Chapter fourteen: Dinner --- 1907
Chapter fourteen:
Dinner --- 1907
The "Easter" Gala.
As I stepped into the grand hall, the scene before me could only be described as vast, noisy, and profoundly tedious. The crowd was a mix of wealthy bankers, minor nobles without a method of meaningful inheritance, and politicians whose irrelevance in their own nations was glaring. It was a den of unchecked ambition and inflated self-importance.
Gustav had forewarned me about certain individuals I might encounter. More importantly, he had advised me on those to avoid—chief among them a Romanov who was present, likely a distant relative from one of the lesser branches of the imperial family.
In addition, Gustav had cautioned me against engaging too freely with the Middle Eastern guests. According to his detailed, albeit condescending explanation, they were a people known for holding grudges and possessing long memories for perceived slights—a simplification of what had been an hour-long lecture on culture and religion.
What I found most amusing was the presence of nearly every Minister of the Interior from Europe—Britain, Austria, France, Germany, Russia, and Spain were all represented. The absurdity of their collective attendance at a mere social gathering was enough to make me chuckle.
The fact that they all seemingly had no pressing state affairs to attend to and could spare the time for this soirée spoke volumes.
I couldn't decide whether their presence demonstrated an admirable efficiency in their work—or a complete lack of it.
I settled on the latter interpretation. It was far more entertaining.
Dinner was set to begin in a few minutes, and much to my dismay, Gustav had placed our family table squarely in the center of the room. For someone who despised crowds, this was nothing short of a nightmare.
The walk to our designated table was excruciating. The room was teeming with people, and I could feel their eyes following me with every step. Was I walking too quickly? Too slowly? Were my arms moving awkwardly? The uncertainty was unbearable.
All these people were watching, curious to see the only relatives of Gustav, their host. The pressure was stifling. I felt sweat gathering as I shifted my collar, finally taking my seat. I tried to calm my nerves, though my efforts were in vain. Instead, I forced myself to focus on something else—anything else.
I directed my gaze to the table. It was unremarkable—a simple circular design of oak draped with a white tablecloth. A modest vase of flowers adorned the center, but what truly caught my eye was a packet of papers detailing the Hunger Charity, the event's ostensible purpose. Needless staples bound the pages together, accompanied by one of Gustav's signature ballpoint pens.
Given Gustav's penchant for calculated simplicity, I recognized the deliberate nature of the arrangement. Before the night ended—or perhaps by tomorrow—Gustav would undoubtedly engage in pleasant conversations about his products, his 'charity' merely a pretext for what would truly spark the interest of his guests: his business.
Apart from staring at the table and engaging in the occasional conversation with my mother, I felt as though I was doing little more than enduring a waste of time. Yet, as the dinner service began, I noticed something odd—a distinct lack of pork and alcohol on the menu. This puzzled me at the time, for I knew Gustav as a man indifferent to religious opinions. He was the type to do as he pleased, unfettered by such concerns.
I had expected Gustav to offer the guests a choice, though I hardly cared. In the end, I simply ordered a steak dinner, the same as my mother's, and resigned myself to the evening.
Once the guests had eaten their fill and drained their glasses, the movement began. People stood, mingling, exchanging pleasantries as though the true purpose of the evening was not the meal but the rituals of greeting and networking.
Eventually, my mother stood and left me to my solitude. I remained at the table, a silent observer, wishing for the evening to come to an end.
"So, you're Adolf, Gustav's little painter?" A voice came from behind me.
Taken aback, I stood up and turned to face him out of politeness. "Yes, I'm Adolf. It's a pleasure to meet you, sir," I said, my tone cautious.
The man, realizing his oversight, smiled awkwardly. "Ah, forgive me. I'm James Cutler."
"The mayor of this town—and a good friend of Gustav's," he added with a hint of pride.
"You know, he talks about you all the time," Cutler said with a knowing grin.
I didn't know the man, nor had Gustav ever mentioned him. Unsure of how to respond, I simply smiled awkwardly and replied as politely as I could.
"Really? He does? I hope it's been nothing but good things," I said quickly, eager for the conversation to end. "What did you want to talk about?"
"Honestly, not much," Cutler said, his tone shifting. "I just wanted to thank you for convincing your brother to take action on that story of yours."
At that moment, I was lost. I hadn't written to Gustav recently, nor had I shared any stories with him. I hoped whatever it was hadn't been something undesirable.
"What story? I've told many over the years," I replied, fishing for a clue.
"The one about your father and his struggles with alcohol," Cutler said, his voice taking on a tone of sympathy. "The devil's poison. Truly dreadful what he put you boys through."
"I'm personally glad Gustav's pushing for it to be banned," he added, as if the subject warranted further approval.
I was stunned by the news. Gustav had never mentioned his staunch opposition to alcohol, let alone his desire to see it banned. It struck me as odd, and heretical, especially since I had seen him sip wine with dinner on more than one occasion.
Noticing my silence, Cutler mistook it for agreement and pressed on. "I hear he's managed to sway some people across the pond, if you know what I mean. Amazing what a little lobbying can accomplish."
"Americans are going to ban alcohol?" I asked, surprised. "How did he manage that?"
Cutler chuckled. "No, they're not banning alcohol. But Congress is considering a bill to limit consumption to weekends only. It'd be on a state-by-state basis to calm fears of federal overreach. Not that it's likely to pass, but it's a step in the right direction."
"I agree, banning alcohol is a good thing. I've seen firsthand what it does to a man." I paused, giving a neutral nod. "Hopefully the law passes. This was just surprising, that's all. Thanks for letting me know." I had no real opinion on the matter, but hoped my agreeable tone would encourage him to leave.
"No problem, Adolf, no problem," Cutler said, already shifting his attention. "Sorry, but I have to run. My wife's calling."
I took his departure at face value and stayed silent.
"It was good seeing you, though," Cutler said, with a lingering tone. "You're lucky to have a brother like Gustav. If you ever need anything, just stop by the courthouse. I've got an office there."
Without waiting for a response, Cutler turned and walked away.
Finally, I was left alone. I sank back into my chair, grateful for the silence. Yet, even as I sat there, I could feel the eyes of the crowd on me. None approached, though, and I couldn't understand why. I had never told any stories about my father—at least not recently—so why did it feel as though I was under scrutiny? I decided to let it go, dismissing the oddity as another uncomfortable moment in the night.
Cutler was clearly troubled, but that was his problem. As the evening drew to a close, I resolved that I would have to ask Gustav why he had lied about me. That was the only explanation I could come up with—he must have been the one spreading such stories. I needed answers.
He was the only possibility. He had to be the one behind it. I just wanted to understand why.