by Roe Horvat
A Love Song
for the Sad Man
in the White Coat
Roe Horvat
Beaten Track
www.beatentrackpublishing.com
A Love Song for the Sad Man in the White Coat
First published 2017 by Beaten Track Publishing
Copyright © 2017 Roe Horvat
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
ISBN: 978 1 78645 183 5
Beaten Track Publishing,
Burscough, Lancashire.
www.beatentrackpublishing.com
Simon had always expected love to feel different than this. Whether it was his Catholic upbringing or the poetry he’d read—Simon had thought that true love would be uplifting, fulfilling, that it would give a meaning to his loitering, and add joy to his leisure. But not this kind of love. This love was a flesh-eating monster, sharp-clawed and evil-eyed, ravishing his mind with medieval cruelty.
Dr. Simon Mráz is a respected specialist and lecturer at the Charles University in Prague. He is a serious man, responsible. His students call him The Cruel Doctor Frost not because he’s unkind, but because of his unwavering, ice-cold composure. As a psychiatrist, he values sanity. And sanity can be found in work, restraint, and self-control.
Not many know of that one time in the past when The Cruel Doctor Frost lost his cool. His ill-advised, secret affair with a student left Simon deeply wounded. Since that day, every minute of Simon’s life has been a struggle to remain sane, functioning. He’s managed so far—as long as he is needed, as long as his work makes a difference, Simon can scrape together enough strength to get up in the morning and run off the nightmares. But when his friends begin drifting away, his beloved protégé becomes independent, and the man who bereaved Simon of his precious sanity might return… Simon’s mind and body stop responding to his impressive willpower.
Contents
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Part 1
1: The Note
2: The Picture on the Nightstand
3: Codependency
4: Marry My Dog
5: The Man in the White Coat
6: The Benefits of Retrograde Amnesia
7: The Almost Wedding
8: The Misadventures of the Foolish Virgin
9: The Other Dream
10: Nyctophilia – A Preference for Night or Darkness
11: Mother Dearest
Part 2
2: The Passion of the Cruel Doctor Frost
3: The Secret Second Life of the Cruel Doctor Frost
4: The Tears of The Cruel Doctor Frost
Part 3
1: Insomnia
2: The Evil of Alcohol and French Poetry
3: Meeting Mattias Chrs
4: The Lesser People
5: The Journey
6: Rage
7: Blood
8: Love
About the Author
By the Author
Beaten Track Publishing
Dedication
For Simon with love.
You are good enough.
Acknowledgements
Dear friends, you made it possible for me to finish this book when I thought I never would.
Brandon W., Amy L., Brad T., and Eli E., I owe you—for the welcome I received, for inspiration, facts, your generous praise, and hugs.
Debbie and Hans, thank you for believing in me, for understanding my humor, for your honesty and skepticism, and for being who I needed when I needed you.
Thank you to Francis, Andréas, and Jack for the cover photoshoot. Awesomeness is your superpower! And thanks for all the beer.
Frederick, you are touching the stars already. I am squinting into the binoculars, watching you glow. Thank you for your words and trust!
Jay, Ben, A., L., S., J., C., E., D., M., and all of you guys—you know who you are: the bravest and the strongest of men. You’ve kept me sane. I can’t express my gratitude.
Megan, Phetra, Ann, and Amy, you were the first to meet Simon; you generously gave me your time, and your invaluable input. I wouldn’t have dared without you.
Ivánku, will you ever read one of them? I love you anyway.
Part 1
1: The Note
—New Town, Prague, December 2012—
The Cruel Doctor Frost overseeing.
Matěj stared at the text message from Tina for two useless seconds before it sank in. He stuffed the phone into his jeans pocket and fidgeted, looking through the graffiti-covered window on the never-ending line of vehicles. The tail lights colored the drizzle toward a murky, horror-movie red. It was too early for the sun to be up yet, and when the time came, it would not be strong enough to penetrate the gray cover of the clouds above Prague. In the winter rain, Matěj didn’t see the busy street, the cars and buses, all those people fighting each other with black umbrellas. What he saw was a giant knot of earthworms in a pile of mud. The whole city looked squishy, dirty, writhing while drowning.
The tramway moved again, and Matěj’s whole body jerked backward. At the last second, he caught the pole running along the ceiling and kept himself upright. Swaying in sync with the tram’s motion, he held on until the door finally opened and squeezed his slender body out into the throng of huddled figures on the traffic island. He began running at full speed—as fast as the crowds allowed him—his messenger bag banging around his hip.
Dr. Simon Mráz, or The Cruel Doctor Frost, as the whole student body called him, was overseeing the exam in Internal Medicine today. It was unexpected yet not impossible. If one of the professors was too busy or too self-important to be present for finals, a younger Faculty member would be assigned the tedious task. Dr. Simon Mráz was one of the youngest, therefore most abused assets. His specialty was psychiatry, and he had led two introductory seminars on the topic during the last semester.
In his five years of study, it was the only course where Matěj had a one hundred percent attendance score, and it was not psychiatry that had his full attention during those seminars. In fact, he could barely remember a thing, except for the outline of Dr. Mráz’s lean back under his white coat, his almost invisible smile, and those defined, large, capable hands…
Matěj could not be late. As he ran, his idle brain teased him with imprudent ideas—indecent, delicious ideas. The aloof and brilliant Dr. Mráz had been on Matěj’s mind for some time; today’s exam was an opportunity that would not repeat itself in the foreseeable future.
Matěj jumped over a dog’s leash and continued his mad dash toward the campus building complex, noisily entering the building’s heavy antique double doors with two minutes to go. He almost passed the downstairs cafeteria but changed his mind and approached the counter without acknowledging the line of co-eds. He had the kind of reputation that, on occasion, allowed him to cut in front of the line.
“Hey, lovely! Give me a black one, I beg you,” he said breathlessly but assertively and threw a tenner on the counter. The coin twirled and stilled. The girl behind the counter blushed and hurried to the espresso machine immediately.
Matěj winked at the stunned geeky youngster who was first in line. “Sorry, emergency. Finals in Intern Med, like, right now.” Matěj grinned. The s
tudent nodded mutely, his mouth snapping shut.
Matěj Chrs was well known among the other medics. Those who did not know him gave him the leeway regardless. He was visible everywhere with his tattoos, ear gauges, red shoes, and tight clothes, all of which were considered outrageous by the Faculty staff.
Taking the mug and leaving the girl with a flirtatious smile, Matěj took off through the corridor. It was exactly 7:30; the exam was starting right at that moment. Nevertheless, Matěj stopped in front of a bulletin board. Suddenly inspired, he deposited the paper coffee mug on the tiled floor, stole a beige Post-it from the board and tore away a small clean sticky piece. He dug out his pen and tapped it against his lips; he had no time for a limerick. The note had to be short, witty, and to the point.
He smiled as he wrote a single sentence and added his phone number underneath. It was over the top and beyond. There was no way it could work, but he was more than willing to take the risk because if it did work, it would be…glorious.
Folding the note carefully, he used the torn Post-it as tape to attach it to the coffee cup. With the message prepared, he strolled casually to the lecture hall and pushed open the wooden door. He was still smiling when, four minutes late, he entered his exam.
The note he’d taped to the mug said:
Are you wondering the same things as I am?
2: The Picture on the Nightstand
—Dejvice, Prague, August 2016 (three years, nine months, and eight days later)—
Simon’s legs felt extra heavy when he climbed the stairs from the metro station. The evening was still terribly hot, and the air wouldn’t cool down during the night. The heat was conserved in the asphalt and concrete, never letting up, only to become more suffocating the next day.
The constant fatigue felt like home, comforting in its normalcy and Simon’s truest friend. He meandered through the crowd on the sidewalk, mentally recounting the contents of his fridge.
He was going to cook a nice dinner today, curl on the couch with Marta for the evening, and let go for a few hours. He’d seen so little of her during the past weeks.
Marta was twenty-three already; she’d finished her Bachelor’s and started a new job. She was an adult, paying her part of the rent, which he had opposed strongly, but in vain.
Fighting with the lock on the main entrance to his apartment building, Simon shook the door a little. Someone had scraped a sign on the glass. Zeman is an asshole. Simon felt a distant camaraderie with the author of the useless act of vandalism. Simple and straight to the point. He wished he could voice his own feelings like that—loud and often. Maybe not while simultaneously damaging public property, though. Simon was dignified, educated; there were always expectations, students watching, colleagues gossiping, patients going crazy. He was the sane one, always composed, dependable.
Marta had probably spent the whole day cleaning and painting her new studio apartment in Holešovice. It was only a few metro stations away, Simon reminded himself. She would be tired tonight, and he was looking forward to taking care of her one more time before she moved away for good.
He finally made it to his apartment. Marta wasn’t back yet, and the room was stuffy. He contemplated the benefits of opening his windows when the evening outside wasn’t any less hot, but opened them anyway, hoping for more airflow.
Exchanging his button-down and slacks for shorts and a plain gray T-shirt, he went to the bathroom and cooled his feet awhile with cold water from the massaging showerhead. He washed his hands and face and drank a tall glass of water mixed with blackcurrant juice—two-thirds water to one-third juice. It was eight in the evening; Marta should be home soon.
He sorted some periodicals he had brought with him from his office at the university. The journal from the Czech Medical Chamber went directly into the recycle bin, he kept the International Journal of Psychiatry and the three issues of Sisyphus – The Monthly Skeptical Scientific Review.
He went through his living room, putting away the few odd items lying on the glass coffee table: a charger, a half-empty packet of paper tissues, an empty water glass Marta had probably left there in the morning…
In the kitchen, he opened the dishwasher and put all the clean dishes in their respective places in the cupboards, cleaned the kitchen counter, sorted through his dirty clothes and started a washing cycle…
Growing desperate, he brushed his shoes and made the bed, even though he was going to sleep in it in only a few hours’ time.
At half past nine, Marta still hadn’t come home.
Simon put on the TV, watched the BBC News and then switched to a basketball game on Eurosport. He poured himself a finger of whiskey. Maybe he should start making dinner anyway. Leaving the TV on for some background noise, he went back to the kitchen and began preparing some vegetables without deciding what he was going to cook. He realized he couldn’t hear the door over the TV and strode back to the living room to lower the volume.
It was almost ten already. Muttering another curse, Simon fished out his phone and stared at it, willing it to light up. He wouldn’t call her. She was a grown-up, and he was not her father. He wouldn’t badger her. He kept the phone close by on the kitchen counter while he sliced and mixed, just in case. When it finally dinged with a message, it startled him. He dried his hands on his shorts and grabbed his phone.
Thinking of you.
From Jano.
Simon sighed and squeezed his eyes shut for a second. The pang of guilt came and went like a single pulse on an EKG machine. Yes, he had a boyfriend now. Universe help them both. But instead of being with the man he was supposed to care about and maybe think of now and then, he was fussing over Marta.
His fingers hovered over the screen. He should answer, but Simon had never been good at lying. He called Marta instead.
“I’m on my way,” she said without preamble, and he winced inwardly. She sounded annoyed.
“I made us dinner.”
“Simon,” she sighed. “You should have at least messaged. I already ate. It’s ten o’clock.”
He gripped the counter and blinked. “I thought you’d be here earlier,” he said calmly, his voice carefully void of reproof.
“I’m sorry. I wanted to finish painting the hall. Now I don’t have to clean all the tools only to get them messy again tomorrow. It took longer than I expected, but it’s done. All nice and ready.” He heard noise in the background, then a voice. A deep male voice.
“Who’s that?” The question came sharp and unguarded.
“That’s Eli. He’s a neighbor. I’m helping him with some stuff.” She sounded wary. Simon didn’t like it.
“In the middle of the night?” He was losing grip of his emotions while his grip on the counter tightened.
“Simon! Do you hear yourself? I’m not doing this. Not over the phone. I’ll be home in an hour. Thank you for the food—I’ll take it with me to work tomorrow. See you. Bye.” She ended the call, her tone clipped.
Simon put the phone on the counter and hung his head.
***
He ate his meal and begrudgingly put Marta’s in a plastic container, which he left next to the fridge to cool. He drank his whiskey, cleaned the kitchen again, and still, she hadn’t arrived home.
Simon knew things were bad when he found himself in Marta’s old room, half-empty now. He tried to remember why he had entered it in the first place, but the picture on the nightstand stole his thoughts. She must have kept it hidden behind other photos—why? Out of respect for him? Out of pity? Now, when she was moving out, sorting her things and packing, the picture frame stood out in the bare room, like an open surgical wound in the middle of a pale, hairless chest.
Marta was in the picture, maybe sixteen years old. Her hair was dyed a wild red, the piercing in her eyebrow new and prominent. Her older brother hugged her from behind, his tattooed arm locked around her. His mischievous smile made Simon’s belly tingle and his eyes burn. Simon had never met a person more beautiful than Matěj. To make it w
orse, he still remembered every detail—every birthmark, every line of that damned clockwork tattoo. Every angle of that heinous smirk. He even remembered the warmth of that mouth against his neck.
Simon spun around and banged the guest bedroom door shut behind him. Squeezing his eyes closed, he stood, unmoving, in the living room for just a second. He took a deep breath and released it, opening his eyes.
It was imperative he answer Jano’s text.
“My boyfriend,” he muttered into the empty room. What a ridiculous concept. Yet, there it was.
Dinner on Friday? he wrote. Diplomatic, nothing about his feelings, optimistic. Jano was good—clever, nice, even handsome. Last week, after a few drinks, Simon found Jano’s Slovak accent sexy. All good signs.
He promised himself he was going to try. Apparently, he had to try harder.
When Marta arrived home, it was almost midnight, and Simon pretended to be asleep. It was one of their last evenings living together.
3: Codependency
—Old Town, Prague, August 2016—
The heat still radiated from the concrete as they strolled through the darkening city. August in Prague was brutal. The trams and buses stank like armpits and feet. The pigeons’ excrement had dried to dust and then circled in the air, thickening the smog. The grayish-brown waters of Vltava river did nothing to relieve the heat and probably only added to the constant stench of summer in the city.
Simon walked briskly. He hadn’t said anything about the previous night. He didn’t want to poke at the dying argument. Aware of his overreaction, he was carefully neutral for the whole afternoon.
“I’m sorry I was late yesterday,” Marta said as they rounded the corner on Krakovská Street, only a few blocks away from the bar where they were meeting Lukas.
