later, Calorio disappeared and nobody heard from him again.

Remembering that old story, Lena shivered. The prince was a cold and calculating man, and if he still had not punished the Baron, there was a reason. Maybe he thought, frightened by the disappearance of Calorio, Turi would finally gave the mill to him.

The Baron of Mezzocannolo, however, was not so pitiful. He provided everything the widow and her children needed, and had even allowed bakers to make purchases on credit. The flour of Musumeci could be paid thirty days after delivery, and in no time the factory began to operate even on Sunday afternoons, but even still they were not able to keep up with all the eager customers.

III

Outside the room where the heir was born, the Baron of Mezzocannolo found himself in front of the matronly figure of Gaetanina. The woman, in her fifties and aging, lit up, showing her teeth and her horrible smile.

Baron, finally you are here, she said.

Disgusted by her wink, Turi Musumeci replied with his sharpest tone that was often used in his conquests of women.

Where's the baby?

"U’ picciriddu⁴...The boy is in the room," replied the nurse, distracted by his magnificent appearance.

Does he look like me? asked Turi, who was pleased with himself for having engrossed the woman, so accustomed to all sorts of relationships with the opposite sex.

Turi Musumeci was amused, thinking about how Donna Gaetanina, who had just arrived in Granata along with Ada Caronia, had slipped into his bed. He didn’t like her at all, he thought she was monstrous. But he was a lord and had to act like one. The woman, aware of her new role in Musumeci’s house, was always available for a fuck, anytime he wanted it. The first servant had to get into her master’s good favor to make sure to keep her job and receive more gratifications. Gaetanina couldn’t escape this role and Turi, the fresh Baron, cared a lot about it.

Something is not right, Baron, the woman replied. The nose, she added and hastily ran for the stairs.

Turi Musumeci was puzzled, so much so that he did not strike her with one of his reproaches.

Before entering in the room to see his nephew, he stopped in the hallway in front of the mirror on the shelf and looked at his reflection. Sure, he had a big nose and two large nostrils, but it was straight and it did fit well on his round face. With this consideration, and now convinced that having a large nose was no big deal, he shrugged and walked into the room without knocking.

Dad... we were waiting for you, Vincenzo said, turning his head.

Turi smiled and walked over to the Ada’s bedside; the stepdaughter tried to compose herself as much as possible, while Vincenzo remained kneeling by the bed. The open window let in a breeze and flowers filled every available jar. The room smelled of jasmine.

My daughter, Turi kissed her on the forehead. Let me see my grandson.

He’s in the cradle, father, Ada answered in a low voice.

Turi went to the wooden cradle, chuckling. He had noticed the royal crown engraved on the side of the bed. It was an unfortunate initiative of Ciccio Three Fingers, the carpenter of Granata who lost two fingers from one hand and who thought that Turi would have appreciated that gesture. Moving away the little organza curtains, Turi Musumeci felt the same sensation he had felt many years before, in the moment he had become a father. He tried to control the emotion that was intensifying his heartbeat, and spoke softly, without letting his inner turmoil shine through.

He is beautiful, he said.

He was amazed by the calm look of the sleepy baby. The baby was slender, but his face was rounded and his hands were puffy. The nose was a little too big, but it wasn’t out of place. That detail made him smile with satisfaction, but then immediately transformed into perplexity. His skin tone was pretty dark. He wasn’t black, but his mother’s genes were apparent.

Weddings between cousins were a custom in Ada’s family. So the Caronia had kept their patrimony well-maintained, but they had gradually weakened with the newer generations. Ada, in fact, belonged to the fourth generation of the children of cousins ​​and this explained why she was small in stature and so fragile. She certainly was not the right woman to make a man happy, and the risks to be faced by marrying her were numerous, so much so that among relatives no one was willing to take her to the altar. So that was the reason why her father, worried, began to explore the families of the emerging industry. His economic position was substantial and the appeal of a dowry was very attractive. The Baron of Mezzocannolo could not pass it up.

Turi Musumeci was observing his grandson and tried to count all the properties he would have inherited one day. The estate of Bragone, the one your mother will leave you – these outweigh a darker complexion. The important thing is that you have my brain, he thought, before his eyes flowed over the thousands of olive trees and the manor house that Ada had brought as a dowry to Vincenzo.

Thank you. You were great, said the Baron, talking to his young stepdaughter.

Then he gently lowered the curtain of the cot and went back to the bed of Ada. He kissed her again, inhaling through his nose her scent of lavender and, after looking at Vincenzo with approval, he left the room. Outside the room, in the hallway, leaning next to the shelf was his stick. He picked it up and went downstairs.

The family surrounded him to ask about the newborn and he replied to everybody, while cutting a Tuscan cigar in two. He was clumsily looking for matches in his trousers’ pocket when Lena offered to help him, using a long chimney match.

Thanks, daughter, his words diced up by the Tuscan cigar between his teeth. Why don’t you go upstairs to see Vincenzo’s masterpiece?

I can’t wait. He must be handsome like his father, Lena answered.

Well, he is a nice puppy, but he doesn’t look like him, the Baron had to admit. Go, look at him carefully and ignore all the others causing a ruckus around the baby. Take your time and then you will tell me what you think.

I’m going, Turi, Lena said.

Maddalena smiled at him quickly, before leaving.

Musumeci Turi thought that the beauty of his adopted daughter was irrepressible. He wished for a grandson from her as well.

That would be great! he said, nobody listening to him.

As before, the embers broke away from the cigar and made a hole in his silk shirt. Turi checked, happy with the width of the hole: it was a sign of nobility.

The look in Ada’s eyes became sweeter; she was happy for Lena’s visit.

Lena knew how much Vincenzo's wife was genuinely fond of her. They lived far away and in two different worlds, but it took just a letter that was sent the day of the wedding to make that woman her favorite relative. Other letters followed the first, in which Lena told her about her hard work in Eritrea. Ada had responded and a long correspondence was born. When they met for the first time three months before, they already knew each other well. Ada tried to pose as a beautiful and energetic woman, and this, Lena thought, often happened to a weak person who, finding themselves in front of a strong personality, tried to imitate them. But then, looking at the reality of their existence, they realized they weren’t suitable to lead a special life, adventurous and free.

Oh, I am so happy you are here, Ada said.

Me too.

I feel so tired…

That’s normal. Don’t worry about that.

She kissed Ada and made and caressed Vincenzo fleetingly, who looked at her in silence. The baby cried.

Now, let me have a look at Turi Musumeci, Lena said.

No, I don’t want you to call him that, Ada cried.

I don’t like Turi; I’d rather him be called Totò.

As you wish, Ada, Vincenzo added, to prevent her from crying again.

Good, Totò Musumeci. Let’s see who you look like, Lena said, gently picking the baby up from the cradle.

He cries because he is sick. Poor baby… Ada kept complaining.

How Vincenzo could stand her is a mystery, Lena thought, as she removed the bands to the infant. Since I’ve been home, all I’ve heard from her is moaning.

She had been very kind and patient with Ada. She wanted to know her more deeply, to understand if she had lost Vincenzo forever. But she soon understood how that insignificant woman couldn’t stand up to the comparison. Physically, she was full of defects, and she wasn’t smart at all, as she seemed to comprehend the exact opposite of what people told her. She used to live in her own world and was proud of her sad heroin role because she thought it fit her well. Vincenzo, so insightful and sensitive, was completely different and could not love his wife as he had loved Lena. He would be hers, forever.

So, why doesn’t he leave her? Why did he marry her? Why didn’t he have the strength to wait? Lena asked herself. She was angry with the Baron who had feared being left without heirs, and perhaps without the properties of the Caronias.

Keeping the little, naked baby in her arms, she approached the bed and tried to smile. She professionally examined the child, trying not to think, to repress her feelings. She feared Vincenzo's gaze and she wanted to hide the whirlpool in her mind, the selfishness and wickedness of her thoughts. Then, little by little, she became interested in Totò only. Holding him up by the armpits, she checked the movements of the legs kicking and used the stethoscope to listen to his heart and lungs. Afterwards, she dressed him and started to kiss him dearly.

It's all right. He's fine, she said, as she placed him next to his mom.

Lena left the room. Vincenzo walked her down the stairs, tight-lipped.

Vincenzo and Maddalena had grown up together. Turi Musumeci and Peppone of Ventimiglia, Maddalena’s father, were friends and inseparable companions during the tournaments of scopone, a card game.

Peppone came from an old and noble family that owned four hundred acres of cultivated land. The Ventimiglias produced a sweet wine, even known outside of Sicily. And he, who was the youngest son of the Earl of Ventimiglia and, like all cadets of the nobility, had no right to the title and his paternal inheritance; he had to choose between becoming a religious man or joining the military of Bourbons. But he had other aspirations. He struggled endlessly with his father and got the money he needed to study medicine. In return, he promised that after graduation he would serve in the army of King Ferdinand, as a medical officer. He knew that, as the son of a wealthy Sicilian gentleman, a professional middle class was inconceivable. So, he became a soldier but, after his father's death, he left his uniform to devote himself to the profession among the people. The belief that medical science should serve those in need had finally taken over for the problems of his dynasty. Thus, Peppone Ventimiglia moved to Granata and became a doctor, loved by the people.

The prince appreciated his professional skills, but despised certain non-conformist attitudes of his. The same prince let him work in peace, perhaps, out of respect to the memory of his father who already revolted enough in the grave.

In Granata, Peppone knew Turi Musumeci, with whom he shared ideologies with that, for those times, were strong, and with the support of the people. The strength of the middle class was the industry, which provided jobs. Thousands of poor Sicilians went to work in factories and, finally, they had the right to get two meals.

It was Peppone who suggested to Turi to buy the title of Baron. Certainly not to raise the social status of his friend, who was already wealthy, but to give more credit to his work in the industry and to affect the opaque world of the nobility. He himself, though of noble birth, could not stand the attitudes and the falsity of a social organization founded on violence against the weaker.

Peppone was, therefore, a great friend of the Baron, and being a widower too used to travel with his inseparable companion during the summer, never forgetting the encounters with beautiful women away from the gossip of the village.

Often the two families met in Mezzocannolo for a vacation. In order to strengthen that friendship, in fact, Turi had given him on loan a farmhouse with twenty acres of land to use, within the feud.

Vincenzo Musumeci used to spend the whole summer in the country, having fun acting like a farmer in the lands of his father and taking care of the oil company that the Baron had built among the olive trees. At seventeen, he was already a giant and had reached his final height. Lena was the same age.

During a hot afternoon, while they were sitting at the highest point of the timpa, the cliff behind the country house, she kissed him.

We can’t, Vincenzo said clumsily, red with shame. I like how you taste, but this is inappropriate.

She looked at him, and in her eyes Vincenzo read the malice and the desire of a woman who wanted to be loved. He had been taught all about this from the lady that his father had hired to help him become a man, to help him stop masturbating.

When a woman stares at you like I do... now you know what she wants from you, his life teacher often told him during their weekly lesson.

Lena put a hand behind his neck and began to pull his curly hair, while the other hand looked for the buckle of his pants until she found it. Vincenzo gently unbuttoned her silk chemise. Lena's breasts, smelling like watermelons in August, stunned him. He made love to her and it was an explosion, long and twitching. The sun was setting and the sky was on fire, framed by the green of the secular olive trees, silent witnesses of their pleasure.

The meetings continued and the passion overwhelmed him. Vincenzo began to carelessly forgo the initial precautions taken to avoid being discovered by peasants. He was happy and that was the only thing that mattered. Once he spoke to her about their situation and the future. But she was categorical.

Vincenzo, I love you. But I will not tie myself down... I do not want to be a housewife. I want to become a doctor and treat people. Her eyes were red from love and seemed to gaze far into the distance. I think of Africa and the work of missionaries, she added.

These words amazed Vincenzo was amazed. Not even the teacher of life, nor his father, the Baron, had taught him that a girl could think and act this way, rejecting a comfortable and rich marriage. He admired her courage, but he was sincerely sorry.

What you say goes against nature, he said, entrenched in his own loss.

No, you're wrong. I said I love you, and I would also be willing to give you a son, but I will not give up the freedom to choose what to do with my life.

A year later Vincenzo Musumeci, once he graduated as an accountant with the highest honors, entered the family business; Maddalena Ventimiglia enrolled in the degree course in medicine and surgery at the Royal