You Will Grow Into Them

by Malcolm Devlin

  'Before we eat,' he said, 'I would like to invite you all to join me in a toast.'

  When everyone was standing, the Colonel turned to face the portrait on the far wall and raised his glass. He spoke clearly and proudly.

  'To The Autocrat,' he said.

  At the door, the guards snapped to attention as though they would have joined him in the toast had they been armed with glasses rather than assault rifles.

  'The Autocrat!' the diners said.

  Dominik sipped the drink. Plum schnapps. The widow had served it to the General before he died. It tasted strong enough to mask anything that might be added to it; a sweetness which coated the inside of his mouth with a thick, sugary film. It threaded a current of heat down his throat, making his forehead bead with sweat. Its aftertaste was cheap and chemical.

  He grimaced on reflex then, conscious that this reaction might betray inexperience, he stole a glance at Lukas to see if he had been observed. The younger man was not paying attention; he was setting his own glass on the table, watching the Colonel with care.

  The kitchen door opened again and the widow came, carrying a tray burdened with eight ceramic soup-bowls. Dominik could see her brow lined with concentration; the tray looked heavy and awkwardly balanced. He could see red trails edging down the side of the bowls as they pitched and yawed.

  'Borscht,' Zeitler said, watching the widow as she worked. 'The first course she gave the General when he visited. A paltry meal for such a great man. They say it was her late husband's favourite food. He was from the country; he had simple tastes.'

  The widow set the tray on the sideboard, then served them each in turn.

  Dominik looked down at the bowl in front of him. A pale blue ceramic well, filled half way with a thick, maroon liquid. A dark, greasy parabola stained the side where the soup had slopped in transit. The surface was spotted with discs of pale yellow oil and there was an acrid odour which made him recoil.

  Borscht had been a favourite of his father's as well. Dominik would sometimes prepare the family recipe for Maria. Richly spiced, it tasted as it smelled: warm and comforting. Maria said it could dispel a winter's day and for a moment, make it spring. It occurred to him he hadn't cooked for her in a while and he wondered if the sentiment would still hold true in the City, away from the line of the mountains, and the sweeping fields of wheat and maize that surrounded the village.

  He waited until the widow had finished serving before picking up his spoon. He tasted the soup and found it lukewarm. It lolled around his tongue; a thick, grainy texture and a taste of sweetened, undercooked beetroot which made him gag. As he swallowed, a sharper sense of over-boiled cabbage and sour milk chased it uninvited.

  He poured himself a glass of water and drank it all.

  'Is there any salt?' he heard one of the elderly ladies say from the other table.

  'The General didn't have any salt,' her companion said.

  The Colonel cleared his throat.

  'I understand you work for Atomarkworthy and Marltoz,' he said.

  Dominik looked up in time to see Lukas flinch a little.

  'We are proud to represent the Company, sir.' Zeitler's smile was expansive. 'I hold a tombola every few weeks and this time, the names of these two lucky gentlemen came up. The Company lets me bring them here. Such a treat for them!'

  'And a lesson,' the Colonel observed.

  'The Widow's House is a lesson to us all,' Lukas said.

  The Colonel ignored him and Dominik saw Lukas look down at his bowl, his cheeks almost as rosy as the traces of the soup he had left behind.

  'You seen any combat, Administrator?' the Colonel said.

  Zeitler leaned back in his chair and smiled with good humour.

  'Not as such, Colonel,' he said. 'I was attached to the Hussars for my National Service, but never out in the field.'

  The Colonel's head bobbed.

  'There's no shame in it,' he said. 'The Monarchy has long since fallen, and there are other things that must be achieved for the State to prosper. A good friend of mine once told me that we all have battles to fight and those involving pencils and paperwork are no less important than those involving saltpetre and steel.'

  He studied them each in turn.

  'Do you know who told me that?' He nodded to the portrait of The Autocrat before anyone had time to answer. 'He has a remarkable sense of humour.'

  Lukas looked astonished. Zeitler beamed.

  'I say this not as idle flattery,' the Colonel said. 'Your company is one of the most loyal to the State. Thus, we are all part of the great machine, small cogs and big. We all work to drive the same glorious purpose.'

  He nodded thoughtfully. Zeitler cleared his throat.

  'Thank you,' he said, a thin edge to his voice which Dominik had not heard before. 'Humbly, we thank you very much.'

  The Colonel frowned.

  'Oh, nonsense, nonsense.' He pushed the soup around with his spoon. 'Is it considered poor etiquette to leave most of this?'

  'The General ate all of his,' Lukas said, his bowl already empty and clean.

  The Colonel shook his head in wonder.

  'He was a braver man than I,' he said.

  On the other table, the young woman sat staring at the spoon in her hand. The bowl before her was untouched.

  'Is it true,' she said loud enough for the whole room to hear, 'that someone is poisoned each year at The Widow's House?'

  In the seat beside her, the young man spluttered into his spoon and red spots of soup speckled across the table.

  'The widow is a convicted poisoner,' The Colonel said, his tone level. He swallowed a spoonful of the soup as though it was an act of defiance.

  One of the elderly women spoke up:

  'Once in a while,' she said, 'someone takes ill; on rarer occasions they say some have died. But that is part of the risk of coming here and we all know it. It's part of the thrill, young lady. Part of the thrill.'

  Her companion put her hand on her arm in an expression of solidarity.

  'If it is any consolation at all,' Zeitler said, 'I have been here many times and to the best of my knowledge, I have not been poisoned.'

  'Perhaps you're immune,' the young woman said.

  Zeitler laughed heartily and scraped his bowl clean.

  'When you leave,' the Colonel said, dabbing the corners of his mouth with his napkin, 'you can say you survived her. You can say the enemies of The Autocrat have no power over you and that is a powerful thing because of what she represents.'

  He smiled but his expression was cool.

  'But have no fear,' he said. 'It was the schnapps she poisoned The General with, not the borscht, so please relax and enjoy your meal.'

  He raised his glass in a mock toast, then drank defiantly.

  *

  The main course was chicken. Thighs and wings, boiled almost dry because on the night the General died, the widow was waiting for her husband to come home with her sons. Her husband never came home; the food was spoiled. It was dark when the General arrived instead, and without question or judgement, he had eaten what was given to him.

  The chicken was served with a round scoop of mashed potato and five green beans arranged at the side; the whole plate swam in a thin layer of greenish water which discoloured everything else.

  Once all the plates had been set, the widow walked around with the square decanter and topped up the glasses.

  Dominik picked at his plate. The beans were stringy, out of season. But at least they weren't from cans like most of the produce in the City. He thought of his mother's garden and in his memory, everything seemed so fresh he doubted the truth of it.

  'Lukas here,' Zeitler addressed the Colonel. 'His father is in the army. Is that right, Lukas?'

  The young man blushed again.

  'My brothers, too,' he said.

  The Colonel studied him.

  'What's your name, boy?'

  'Lukas Bresco.'

  'Your father is Lieutenant Karel Bresc
o?'

  'He is.'

  The Colonel nodded.

  'I know of him,' he said. He shovelled a forkful of beans into his mouth and chewed, looking Lukas up and down.

  'You don't look like him,' he said.

  Lukas shook his head.

  'My brothers do.'

  Dominik finished his course, realising with some embarrassment how hungry he must have looked. He set his knife and fork on the plate and looked about him, squinting at the family pictures on the wall opposite.

  'Her husband,' Zeitler said.

  'I'm sorry?'

  'The man in the middle. The one in the uniform? That's Emilia Cusco's husband, the widow's husband. Rudolf Cusco.'

  The man in the picture was wearing the dress uniform of the Hussars. He looked into the room, serious but unflinching.

  'And the picture beside it,' Zeitler said, pointing with his fork, 'those are their children, Anton and Stefan. Ten and fifteen when The General was killed.'

  'Murdered,' the Colonel said.

  'Murdered,' Zeitler agreed.

  Unlike their father, the boys were not posed. They were sitting on a sled under a royal blue sky. Their faces were blurred in excitement, as though the camera was incapable of capturing the energy of them with any fidelity.

  'What happened to them?' Dominik asked.

  'The man was a traitor,' the Colonel said, 'and he died that way.'

  *

  The General was dead before he could eat dessert, so none was served to the diners of The Widow's House. Instead, once the dishes had been cleared from the main course, Emilia Cusco returned with a tureen of hot custard and, without ceremony, she poured it on the carpet.

  Hemlock poisoning takes its time. After the vomiting and the pain, the body shuts down piece by piece. Wide awake but unable to move, it was said The General was forced to watch as the widow played blacklisted music. She taunted him with her nudity and performed depraved sexual acts in front of him.

  He died of respiratory failure just before midnight.

  The diners in The Widow's House watched in silence as Emilia Cusco drew spirals on the floor around them. They said nothing, and no music was played.

  *

  Once the widow had left the room, Dominik stood and excused himself. A door in the lobby led to the back of the house; a small sign mounted on it gave directions to the bathroom. He stepped awkwardly around the two armed guards who stared through him as though he wasn't there.

  Behind the door, there was a short corridor. To his left, another door was propped open an inch and inside, Dominik could see the kitchen. It looked large and industrial, extended considerably from its original, suburban dimensions to cater for the number of visitors the Widow attracted. He could see a member of the house staff, a nightstick tucked in the belt of her uniform. She was standing with folded arms, and turned when she felt Dominik's eyes upon her, her expression sour. Without a word, she reached across and pushed the door closed.

  In the bathroom, Dominik ran the taps and doused his face, feeling so hot he would not have been surprised to see the water turn to steam. In the mirror, his face looked red, blotchy, his hair was slick with sweat.

  He shrugged off his jacket and hung it on the hook on the back of the door; he unbuttoned his waistcoat and loosened his tie. He breathed out fully; his breath clouded the mirror and slowly dispersed.

  He wondered what Zeitler must think of him. Fool, probably. Bumpkin. Idiot.

  He looked more critically at the face in the mirror. He looked like all of those things. Worse, he looked like his father. A face and physique better suited to overalls than a businessman's suit.

  He had shaved thoroughly that morning, but a day's growth now stained his cheeks and jaw with a burred shadow. He thought of Lukas, so polished, so fresh-faced and effortless, it sickened him.

  Before he had left for work that morning, he had said goodbye to Maria as he always did.

  'I don't want you going to that place this evening,' she had said. 'That poor sad woman.'

  'That poor sad woman killed a General,' he said, stooping to check his tie in the mirror on the dressing table.

  Maria just watched him from the bed; sitting on the covers, legs splayed, holding the largeness of her belly as though it were a medicine ball on her lap. Her silence felt like a reproach.

  'I can't not go,' he said. 'It would be considered rude, ungrateful or, worse, an insult. And we don't want to be seen insulting anyone, least of all the Administrator.'

  She looked troubled. She had been the one to see the arrest of the couple from apartment 411 after all. She had told him how she'd pinned herself in the corner of the landing as the soldiers had bundled them past. A nice couple, she would tell him for days afterwards. My God, the looks on their faces. Such a nice couple.

  He smiled at her and hoped he looked encouraging.

  'Besides, it'll be good for us,' he promised. 'I can talk to the Administrator. You know there's rumour of a vacancy opening for his assistant. I've worked there for two years now. He knows I'm reliable. Think of it! A bigger salary, a bigger apartment.'

  She had smiled at that.

  'That would be nice,' she said, but he knew she didn't believe he would say anything, and she was right. It wasn't something he could do. He could try, but he would stall. He would stutter and say the wrong thing. She had seen it in him so many times, but still she smiled at him with encouragement, as though this time he might be capable of succeeding.

  In the bathroom of The Widow's House, Dominik scowled at the cowardice of his reflection. He would be condemned to an endless life on the ground floor of the Company and Lukas would soar. And it would be his own damned fault because he couldn't say what needed to be said.

  'No,' he said. 'Not today.'

  He refastened his tie and buttoned his waistcoat. He pulled his jacket back on and stepped into the corridor.

  The door to the kitchen was open again, and in the narrow shaft it exposed, he saw a movement which struck him as misplaced. A large, grey shape ducked out of the way. It was too quick and abstract to identify, but there was something about it that was familiar to him.

  The door to the lobby was also open a crack and Dominik could see the guard there facing away from him, engaged in an animated discussion with the same member of the house staff he had seen in the kitchen earlier.

  Dominik was about to return to the lounge when he heard the sound of a muffled sneeze from the kitchen and the question of the grey shape resolved itself in his mind. He hung there, indecisive, then gathered himself and pushed the kitchen door wide.

  He heard Zeitler swear before he saw him. The big man was standing at the back of the room beside a barred door, a handkerchief held over his face. On the other side of the room, the Widow Emilia Cusco was standing motionless. She stared at Dominik, her face blank. In her hands, she held a pair of brown paper files, the shape and shade of which were familiar to Dominik after two years as a clerk. Instinct led his eye to the department code stencilled in the top corner. Partially hidden under her hand, it was clear enough to read: PNL. Personnel.

  Zeitler cast a quick look at the widow, then marched towards Dominik, an accusatory finger outstretched before him.

  'You!' His voice was a clenched, furious whisper.

  Dominik ducked away from him. He had witnessed the Administrator's anger only a few times and that was from a distance. To be the focus of it terrified him, but the sense that he wasn't the only one in the room to be afraid gave him strength.

  'What's happening here?' Surprise made him sound more confident. He stared at the documents in the widow's hands. 'What is she doing with those?'

  Zeitler scowled, steering Dominik away from the door and motioning for him to be quiet.

  'Nothing you need concern yourself with,' he said, glancing back as the door swung silently to.

  The widow moved the files from one hand to another. The movement jogged loose a few pages and they sailed free, drifting across the floor.
Some came to a halt on the tiles, another slid beneath the counter, one settled to rest under the toe of Dominik's highly-polished shoe.

  He looked down and two versions of himself stared back. A distorted reflection in the leather and a photograph on the page.

  'That's my personnel file,' he said, wondering why he needed to say something so clear and obvious out loud.

  Zeitler stepped forward and snatched the papers off the ground. He grunted with impatience as he rooted around for the page lost beneath the counter.

  'I think that's perfectly clear,' he said, standing and dusting himself down. He thrust the papers back towards the widow, who took them and teased them back into the folder.

  'And you,' Zeitler said, 'will now promise me – promise me – that you'll keep what you have seen here to yourself.'

  He emphasised his words with arm movements so fierce, Dominik almost laughed.

  'But this is infraction,' he said. 'This is treason.'

  The words came out hoarse as though he did not feel fully qualified to pronounce so loaded a sentence.

  Zeitler prodded a finger at him.

  'Do you know how many times she has to do this? Six times a day, seven days a week. This is her punishment for killing the man who murdered her husband. This is her penance for killing the man whose followers still hold her children hostage. Her children!'

  Frustrated, he gestured to the kitchen as a whole.

  'All because she said “no” to him. That was her treachery and this is her reward. This… this charade.'

  'Please,' the widow said. Zeitler glanced back at her, his face anguished.

  'I can't save her,' he said. 'I wish I could. But her sons? There may be hope for her sons. Anton. Stefan.'

  He spoke their names with reverence, searching Dominik's reaction for a trace that his meaning would be understood.

  'The children of traitors were once imprisoned or executed,' he said. 'Now, they're simply fed back into the machine. What better punishment for a traitor than to know their own children will be raised by patriots? They're conditioned, made to forget. They're placed in families who will raise them as zealots. They're set to work in Government-sanctioned workplaces. One day, Dominik, they will come through my door and I will bring them here, as I bring everyone here—'