a decade ago when he had strolled through the ruins of what came to be called Sceccu d’Oru (“The Golden Ass”) after World War I. During the war, the Florio family had set up a clandestine distillation operation in the baglio. This was to avoid the taxes the government set on spirits that Marsala producers had to buy to fortify their wines. Ass was the code name for a still in the local language. The spirits that came out of it were as valuable as gold. “You should have seen this place when I bought it. It looked as bad as what we saw at Woodhouse’s and Ingham’s baglios.” We entered the central courtyard. Several large palm trees provided shade. Circling the courtyard were buildings constructed at intervals along the surrounding walls. A larger-than-life artistic rendering of Franca Florio gazed dreamily from an elevated perch. She flaunted a string of pearls that dangled down to her knees. This fashion diva reigned supreme, as if she had never left. Just as the Florios’ entrepreneurial bent had irritated Sicilian blue bloods, Franca Florio’s interest in fashion, culture, and politics went beyond what was considered ladylike for well-bred Sicilian women of her day.
