Chapter Text
The letters had come directly from Father. As per usual, they were careful with the exchange, but Father was under suspicion lately and had reason to fear he was being monitored.
They arranged to meet on a busy street, to not say a word to each other, to silently hand off the letters in passing. Victor walked straight ahead, never lifting his eyes from the ground, keeping his arm limp at his side until he felt the envelopes brush against his fingers. Neither of them slowed. Instead, Victor tightened his grip around the envelopes as they were pushed into his palm. Father mumbled a small “Sorry, sir,” caught a glance of the mail in Victor’s possession, and then disappeared into the crowd.
If anyone had been watching, they wouldn’t have noticed the interaction. Or if they had, there was no way they could reason that it was anything significant. Bumping into someone on a bustling city street wasn’t usually reason enough to rouse suspicion, now was it?
The entire walk home, Victor didn’t look up. His eyes watched his shoes taking careful, unguided but memorized steps all the way back to his modest home in the heart of the city. It wasn’t until he went inside, closed, locked and bolted the door behind him did he let out the breath of air he’d been holding, did his shoulders relax, did he look at what had been given to him.
There were a few letters in the pile, tied together with twine, but nothing too much for him to handle. So long as it was less than fifteen, he could get it done within the week. Going over to his kitchen table, Victor untied the bow keeping the letters in a stack, and began to look through them.
Most were addresses he was well familiar with, having delivered money, news, or threats there many times in the past. Victor flinched at the memories. When he came to deliver his letters, no one ever smiled. Who would smile when the mafia’s postboy came to bring news from Father? More often than not, he was asking for repayment. Sometimes, it was a final warning. He often didn’t visit them again after that delivery.
Of course, Victor never prematurely opened the mail. His way of knowing the contents inside the envelopes resided on the back. It was subtle yet simple code. If the wax seal was white, it meant a loan had been given. Red meant payment was due, and black meant final warning. There were others, of course. Blue for making plans, green for an update on a situation, etcetera. But Victor found, more often than not, his letters were stamped with white, red, or black seals.
The seals served as a reminder to Victor that this was more than mail. These were livelihoods being run back and forth throughout the town. If the contents of a letter went ignored, became compromised, or, heaven forbid, were lost, it would be Victor who would pay the price.
He had never lost a letter in his life. He wasn’t about to start. To ensure that, Victor found his satchel propped up near the doorway, pulled it open, and stuck the letters deep into the folds of fabric. Before closing it and leaving them for the day, Victor organized them in order of location. The closer addresses went in the front, the farther ones in the back. Then there was Laz.
Victor recognized the church name. It was the one on the edge of town, between this city and the next, tucked away, almost hidden. He’d never been. He wasn’t religious at all and his errands had never sent him in that direction before. Despite never delivering to Laz before, the letter was sealed with black wax. It wasn’t the first time Victor had seen such a situation, and he knew that it never ended well. He would save Laz for last. Even the thought of delivering there made him dizzy. He pushed off the feeling. There was no time for nerves nor regrets in the mafia business.
On any other day, he might revel in the autumn air, might admire the color of the leaves and the way the flowers just barely hung onto their petals. Every season had its beauties, and autumn was hardly the exception. As Victor walked through the city, however, all he could focus on was the cold air seeping into his bones.
It had rained that morning, leaving the world damp and overcast. Victor was careful to avoid various puddles as he traversed the streets. He had his coat pulled tight around him and white, knitted gloves snug around his fingers. Still, the wet, chilled air found its way through the holes in the yarn, freezing his fingers. Victor shivered as he walked, teeth chattering.
A part of him couldn’t help but be envious of the children who jumped into the puddles and the leaf piles with full joy, full unawareness of the cruelty that transpired on their own block. Winter was nearly upon them, and with it came the death of the flowers that littered those city streets. Those children stayed so ignorant of that fact, it was nearly aggravating.
Victor turned his attention back to the matter at hand. The letters were in his bag, kept away from the wet outdoors. He tapped the satchel to make sure they were indeed still there. Just to be certain, he reached inside and felt along the edges, counting to make sure he hadn’t lost any. Sure enough, they were all there. He pulled out the first of the bunch, glancing at the address then at the seal on the back. Just red this time. If the payment was made properly, there wouldn’t be any issues.
The first delivery was to a factory in the heart of the city. A man by the name of Beck met him at the front, begrudgingly taking the mail into his massive hand. “I have a daughter, you know,” he said before Victor could leave. He stopped, glancing back to the burly man, who stared down at that glaring red seal. “She’s a beautiful, young girl. Mother left us so it’s just her and I. I can’t...make these payments.” That giant hand started to tremble. “Can’t you tell someone? Can’t you do anything?”
This again. Victor was all too used to such conversations. People often tried to bargain with him, often tried to convince him to break their deal. As if he had any say in it. As if he would do anything to help them even if he did have a say in it. They dug themselves into this hole, it was up to them to get themselves out.
That’s what he told himself. That’s how he justified it every time he turned away without a word, ignoring the desperate look in the person’s eyes, the way their entire body sagged under the weight of their burden. Victor chose not to consider what got someone into making a deal with the mafia. It wasn’t his job to worry about such things. It wasn’t his job to console the people to whom he delivered Father’s news.
“Please,” Beck said, taking a step towards Victor. “Please, you know the head of this whole thing, right? You have to. Or have some ties to him. My family is falling apart. I don’t know what to do. I don’t...” He swallowed. “I don’t know what I’ll do if I lose my daughter.”
Victor clutched the strap of his satchel. The fall air seemed colder now, blowing against his back, as if pushing him away from this man, as if saying “It’s none of your concern.” Which it wasn't. It really wasn’t.
“Sorry,” Victor whispered, not loud enough to be heard, before moving on to the next delivery. His head swam, hot and foggy. He didn’t feel well, and he couldn’t push the thoughts of Beck out of his mind. Every time he saw those strong, capable hands shaking with shame and fear, Victor stumbled. He worried he might faint if this kept up. To sooth his mind, he told himself that Beck was a cheapass trying to get out of losing a few extra pennies a month.
Victor never really believed the lies he told himself. But they kept the stress from completely overtaking him, so he continued to tell them.
Luckily for Victor, the rest of the deliveries weren’t nearly as upsetting. A few grimaces, plenty of sighs, some people even close to tears. But no one talked to him, so it was alright.
Before long, he was at his last stop for this batch of letters. Laz Church loomed above him, the crucifix atop the tallest pillar glaring down at him, judging him. Victor averted his gaze, feeling a shiver run down his spine. His eyes wandered down to the envelope in his hand, the black seal a vicious stain on the otherwise ivory paper.
Victor knew what happened when someone received a final warning. It was practically a death sentence. You either did as the mafia told you to do, right away and all at once, or you lost everything.
Sucking in a deep breath, Victor made his way to the front doors of the church, eager, if nothing else, to get out of the cold.
It wasn’t a grand thing. There were certainly much bigger, more decorated places of worship in the city. Being on the outskirts, however, it served as a place for the poor folks who lived outside of the main city, where the money was, to come and join mass in a setting where they might be comfortable.
The walls were made of planks of painted wood. Some paint peeled away while some of the wood rotted. The pews were unpolished, haphazard, almost a safety violation. At the front of the hall, there was a modest stand for an absent priest. Above that, the obvious pride and joy of the church stood in all its glory. A stained glass window stretched the entire height of the far wall. It was obviously imported from somewhere, obviously cost a small fortune. Perhaps that’s why the rest of the building was nearly in shambles. But it was beautiful, even Victor had to admit.
In that window was an image of Christ, young and alive, holding a lamb in his arms with a flock behind him. Victor didn’t stare too long. He’d always had an aversion to such images. Even when he looked away, however, he couldn’t escape the way the light filtered in through the glass, casting warm yellows, oranges, and reds across the floor. It was all too similar to the fallen leaves outside, and the cold almost affected Victor more strongly now that he was in such a drafty, empty building. Shivering, Victor concluded that being in the church was worse than being outside.
The priest obviously wasn’t there. He’d have to move his search. As he stepped back out into the wind, Victor considered heading home for the day. The priest would be in on Sunday for sure. If he could just explain the situation to Father, it should be fine.
Between the gusts of wind that blew harshly into his ears, Victor heard something strange. Song. Gentle, sweet, the kind of song a mother sings to her children.
He halted, stopped dead where he stood. Victor tilted his head up, listening to where the song was coming from. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, the world felt just a little less cold.
“Maikäfer flieg, dein Vater ist im Krieg”
He couldn’t make out the words. They sounded similar to his tongue, but not quite. He quickly pinpointed the language as German. Curious now, and thinking it might be his person of interest, Victor followed the song around to the back of the church. There, much to his surprise, he found a vast expanse of gravestones. The song was coming from within the cemetery.
“Deine Mutter ist im Pommerland. Im Pommerland ist abgebrannt.”
Victor wandered through the graves, finally finding the source of the voice. A man, who at first Victor thought to be old but upon looking at his face reasoned that couldn’t possibly be the case, knelt in the dirt, leaning in close to one of the stones. He patted purple flowers down firmly into the dirt in front of it, using one hand to shield the delicate petals from the wind. The man didn’t look up, too engulfed in the process. And so, he didn’t notice Victor. So he kept singing.
“Maikäfer flieg...”
Finally, Victor cleared his throat. The man jumped, body going rigid. Slowly, he turned, looking at Victor with wide, red eyes. Victor tensed too. He’d never seen such a color.
The man’s lips moved, but no sound came out. At least not that Victor could hear. He didn’t think much of it. “Are you the priest?” Victor asked, barely above a whisper.
The man furrowed his brow. “I can’t…” That’s all Victor could hear before the words on his lips stumbled their way back into silence.
For a moment, they both stared at each other. Victor cracked a small smile, which was met with a scowl. Cautiously, Victor took a step closer. As he did, the other pushed back. Victor noticed that even through his aversion, the man never threatened the safety of the flowers which he had just planted. His hands were careful around them, very aware of the fragile stems.
He cleared his throat once more, and then Victor tried again. “Are you the priest?” He managed to be a bit louder this time. The man seemed to hear, seemed to understand. He shook his head vigorously. “Can you tell me where he is?” Another shake of the head. Victor stood awkwardly, red and orange leaves piling up at his feet, chilling his toes through his boots. “It’s a bit urgent,” he insisted. “When will he be in next?”
The man was quiet, eyes shifting from Victor to the grave to the small trowel he had abandoned just a reach away. It was his turn to clear his throat now, sitting up just a bit straighter. “I-I don’t think that’s your business,” he said, his voice light and airy, just as it had been when he sang. “What are you, a postman?” Victor nodded. “Leave the post on his podium. He’ll get to it.”
Victor glanced down at the letter, at that damning black seal. “There is sensitive information here, it cannot be left unattended at any moment.”
“Sensitive...?” Those red eyes narrowed. “What is it? Who’s it from?”
Victor stayed silent.
“Is there trouble?”
More silence. Victor was certain to keep his expression steady.
“...No matter,” The man grumbled, turning back to his flowers. “He isn’t here. Come back tomorrow. Come earlier next time.”
“Right, thank you.” Victor didn’t move. Neither did the other. They stayed there, suspended in time. A gust of wind blew the leaves at their feet up around their heads, hiding them from each other for just a moment.
When the leaves finally settled, Victor saw that the man was glaring at him.
“That was a lovely song you were singing,” Victor offered, which made the pale man instantly turn red. “Don’t be embarrassed...but, were you singing to anyone?” He looked around. Not another soul in sight. “You...I thought I might find a child here.”
Another round of silence, this time with the man watching the freshly planted flowers. He cupped their soft petals, stroking his thumb over their velvety texture. “...Singing helps the plants grow. Don’t laugh, if you laugh I’ll kill you.” Victor held up his hands defensively. “They like it, you know. If I sing to them, they’ll be strong.”
“Hm...I never knew.” Victor thought for a moment. “Why bother planting them in the autumn? Aren’t they going to die soon?”
Something in the man softened, then. His eyes relaxed, his body sagged forward, almost leaning against the grave. “Just because something is near death doesn’t mean it shouldn’t have a chance to be beautiful.”
Victor was shocked. “...Why not wait for spring? So their lives are longer, at least?”
“If I wait for spring, then what will I put here during fall? What about winter?”
“You plant flowers in wintertime, too?”
“I do...They die quickly, but even if only for a day or two, they’re really beautiful.”
The answers were far from what Victor was expecting from this man. “What’s your name?” he asked, taking another step forward.
This time, the man didn’t shy away. “Andrew,” he mumbled.
“Victor,” Victor said, although he realized after the fact that Andrew hadn’t bothered asking for his name. “Do you know the person buried here?”
Andrew shook his head. “No.”
“Why do you plant flowers for them?”
“It’s…My duty. I’m a gravekeeper. I maintain this graveyard. So...I should make it beautiful too, right?”
What a lovely answer. “Right,” Victor sighed, smiling widely now. He could feel his heart beating in his chest, could feel warmth pooling in his cheeks. This was already so different from his usual conversations on the job. The happiness made him woozy. “You’re doing a wonderful job, I must say. It’s absolutely perfect here.” Indeed it was. The cold of the world was shunned in this place, replaced instead by a searing heat that pulsed its way through Victor’s body. “You do fine work.”
Andrew swallowed, not thanking Victor for the compliments but not refusing them either. Victor didn’t mind. He adjusted his white, knit gloves around his fingers and wondered for a moment why he had four hands instead of two. Victor ignored it, leaning against the wall of a nearby mausoleum. “How long have you worked here, Andrew?” He was desperate for any semblance of a normal conversation. Beck was still plaguing him, still mixing in with his thoughts. Surely that’s what was making him feel so strange.
There wasn’t a second of hesitation from Andrew. “A good few years now. At least five, probably more. The priest is very kind. He employs me when no one else would. Sees the good work I do and praises me. He’s...someone important to me.” He trailed off into quietness again at the end.
Victor ignored the pit those words put in his stomach. He tried to ignore all details about his clients, seeing them as unfortunate buffoons who got caught up in something bigger than them. To hear that the priest was a good man, at least to this one person, didn’t make Victor feel good by any means. “Do you like flowers?” He wasn’t sure of what he was saying anymore. The world was growing so hot when it had been freezing just a moment ago.
“I do,” Andrew said, a humble smile finally gracing his features. “I enjoy...caring for things. I find that when something needs me, it makes me happy.”
“Needs you?”
“I don’t think there’s anything strange about that, really. I also…” He paused. “I have not been treated kindly in my life, as you can imagine.”
“Why is that?”
“Are you blind?” Andrew looked at Victor, surprised. “Look at me.” When Victor stared blankly, Andrew shook his head. “I like to take care of flowers because I was never exactly taken care of. It’s as if I’m doing a small act of justice. Yes, justice. That’s something important to me.” Andrew’s hands, ruddy and chapped from the cold, reached out once again for the purple petals. “If I am not treated well, then the least I can do is treat something else well.”
Justice. What a strange concept. Victor turned the idea around in his mind, examined every nook and cranny he could see, and still he could not understand it. Justice wasn’t something he often dealt with. It was often something that opposed him. But the idea of righting wrongs through one’s own actions was so tender, so wonderful, that Victor couldn’t help but sympathize with it.
They settled into a comfortable silence as Andrew went back to work tending to his flowers. Victor watched his hands. They were ungloved. They faced the wind and the cold, gently nudged away fallen leaves and fluffed the flowers’ petals with the care of a mother brushing her hands through her child’s hair. Victor found he couldn’t take his eyes off of the sight. He imagined hands like that, cold and red and with dirty nails, stroking his cheeks. He imagined them removing his white, knitted gloves one finger at a time until he was free, free to lock their fingers together in a strange sort of union that Victor didn’t often fantasize about.
Those hands, strong, capable hands, which did hard labor and also trembled as they held a letter. Victor found himself thinking of Beck, wondering about his daughter, wondering if what he was doing had any semblance of righteousness to it. He thought about the crucifix glaring at him, about Christ in the church holding a lamb that would never be him, about his grave that would not have a name printed on it, but perhaps would have flowers. Perhaps Andrew could plant flowers on his grave, too.
Maybe, before that day came, those calloused fingers could feel the burning in his cheeks and the pulsing of his chest. Victor watched Andrew’s hand scrape through the dirt, burying the roots of the flower, and imagined those hands burying his sins. Burying him, deep down in the earth where he would be safe.
Safe. That’s what Victor wanted to be.
His gaze wandered down to his own hands, covered in the pristine, white gloves. What good were those small hands of his? They had never touched dirt or metal or another person’s skin. Only letters. Only messages that ruined people’s lives in every way imaginable. Those white gloves were not a sign of innocence, but rather of unknowing. He had never seen death. Had never spilled blood. Had never dug in the dirt to create something beautiful or ugly or otherwise. Had never grasped steaming machinery. He had never held his daughter’s hand or a sheep in his arms as Christ did inside the church just behind him.
“My hands,” Victor rasped, suddenly losing his voice, but pressing on to speak, “I can’t feel my hands.”
Before everything went black, there was a blur of red, orange, and yellow as Victor’s world spun. Then, as he lay on the ground, slowly blinking, trying and failing to keep his eyes open, Victor saw the burning purple of the freshly planted iris.
On my grave, he thought with the last of his strength, that unmarked grave, please plant a fruit tree. So that, at least in death, I’m good for something other than this.
Victor was faintly aware of Andrew’s panicked voice calling for him, but he was gone, drifting off into a fevered dream.