by Roe Horvat
“I only want you to be happy, Simon. You know that.”
“I do. And thank you.”
“Does he… make you happy?” She whispered the question.
Simon cleared his throat. “I think he could.” He looked through the window again, and his eyes half closed. His face contorted with deep unease before he schooled his features again. When he was fully in control of himself, he continued slowly, in a steady quiet voice, “It’s been more than three years. Some days it feels like he’s been gone forever. Some days I wake up and reach beside me expecting him to be there. Which is ridiculous because he almost never stayed the night. I could count on my right hand the number of times I woke up next to him.”
Marta listened to Simon with stunned disbelief. He was opening up to her. Finally. Gathering all her strength and self-control, she spoke quietly as if Simon were a wild animal she was afraid to spook. “I always suspected you didn’t want to date because of me.”
“No.” He looked up at her, his gaze steady. “No. I simply didn’t have the urge. I hadn’t met anybody interesting enough. It wasn’t because of you.”
No, not because of me. Because of him. And now I want to find him so I could hurt you more. “I’m certain he loved you back.”
Simon stilled. He didn’t seem to breathe for a moment. The flash of pain was brief yet significant, but Marta refused to regret her words. They’d never talked about Matěj, but times were changing now. They were stronger. No more codependency, no more brushing things under the carpet.
“I still miss him,” she said, the words providing a strange relief. “Sometimes I’m angry at him, too. But I miss him terribly.”
“I know,” Simon said, his voice hollow.
“I’m glad you’ve found someone. We should have moved on ages ago.” She could feel the power in her growing and solidifying. She was strong enough to handle this. She was strong enough to handle life.
Simon traced the edge of his empty coffee cup with his index finger, following the motion with his gaze. He remained silent. A hint of unease nipped at Marta’s consciousness, but she ignored it. They were fine, it was okay, they’d made it through.
“There were times when I thought it would just be you and I against the world forever, but that’s ridiculous. I really am glad for you, you know? I want this for you.” She lifted the coffee cup to take a sip, but it was already empty. She put it back on the table. “I remember one time, Dad was away on a job, and we were in the kitchen in the old apartment on Jagellonská Street. It was one of those easy days when we could be together without the…”
She cleared her throat instead of finishing the sentence. Simon frowned, looking to the side at nothing in particular.
“I don’t really know why that moment stuck with me. You sat exactly like this, opposite to me. And Matěj was baking. He was practically jumping around in the kitchen—he was so energetic, chatting and joking. It was beautiful to see him happy. You were shaking your head, smiling at something cheesy he’d said. And he lifted his hand and touched your cheek and told you to ‘loosen up, Doctor.’ He left some flour on your jaw. And I saw it in his face and in yours. You sat there, trying to rein it in, but it was all over you. The happy calm and the excitement, even the lust… I was so jealous then. I wanted something like that for myself one day. I still do.”
She looked up at Simon and almost cringed from the sheer sadness in his eyes, “I’m so sorry. I’m not telling you this to hurt you. Shit, Simon.” She lifted her hands, exasperated with herself. “What I wanted to say was…I want to see that look on your face again. You deserve it.”
It took a minute before Simon sighed and spoke again. “I was foolish then. It’s not like that now, and it feels…healthier.” He checked his watch. She recognized his need to escape.
“So, I meet Jano tomorrow, then?” she asked.
Simon nodded. “At seven,” he confirmed. “He’ll be cooking.”
“That’s great!” Marta smiled, stretching out her hand to cover Simon’s briefly. “I’m happy for you.”
He nodded again. His face was impassive, no sign of any emotion whatsoever. Marta pushed her worry at his expression aside. It was a habit—always analyzing Simon’s moods. She needed to stop it.
“I have to go,” Simon said, already rising from his seat. “I have a patient in ten minutes.”
Marta stood, too, and reached out for a brief hug.
“See you tomorrow,” Simon mumbled against her hair, and he was out of the door and across the street before she could respond.
6: The Benefits of Retrograde Amnesia
—Dejvice, Prague, September 2016—
“What are you doing? Give it to me!”
Simon raised his hands up in the air leaving the knife lying on the cutting board. He took a step back from the kitchen counter and rolled his eyes toward Marta discreetly. Jano took over the dicing, muttering to himself in Slovak. There was no need for him to speak Czech. Simon belonged to the generation who were raised on bilingual TV, and Marta had enough friends and co-students from Slovakia to understand the language. Not that Jano could speak Czech. Even his Slovak was far from correct. He had a very distinct Eastern accent making him sound like a character from an old Czechoslovakian cartoon. He embroidered his speech with a heavy dose of choice expletives and local slang. He was a treat to listen to.
Marta sat at the kitchen table in Simon’s loft watching the two men cooking. Or rather, watching Jano cooking and Simon being bullied. She laughed at Simon’s eye-roll, muffling the sound with her hand.
“Control freak,” Simon mouthed pointing his thumb toward Jano, and she giggled again.
“I heard you, Simon,” Jano said, not lifting his eyes from the cutting board as his hand flew over it at lightning speed. He had ninja skills when it came to cutting vegetables, Marta had to give him that. He was closer to Marta in height than to Simon. He had a kind face, was built rather heavily but took care of himself. Overall, a handsome guy, she thought. Maybe he took a little too much care of himself. She compared his perfectly trimmed goatee and designer button-down to Simon’s evening stubble and threadbare Red Dwarf T-shirt. She frowned. Jano seemed intelligent enough at least—not witty, no—if not a little predictable in opinions and tastes.
As the evening continued, Marta’s unease only grew, though. Simon’s cheerfulness was painfully forced, and it concerned Marta that Jano didn’t seem to notice.
“You’ve met Mike, right?” Marta asked Jano as they unavoidably discussed the upcoming almost-nuptials.
“Yes, only once, though. He’s interesting.” Marta watched Simon smirk sarcastically and frowned. Unaware, Jano continued. “Lukas is a lot older than him, isn’t he?”
“He’s the same age as me,” Simon commented in a neutral tone Marta had grown to feel apprehensive about. Simon always sounded perfectly neutral when he was hiding his annoyance at something.
“Oh. Yeah. Sorry.” Jano smiled apologetically at Simon, who was looking down into his plate.
“Mike’s my colleague. He’s a great guy,” Marta intervened, hopelessly searching for something to say. The time seemed to drag out. “Simon said you worked in Bratislava for a while before you moved to Prague.”
With relief, Marta listened to Jano chat about his stint at a White Guide appraised restaurant in Slovakia before venturing into the differences in tourism and the quality of service between Prague and Slovakia. Simon ate in silence, never joining the conversation.
She tried to suppress her protective instincts toward Simon which told her Jano was rather common. She’d always felt no one was good enough for her best friend and guardian—she had to consciously argue with herself to give Jano a chance. The winning argument was she had to let Simon decide for himself what and who he wanted. Her opinion was of no importance. If Simon wanted to be with Jano, she’d make an effort to get to know him and that was that.
***
The meal was delicious, of course. Having a professional che
f cook for you had some perks. Simon listened to the conversation between Jano and Marta halfheartedly. His mind was busy analyzing and dissecting. Marta seemed a little jumpy and a lot more careful in her behavior, and Jano tried too hard. Simon found it annoying.
He was torn as ever. They should just have sex and get it over with, if only to numb his brain for thirty seconds. The few hand jobs hadn’t done much for him. What was the point with two grown men waiting for something? They both knew what they wanted. Well, kind of.
Simon took a large gulp of his wine. And there it was: the old well-recognized dilemma. He questioned what was good for him, not what he really wanted. He knew very well what he really wanted—and it was neither good for him nor was it available. So, was Jano good for him? He was good to him. That was something. However, he was also emotional and vulnerable. Simon should be with someone who cared less. Jano made Simon’s conscience heavy with guilt for tiny everyday missteps. Like forgetting Jano had an interview for a new job and not asking him about it, or letting his mind drift elsewhere when he was supposed to listen to his boyfriend talk about his day. Like he was doing at this very moment.
“Simon. Simon!” Jano waved his hand in front of Simon’s face.
“Oh, sorry. Work stuff. Where were we?” Just like that, Simon reached his conclusion. It was him who was not good for Jano. He should have kept it casual.
“Apparently, worlds away from here,” Jano grumbled.
“I’m sorry. It’s been a long week.” Simon’s annoyance grew stronger against his will.
Jano smiled nervously, his eyes flitting toward Marta.
After on hour, Simon gave up, exhausted. He couldn’t think of a safe topic to talk about with those two. Never had Marta reminded him of Matěj as much as when she sat next to his current boyfriend. The mindfuckery of that observation rendered him speechless for most of the evening.
The awkwardness became a fourth person in the room. Marta fidgeted asking Jano polite questions, and Jano’s nervousness grew. When Marta excused herself and called a taxi, Simon could see Jano’s silent question. Should he stay? The hopeful expression on Jano’s face made Simon want to hide inside the fridge with all the beer.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Simon said when Jano rose to put the glasses into the dishwasher. Jano’s back stiffened and Simon felt genuinely bad for him, but he desperately needed to be alone.
***
Simon listened to the old Morphine album when he felt especially self-destructive. Like tonight. He downed the rest of his whiskey, put the empty glass on the kitchen counter and turned the lights off.
When he stood in the shower later, he pondered the rare cases of retrograde post-traumatic amnesia he’d met during his career. After a head trauma, the patient sometimes forgot short periods of time preceding the accident and/or the accident itself. Most of them regained their memory after a few hours or days, maybe weeks. He’d yet to see a retrograde amnesia so severe a patient couldn’t recall autobiographical information for several years.
This was his favorite pastime at his most vulnerable moments—making up a series of random events which could have led to Matěj’s disappearance more than three years ago. It always ended in the same way.
Simon sat on the bed in the dark bedroom, staring through the window at the overcast night sky. He could never see stars above Prague. He could confabulate all he wanted, but he could not fool his own unforgiving logic for long. It was a clear case of Occam’s razor. Matěj either did not want to return or he was dead. Simon could see it, even through the burning in his eyes. Matěj might have met someone somewhere—it had been three years. He might even have gotten married…or he might have overdosed, gotten into a fight…
Simon would call Jano in the morning and apologize for being an insensitive jerk. Again.
7: The Almost Wedding
—Dejvice and Troja, Prague, September 2016—
Warmth spread from the center of his back along his spine over his shoulders until he could feel it seeping from his palms. He curled more into himself hugging his knees, warming his legs. He took slow deliberate breaths, savoring the feeling.
Another warm spot evolved on his neck. A perfect hot circle, growing a little damp, pulsing slowly. The fine hair there moved as the hot breaths touched his neck, and then the spot grew cold again. And hot. And cold. Damp.
Then he really felt it. Two soft hands smoothing down his arms until the long nimble fingers circled his wrists. How could the hands move down his body uninterrupted while he was lying on his side? He had to be floating then.
He was so warm. Cocooned in the softest of blankets, gentle hands soothing him, touching his chest, stomach and thighs, enveloping him. So good, so safe. Dark but safe. He was unseen, unjudged, he could stay floating there without ever being required to do anything else. Just let the warmth stay. Please, stay.
***
Simon woke up drenched with sweat. The open window did nothing to cool the apartment. Damn, he hated the summer in the city.
There was a nagging feeling in the back of his head. It may have been to do with the dream he couldn’t really remember. He felt as though he was missing something obvious—as if he’d forgotten something important which would come back to bite him soon. Like his mother’s birthday. She was born in January, though. What, then, was eating at him?
He gradually dismissed the feeling and dressed for the special occasion of the day. He was overworked, as always. And Lukas had his big day today.
***
They were in a small village that had been swallowed by the sprawling city many decades ago. Today, the rural cottages were surrounded by modern developments. The classic Czech pub they had booked was half full with every single person who was somehow important to Simon. Funny how his and Lukas’s lives had become intertwined over the years. Only their parents were missing, which was for the better.
Simon smoothed his hand over his tie and shifted from foot to foot. He looked around at the group of his closest friends. Some of them he knew from work at the psychiatric hospital, some he met at the university. With Lukas, he was connected through the many important life experiences they had in common—like the fact they were both gay and from Catholic families. They’d met at school years ago, and despite moving around a lot, they’d never lost contact. Lukas, being the genius with a degree in both biochemistry and medicine, now worked in a hematology research laboratory in Prague.
The speech had to be in English because of Mike, some of his colleagues, and his mom. They thought they’d need someone to translate into Czech as well, but since Lukas’s parents refused to attend “the farce”—as Lukas’s father called it—there was no need. All their friends spoke English well enough.
“I have the awkward task of saying something.” Simon cleared his throat again as the crowd quieted. He was supposed to be happy right then—and he was, in a small way. The rest of him was cold. Literally. He was either freezing or cooking all the time lately, nothing in between. It had to be the air conditioning. The difference in temperature between the streets outside and the cool restaurant could be fifteen degrees or more. That had to be it. Focus, Simon.
“I suspect they asked me because they wanted some cutesy Hugh-Grant-style performance, but I can’t do that. If you haven’t noticed yet, this is not a real wedding.” He paused for a few seconds, looking around nervously. “There are two guys sitting there.” He pointed his glass to the head of the table, trying for a dramatic drop in his voice. A few snickers and muffled laughs could be heard in the small crowd. “That’s, like, all kinds of wrong.” Marta laughed loudest of all and reached for his hand. He looked down at her, smiling, and continued, encouraged. Yeah, he wouldn’t have to fake the ironic passages. Only the real emotional moment scared him.
“I won’t ruin the evening talking about that man over there.” Simon pointed at Lukas, who was grinning. “We all know everything about him, and personally, I would love to forget at least half of it.” Another roun
d of muffled laughs. “I’d rather talk about Mikey—if only because he’s prettier.” Lukas mock-glared at Simon; Mike snickered.
“First time Mike ate brunch with us, there was a kid sitting at a table close to us watching an old Disney cartoon on an iPad. Mike sneak-watched it over the aisle, totally ignoring whatever important, intellectually challenging topic we were dissecting.
“After the kid left, Mike started a long, animated monologue about how great those old cartoons are, how the music was all real orchestra and the animators were real artists, and how he reacted to the movies as a child—how the music affected him. Caught up in the memory, he started singing at the table in the restaurant. The five of us sat there gaping at him.” Simon made another calculated pause for effect. Andrea leaned over the table shaking her head at the memory. She knew what came next. “We called him Bambi behind his back for at least six months after that.”
Mike hid his head in the crook of his arm on the table, shaking with laughter. Lukas, patted his back, smiling affectionately.
Simon’s smile faded. “I think we’re a cynical bunch of self-righteous pricks,” he said, calm and serious, using his famous teacher tone.
Mike lifted his head and stared at Simon, confused. Lukas continued smiling knowingly. He looked down and caught Mike’s hand with his in a familiar loving gesture.
“The point I’m trying to make… Lukas and I have always thought we were dealt a slightly shittier hand than most people. We felt scorned but privileged at the same time. Because when I was treated like an untermensch, I knew it was wrong, and it filled me with this strange kind of pride. I was proud to still be alive and well. Proud that I was right, and they were wrong. I was proud I could still laugh at them. And yes, I was arrogant about it. We are arrogant. We think we are entitled to be sarcastic and elitist because society owes us for all the bigotry, prejudice, and hatred.
“And then Bambi barged in with his saxophone, cupcakes, and those hats. He was inexplicably, inherently happy all the time. I confess, at first, I thought he was naïve. Hypomanic maybe.”
