La Tragidia

From the Diary of Eduardo Cavalieri

21 November

I hardly know what to say�I write this in haste, but speed ought to be the least of my concerns now. I have seen Giovanni at last. And never again will I do so.

I was highly restless last night, fated not to sleep, it would appear. I had opened the window, hoping the chilled air would revitalize me, when the clamor of voices proved a much greater distraction. I listened to them halfheartedly, thinking that if there were gypsies in this wood, it could be no good omen. I had seen them passing through as a child, and remembered all too well their questionable practices. I began distinguishing each voice, even picking out a few words in Romany, when a new voice I knew very well spoke, a voice that prompted me to rush to the window and listen agonizingly. It was Giovanni speaking�but why? What was he doing here, now? It hardly mattered; I was already reaching for my coat when a startling sound rent the night in twain. It was a gunshot, followed by painful silence.

The night was a dark blur as I ran into it, for I had rushed out of the house immediately and hastened through the forest. I was conscious of only one thing: the frantic necessity to find Giovanni, who was undoubtedly in the area. I did not question the gunshot, who it was intended for or who had initiated it.  I thought only of my brother.

At last I found him, lying prone on the ground, motionless. I must have sunk to my knees and shook him, but I can only recall him grasping my hand urgently, telling me that what had happened that night was horribly wrong. I was incredulous; I merely smiled at him and said it was fine, I had brought him a parcel from the bank, and surely that would rectify it. It did not occur to me I had misplaced its contents, but it made very little difference to my brother. He shook his head anxiously, saying it did not matter now. His next statement puzzled me thoroughly��Eduardo, I was not sent by a bank.�

Still I smiled, as if cajoling him. �Not a bank? Giovanni, what can you mean?�

He winced visibly, and only then did I notice the deep wound below his shoulder. It was singed, as if the bullet had seared the surrounding skin and burned its way through. I held my breath to keep from crying out, asking only, �What have they done to you?�

Giovanni insistently repeated one order�I was to ask the countess about the night of the accident. It was all he told me, all he would say, until the faculty of speech abandoned him and no more words came. So long had he been lost, so long had I waited and searched, and he had been returned to me only to die. 

I returned to the castle as if in a daze, not to cry, not to mourn�I was yet too shocked for that�but to sit at the window and do nothing but stare out of it. I could not think that Giovanni lay somewhere in the forest, without a proper burial. I could not think that I had come all this way to watch him die. All I could focus on were the last words he had said to me.  Ask the countess.  Inquire after the accident.  Have her tell you.

Tell me what?  I wanted to scream, but my voice was frozen. What could she tell me, and why must I ask her? She, who obviously held no fond feelings for me, and whose exquisite presence was mortifying, occupied my brother�s last thoughts on this earth. It angered me suddenly that he should die this way, in this harsh land, so far from everything he once knew. But he was not sent by a bank�he had been adamant. If not by a bank, then by whom? If Giovanni had not been employed with Orsini and Rosenburg, why else would he possibly be sent here?

I ask far too many questions, and as of yet, there are no answers. I have watched the sun rise over distant mountain peaks, and still I have no wish to sleep. I cannot expect the countess for several hours more, and though I write this hurriedly, I do not mind the wait. I see Giovanni�s face whether my eyes remain open or close, yet it does not trouble me. There are too many mysteries surrounding his untimely death, and to dispel even one would be a victory. But I shall be answered. Intimidation grows fainter as I write, and in its place, I grow far more indignant. 

>> on to next chapter

This fan fiction is for enjoyment purposes only. You may not reproduce, duplicate, or otherwise quote the written text without written permission.