Cadoville (unfinished)

Chapter III

What was left of my family had been buried in Saint-Luc just days after the explosion, while I was floating on laudanum. I always saw them in my sleep, as clearly as I saw the living, even feeling them.... A strange feeling, but I never believed they were totally gone, snuffed from existence..., they were just in the 'next room.' That's how it felt – I was in one room and they were in another, separated by a few inches of brick and mortar, but if I walked through the door, I'd never come back.... 'Knowing' they were just on the other side, for want of a better description, seemed to keep my thoughts sane....

They hanged two men on the docks within earshot of my bed one rainy day, my head pounding once again and the bells ringing outside.... Creaking timbers and the sharp snap of rope – a truly horrifying sound and one I shan't forget. A couple of anarchists apparently, or 'separatists' according to uncle Stefano's staff.... An animalistic clamour of roaring and cheering followed. I clamped my head between two pillows and hummed loudly until it was over, until the usual symphony of bartering, trundling, and clip-clopping soon picked up again.

I spent a lot of time watching the ships coming into the bay from the window, strange flags and tricolours wafting from their masts. I was still watching them when night rolled in, their lamps like ghostly orbs in the darkness.... Wide awake and restless, I made my way through the lantern-lit corridors to my uncle's study. Seeing a candle flickering beneath the door, I tapped and went inside. He sat alone at his desk, his silhouette illuminated by shimmering auburn orbs, and a half-eaten plate of vegetables and saltfish by his side.... I took a seat by the window and made the most of the moonlight.

"Can't sleep?" He mumbled, almost inaudibly. I shook my head. "Rum? Just a drop. It usually does the trick...." He said, holding up the bottle. I smiled and nodded. Hearing rum's soft trickle, I moved over to uncle Stefano's desk, catching sight of the candlelight glinting in the glass and took my first sip.

"Thank you."

"I'm sorry to tell you we're at war now...." He said, after a pensive pause. My mind's eye looked back to the conversation my family were having about war, the day they died.... "Fresh news at the docks. They've taken us to war with Europe, like they promised they wouldn't...."

I put down my glass and licked my lips, unable to ignore the fear in uncle Stefano's eyes. I didn't want to think about things that scared me.

"I wanted to ask if I could come back to work...," I said, listening to a lonely wagon trundle by outside "...I thought it might help if I had something to do...."

Uncle Stefano stared at me, rolling his tongue from one cheek to the other. I just wanted to go back to some sort of 'normal.' I was hoping he would understand that....

"I'm sure my staff would be only too pleased to have you back, Paoletta...."

He refilled my glass and nudged it toward me. I took his words for a 'yes,' yet it barely lifted the corners of my cheeks into an even vague smile.... It was like finally being given the finest bottle of wine in France only to find that it was empty.... The chance to be taken seriously, intellectually appreciated, but no one to frown at me – I never thought I would miss those frowns....

"Thank you," I whispered.

Uncle Stefano squeezed my hand.

"Don't thank me – I have to refuse.... We won't be here long though..."

"What do you mean?"

"I wanted to tell you tomorrow but since you're here...." He sighed and raked his fingers through his hair. "We need to go somewhere safer."

"Safer?"

"Safer and far away." He took a big glug of rum. "Have you not noticed the Revolution is maturing like a bad cheese? Having a different opinion to the powers that be is becoming tantamount to treason.... 'Will of the People' and all that nonsense.... They looted a church in Saint-Luc yesterday, and slaves attempted another rebellion in Saint-Jacques."

"I don't understand...," I said. "Who's looting churches?"

Uncle Stefano scoffed.

"The Revolutionaries – very angry people and blaming everyone for their problems...." I heard him take another sip. "A recipe for disaster, in a nutshell...."

"What do they want?"

Uncle Stefano's eyebrows stood up, his mouth warping into a sort of twisted smile.

"That's a very good question.... Maybe there were some decent reasons when they took the Bastille, but they're long forgotten.... Three types of people live in Paris – Hard Revolutionaries want a republic, Soft Revolutionaries want to work with the king, and Royalists want to end the Revolution...." A bottle smashed and a horse cried outside. Leaping to my feet, I headed to the wall furthest from the window. "Don't worry, Paoletta. It's a busy town. You must've heard worse in Paris, surely...."

I sat back down, breathing deeply and looking at my uncle.

"Are we leaving because the Revolutionaries are angry with us?"

"...They've always been angry with foreigners...."

"Where are we going?"

"New Orleans – French-speaking and neutral."

My mouth dipped into a smile at the thought of a fresh start – unshackled from bad memories, the opportunity to be renewed somewhere totally new and different.

"Won't it be too hot?"

"Probably...." Uncle Stefano chuckled softly. "We'll see what New Orleans can offer for your migraines." He turned toward me and leaned forward a little, resting on his elbows. "I haven't told my staff yet so I'd appreciate it if you kept this strictly in Italian for now, but I'm taking the business to New Orleans too.... How would you feel about lending a hand to my accountant full-time?"

My head was nodding before I had even heard all the words, and a smile creasing my cheeks – it hurt but I couldn't stop it. Chortling under his breath, he cupped my chin and gave my good cheek a quick stroke with his thumb.

Uncle Stefano was one of a dying breed. Venice built its wealth and fabulous buildings on trade, ships coming and going from all over the world with gold, pungent spices and strange animals, and the merchants all lived in rather fancy palazzi along the canals.... Unfortunately for uncle Stefano, he was two centuries too late..., most of Venice's trade having been swept up Spain, Britain, France, the Netherlands and such the like....

My mother and uncle Stefano came from a long line of Venetian merchants and had a palazzo near Piazza San Marco – Palazzo Lucchesi. Hard times pushed my mother into marrying money, and who better than an affluent, Swiss businessman? The Cadovilles were a proud bunch, and rightly so.... If it weren't for my father's fortune , uncle Stefano probably wouldn't have still had a firm.

"Why would separatists kill my family?" I asked uncle Stefano, the gallow's creaking timbers still fresh in my ears.

"Anarchists...," uncle Stefano replied. "The clue is in the name, I suppose. The court concluded it was a senseless act of terror against wealthy immigrants who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time – foreigners essentially, or 'parasites'...."

"How would they find a bomb?"

"Who knows," uncle Stefano clicked his tongue. "You can get your hands on anything if you know the right people. Maybe there's a dishonest soldier at the barracks.... They're hanging rebel slaves tomorrow. I'll give you some of that cheese for your ears if you like...."

"The Gruyeres?" I asked. Rather miraculously, it was something uncle Stefano had managed to import for my father – a little piece of the Alps. "Urgh. No, it stinks...."

Uncle Stefano smirked and went into a long silence.

"It's not often they hang people here either but, recently, I must admit they're becoming more frequent." His eyes turned cold and he knocked back the rest of his rum. "We leave for New Orleans in three weeks."