Read by Paul Clarke (fourth story in podcast, here)
Joachim sat in the dreary cell waiting to be executed. The turnkeys would open the massive iron door late in the afternoons to read off the list of names. A few of the men would stand up bravely, clanking in their ankle and wrist shackles, as if wanting to be done with it, tired of the agonizing wait. Others would scuttle deeper into the shadows or try to hide behind their fellow prisoners. The jailers would drive them out of the dungeon with their heavy batons.
Joachim did not know how he would react when his name came. Would he have the courage to stand up, to calmly say, “Si, ‘stoy aqui, I am Joachim Ibanez,” then walk through the door to his death like a man? Or would he huddle in the corner, making them come after him? None of his fellow prisoners would care one way or other. He would be forgotten by the following afternoon when other names were called.
This afternoon, much to everyone’s surprise, the turnkeys returned to the cell an hour after the daily executions. A nobleman in fine clothes strode through the door behind them, holding a perfumed scarf over his nose to ward off the stench of stale sweat from the mass of bodies, the streaks of urination fouling the walls, and the feces overflowing from the scattered buckets. The prisoners shrank away from him as he walked past them as if he were carrying the plague.
He moved slowly through the room, stopping occasionally to point at a man, saying, “Stand up.”
The man was slammed by the batons if he did not stand up fast enough.
The nobleman would stare distastefully at the prisoner for a long moment, before saying, “Stay standing,” or “Sit back down.” He would then push his way deeper into the cell.
He had collected three men before he eyed Joachim. He no longer needed to speak. He pointed his finger and Joachim stood up. The nobleman walked past him to select two more men. “Bring them,” he finally said to the guards, turning to walk out, not bothering to look back at the prisoners he had selected.
The six trundled after him in their chains, flanked by their jailers, following him through a series of dark tunnels before entering a windowless room that was obviously a workshop. A huge bald man in a leather apron waited for them. One by one they stretched their chains across his anvil and the man banged the rivets off with a clean brutal stroke of his sledgehammer.
The men remained silent, rubbing their wrists and ankles, searching one another’s eyes, as if someone else might have the answer to what was going on. The nobleman came back into the workshop. He was satisfied that the chains were gone. He said, “Venga, come.”
They followed him across the courtyard. The King’s soldiers stared at the six prisoners curiously, without malice, watching them being led into another windowless room. A woman waited for them this time, with a pile of clean clothes. Other women were pouring buckets of hot water into two large tubs.
“Wash yourselves,” the head woman said, handing them soap. “Then put these clothes on. We will be back shortly, so do not delay.”
The hot water and soap felt sensual, forgotten pleasures, like being caressed with a silk cloth. The clothes fitted, more or less, and there were even boots, that also fitted, also more or less.
Again the nobleman came for them. Again they were paraded across the courtyard. But this time they were taken into a grand room with windows and a long table with benches on both sides. Metal plates and utensils lined each side of the table. The nobleman smiled at them, actually smiled at them, then said, “Sit.”
A side door opened and a meal was carried in. Each man received a separate morsel of food. One had soup, another had broccoli, another had a slice of meat, another had a potato, another man had pudding, and the last man had a small glass of wine from an open decanter.
When they had finished, the nobleman clapped his hands and told them to stand up and follow him. He took them to a cramped cell that held six cots. He stepped out, locking the door behind him, saying nothing else. They heard him walking away. Every half hour through the afternoon, a guard would return to the cell, open the door to survey them, also saying nothing, then leave. He continued to return every half hour through the evening to survey them again. They were woken at night, made to stand up, then told to go back to bed.
The days and nights followed.
Eating, resting, being surveyed, eating again, being surveyed again. They ate a few bites at most, before the meal was taken away. Any effort to try for more was rewarded with a slap or a beating.
They were always hungry, goaded on by the tastes and the rich smells of the food they were barely eating. The small portions, three or four times a day, did not fill their stomachs and the tantalizing odors of the meats and vegetables and roasted potatoes covered by the accompanying sauces, drew them into fantasies of long, succulent meals that they could gorge on until their bellies burst.
Once a week they would go back for a bath and to be given clean clothes.
They finally knew what was going on. They were food tasters for the King. Nothing would reach the King’s mouth without first passing through them.
One night, after ten days, Manuel Diego said, “I cannot do this any more.”
Joachim smiled. “You would rather be shot?”
“I cannot stand the suspense of knowing that I might be eating poisoned food, that I might die after the next bite.”
Joachim pointed to the door. “Then tell them to take you back to the big cell. There you can eat stale bread and rotten meat and be certain that you will soon be shot. That will alleviate the suspense.”
“But here I die in defense of the King. I am here because I joined the revolution to do away with the King.”
Joachim sighed. “You knew you might die when you joined. Now, if you want to be shot, that is your choice. But here you will die clean, in clothes that do not stink. And you may even die by starvation before you are poisoned.”
Manuel Diego returned to his bed in silence. In the morning there was no more talk of being shot.
*
One day, in the bathroom, Joachim was surprised when the woman managed to slip him a small leather pouch and a note without being seen by the guards. He tucked them into his clothes, not showing any reaction, looking blandly around him.
He read the note in their small cell. It said The poison will be in the potatoes. Joachim stuck the note in his mouth, chewing it carefully before swallowing.
He became the potato man. He rudely took the potatoes away from Manuel Diego the first time. The potatoes were routinely brought to him by the waiters after that. The other men never questioned him, nor spoke about it.
He would bite into the potatoes, desperately trying not to swallow, trapping the small portions between his teeth and his cheek. He would spit them furtively into the pouch as soon as he could without being seen, then empty it into the slops bucket back at the cell where no one would look, quickly rinsing his mouth out from their communal bucket of water. But he was becoming so hungry now he knew he was losing his strength, slipping in and out of delirium both day and night.
And then one late afternoon there was a hue and cry throughout the fort and castle. “The King is dead!” people shouted, “The King is dead!”
The nobleman came to the cramped cell. He stared furiously at each of the six men and finally said, “I do not know how you did this, but you did. The King was poisoned--from the very food you ate. You will all die for this. You will all be shot tomorrow.”
Joachim’s five friends looked around at each other, then back at Joachim, then down at the floor. They knew. They had seen Joachim furtively emptying the small pouch into the bucket. Everyone else had switched foods to provide a little variety for one another, except for Joachim and his potatoes. No one spoke of it, but they knew. And all five remained silent.
Joachim stepped forward and said to the nobleman, “I did this. Not them. There is no reason to shoot these men when I am the culprit.”
“It does not matter. You were all going to die anyway, either by poison or by the firing squad. We might as well do it now. The cooks have already been shot.”
Joachim shrugged. “May I ask a favour?”
The nobleman stared at Joachim in astonishment. “You dare ask me for a favour?”
“I would like to die clean. May we all have a bath one more time before we are shot?”
The nobleman’s face coloured in anger but he found the strength to calm himself and said, “You have acted bravely. I can accept that. You may bathe this evening, for the last time, then you will all be shot at dawn.”
They were taken to the baths as promised, under heavy guard. They stood silently, watching the water being poured into the tubs for the last time. To their surprise, the woman came back into the room with another set of clean clothes, as was the usual procedure. She gazed into Joachim’s eyes for a long, long moment as she handed him his clothes.
Joachim nodded to her as he accepted them, saying the words so low that no one else could hear: “The potatoes were good.”
(c) Jerome McFadden, 2023
Jerome McFadden’s first story to be read by Liars’ League London was in February 2010, one of his first attempts at fiction. He has since become a prolific short story writer. He is an itinerant American who has lived in Paris and Singapore before nestling close to NYC.
Paul Clarke is a full-time photographer and occasional actor. He trained at Central and loves storytelling, whether with words or pictures.
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