by Roe Horvat
Maybe it wasn’t urgent or necessary, but the question shook like a huge pressure cooker in Simon’s head.
Simon braced himself. He’d suspected for months what the outcome would be. He thought he was ready.
When Marta fell asleep in Simon’s guest bedroom, it was just the two of them. And the monstrous elephant in the room.
Simon watched Matěj’s profile, the gorgeous expressive face only centimeters away. The amount of feeling was debilitating. Matěj’s jaw twitched a couple of times as if he was trying to put together the right words.
“What’s going to happen now?” Simon asked, unable to wait any longer. Let it be over fast.
Matěj blinked and with a deep frown said in a low voice: “I have three different places to look at next week. Marta’s still undecided.” He dragged his palms over his face. “I have to convince her somehow. Every time I know she’s alone in the apartment with him, even if only for one evening…”
Simon wanted to say something wise. Give advice, offer help. There was nothing he could do, and they both knew it.
“But that’s not what you asked,” Matěj said, looking at Simon anxiously.
“No, it’s not.”
“Simon. I don’t know how to do this. I…there’s so much right now. I feel like…like I’m using you—”
“Absolutely not!”
“You want someone whole. Someone to build a life with. I thought after everything’s done, I could… But I’m so not ready it’s ridiculous.” His head bent over his knees, Matěj rubbed his neck, unable to sit still and hold Simon’s gaze. He looked guilty. And sad. The sadness was palpable—it seemed to emanate from him, a sadness way heavier and older than the young man himself. It stretched and reached for Simon, enveloping him, chilling his skin.
“That’s what you want, isn’t it?” Matěj asked.
Simon nodded. He couldn’t lie about it to save his life. Matěj looked at his hands, now limp in his lap.
“I wish I could be that person. I would love to be that person for you one day.”
Simon took a breath. “But not now,” he murmured.
Matěj shook his head, looking just as defeated as Simon felt. And Simon understood. He even agreed. No, Matěj was not ready. It would never work. Simon would try to swoop in and save them both when it was the last thing Matěj needed. It wasn’t fair to continue like this when they both wanted different things. He knew all that. And he hated it. He hated himself for knowing it was useless, agreeing they didn’t fit, and loving still.
“I’m so sorry,” Matěj whispered.
“Look at me,” Simon implored with a composure of someone who had nothing to lose. If only he could make his feelings agree with his reason.
Matěj lifted his head, and Simon saw tears in his eyes, selfishly relieved Matěj was the one to cry. Simon leaned closer, cupping Matěj’s cheek. “One day?”
It was strange. Matěj said he didn’t want this. Yet he seemed to be the one whose heart was breaking. Maybe Simon’s had already broken long ago. Maybe he was used to that feeling.
“I kind of expected you to throw me out after this,” Matěj said, his voice low and hoarse. One tear escaped, and he wiped at it swiftly, grimacing. “Fuck,” he mumbled, looking away.
Simon slipped his hand around Matěj neck, and the young man sagged forward, laying his head on Simon’s shoulder with what seemed a full-body sigh.
“Simon,” he whispered against Simon’s throat.
“Yeah?”
“I…can I—”
“Yes. Stay.”
“I will leave you be after tonight, I swear.”
Was the promise supposed to reassure Simon? In a way, it did. He would get through this. He knew from the beginning they weren’t compatible. They’d served a purpose, played a part in each other’s lives. But it was time to act like the responsible adult he was. After tonight.
They made love quietly, in the dark, on borrowed time. Matěj said he wanted to have Simon inside him one more time, and Simon pushed into him, reaching deep, making Matěj bite the pillow to stop himself from crying out. He didn’t mean to be aggressive, but Matěj seemed to want it, whispering words of encouragement, clutching at Simon’s thighs, pulling them closer together. Matěj came first, long before Simon was ready, but he turned onto his back, holding himself open with his hands under his knees and offered his body to Simon again.
Simon sank inside all the way in one long movement. He saw the clenched jaw, those bright blue eyes squeezed shut, and he almost backed off.
“Don’t stop,” Matěj bit out. “Come inside me.”
So Simon took and took and watched as Matěj failed to hide his discomfort. A vicious voice in Simon’s head shouted he deserved this and more. Anger rose and spurred him on. When Simon finally came on a silent cry, filling the condom, Matěj dragged him down into his arms and kissed him gently. Simon only wanted to bite and claw at him.
“Thank you,” Matěj whispered.
Simon was so angry at the man who had stolen his soul, so angry at himself, angry at the world which couldn’t bear to see them together.
One day. He repeated those words in his head when he listened to Matěj’s breathing slow as he fell asleep, pressed against Simon’s side.
One day.
***
Four days later, Matěj left.
—Dejvice, Prague, August 2013—
Marta was asleep in Simon’s bed. She was exhausted after the nightmare she’d had the previous night, so Simon let her sleep even though it was only half past six in the evening. They’d finished clearing out the old apartment on Jagellonská street. It was sublet and expensive, so they had to get rid of it fast. They gave some of Marta’s father’s things to charity and threw out the rest. There was no inheritance to speak of except for a debt with the Prague public transport company—unpaid fines for fare dodging. Simon laughed like crazy when he found out. He paid the fines and considered his hands washed.
Going through Matěj’s belongings was much worse. Marta kept all Matěj’s books and music; they packed his clothes in boxes and put them in Simon’s storage room in the basement. Simon took a couple of T-shirts, though. They were now squished in his nightstand. Maybe he planned to sleep in them? But then he felt embarrassed it even occurred to him so he never did. Half the time he did not know why and what he was doing so it was just as well.
His cell phone rang, and Simon jumped, snatching it from the counter. He still hadn’t given up the hope the caller might be Matěj. At the same time, he was terrified of what the next news was going to be. Every phone call had his stomach heaving and heart hammering.
“Simon Mráz, hello?”
“Dr. Mráz, it’s Detective Janáková.”
Simon’s hand shook violently, and he leaned against the wall steadying himself. The tone of the detective’s voice was careful. Not good. They’d almost become friends over the past two months. And yet he hated when she called.
“I shouldn’t be telling you this. Officially, you don’t know.”
As Simon was not a direct relative, the law did not give him the right to demand information from the police. He was bound to rely on their compassion. Luckily, detective Janáková had superior understanding of his situation and his concern for Marta.
“We have some news. Mr. Chrs was in Munich two days ago. He made a large withdrawal from his bank account. He sent most of the money to his sister’s account—approximately sixteen thousand euros—and kept a small amount in cash.”
Simon let that sink in. He didn’t know what to say. He sucked in a breath. “They are sure it was him? Nobody stole his passport or anything? He’s all right, then?”
“He’s not listed as a missing person anymore.” A few seconds of meaningful silence followed. “I’m sorry. I think it will be best if you tell his sister yourself.”
He’s okay. He’s not hurt. He’s not coming home. Simon fought the urge to vomit.
“I’m not sure I want her to know,” Simon blurted br
eathlessly.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Mráz.”
“Thank you.”
“I’d say you’re welcome but in this case…”
“Yeah. Thank you for telling me anyway.”
“Goodbye, Simon.”
“Bye, Detective.”
How was he supposed to tell Marta? He was never going to tell anyone. The betrayal landed on his shoulders, humiliating, infuriating, so painful.
Simon slid to the floor, a sobbing mess. It wasn’t the first time he’d cried because of Matěj, but he promised himself it had to be the last.
***
Yet here he was, more than three years later, the same four walls witnessing his breakdown over the same man. A sobbing mess again.
Part 3
1: Insomnia
—Freiburg am Breisgau, October 2016—
The word “insomnia” is used to describe a wide spectrum of problems, but a uniting factor is a person’s subjective report of difficulty with sleep. Orthopedic surgeon Dr. Mattias Chrs thought he deserved a more definitive term because besides sleepwalking, he had them all. Difficulty falling asleep: check. Difficulty staying asleep: check. Non-restorative sleep: check. Night terrors: check. And for all he knew he might even stroll around while napping. There was never anybody close enough to see him. Having a profession that required high concentration, he found himself in a predicament at an emergency level.
He sat on the balcony of his one-bedroom apartment on Edith-Stein-Straße in Freiburg, Germany, looking at the small man-made lake in the park behind his building. Tom Waits sounded from the apartment, barely audible outside, but still, the words about smoking all his friends to the filter could be distinguished. It was an overcast but warm night, and he would have enjoyed it greatly under different circumstances. But that night, being unable to sleep at two forty-five in the morning, he was wallowing in self-pity. And he hated himself for it. He thought of quitting smoking again, as he watched the thin cloud of vapors disperse in the summer breeze. Maybe someday.
He’d tried many different methods to get the rest needed for him to perform acceptably at work. Several of those methods had been tested over the last few days. He despised pills on principle. Alcohol had unpleasant side effects, obviously. Physical exhaustion helped in a way but tended to send his brain into overdrive and thus bring up unwanted memories. He used to run almost daily a few years ago. Nowadays, he preferred smoking. Sex was of no help. He knew that already but continued trying anyway. It did nothing but leave a bitter aftertaste. One more reason to hate himself.
He’d be forced to go into therapy again, and that made him feel weak. It wasn’t as if he had something else to throw his money away on. He lived alone. He didn’t do vacations. The apartment was rented, and he rode his bicycle or walked to work. His money sat in a bank and grew like mold on cheese.
He could get another tattoo. Something for his lower back. Something understated and quirky. A small stick figure. He smiled at the memory. Yes, a stick figure would be brilliant.
2: The Evil of Alcohol and French Poetry
—Holešovice, Prague, October 2016—
Seven fifteen in the morning on Monday, Marta was just stepping out of the shower when she heard the ringing. She rushed to her bedroom and picked up the phone. The number was unknown.
“Hello?”
“Oh Marta, is it you? Oh my god.” The woman was obviously very upset, her voice uneven.
It took Marta a few seconds to recognize her. “Mrs. Mrázová?” she asked, unsure.
“It’s Simon. He…he tried to kill himself.” The woman started sobbing, and Marta heard some other noise in the background. She stood frozen, the towel fell from her hand and landed wetly on her bare feet.
“Where is he?”
“He’s in Motole. Oh, Marta, please…” and more sobbing.
“I’m coming. I’m on my way,” Marta assured her robotically.
It took two long, confusing minutes to order a taxi through the mobile app. Then she laid the phone on the nightstand and stared into the empty space in front of her. She blinked and sprinted back to the bathroom and started pulling on her underwear and jeans, her movements jerky and uncoordinated.
Six minutes later, she was outside her building stepping into a dark-blue Volkswagen. As soon as the car door fell shut behind her, she called Mike.
“What did you tell him?” she tried for calm, but it came out venomous.
“Who?”
“Simon. What did you tell him?”
“Nothing, I mean I asked some stuff about Matěj, but it went okay. Why? What’s going on?”
“Simon’s mother called. He’s in Motole. He…” How was that even possible? Marta still hadn’t processed the information. “He’s hurt.”
“What?”
“His mother says he tried to kill himself.” Marta didn’t recognize her own voice as she said it. Hitting a main road, the taxi driver accelerated the car. Marta looked outside trying to ascertain how far they were, but the city was a blur. She couldn’t think.
“Oh, fuck. Marta…” Mike’s voice broke.
“Give me Lukas,” Marta said firmly. Was she in shock? Amazed at her own composure, she waited, hearing Mike’s and Lukas’s voices in the background.
“Marta?” Finally, Lukas was there. “Mike told me. We’re on our way.”
“Thank you.” She hated hearing the agitation in Lukas’s voice. He was the calm one. He was supposed to keep it together for all their sakes.
“Yeah.” Lukas hesitated. “Do you need me to stay on the phone?”
“No. Come to the hospital as soon as you can.”
“Okay, see you,” Lukas said and hung up.
Marta could only wring her hands in her lap. By the time the taxi arrived at the hospital, she was sick to her stomach, but there was nothing in there for her to throw up.
The ritual was infuriatingly slow—asking questions, following instructions, looking at signs, and counting the floors. She was so mad she could have ripped the nice nurse’s head off when the unsuspecting woman showed her to Simon’s room, smiling and unhurried.
Simon was alone in the two-bed room. He was pale, his eyes were closed, both his wrists and hands wrapped up in gauze and resting on his stomach. Marta did not inhale until she was half-sitting, half-lying on the bed, her head snuggled under Simon’s chin. She felt his arms around her shoulders and breathed him in.
“What’s this, love?” His voice was raspy, tired.
“You stupid, stupid asshole!” she mumbled, kissing his chest through the hospital gown.
He chuckled. “I know, I love you too. I’m sorry.”
“How could you do this to me?” She lifted her head and smashed her fist against his ribs.
He had the grace to wince.
“Well, as we’ve established, I am a stupid asshole. I was really drunk and there was the coffee table—”
“The coffee table…” She trailed off.
“I don’t remember the details, but apparently, I went down through the fucking glass table hands first. It’s just a few stitches. No important veins or tendons were hurt. Or, erm, just one. Here.” He casually waved his left hand.
Marta sat up, observing Simon carefully. He looked sheepish. And hungover. It took a minute, but understanding dawned.
“Was your mother here this morning?”
Simon rolled his eyes. “Yes, they’re visiting for a few days. She came in, saw me, and left in hysterics. I suspect she went into the hospital chapel to pray for my black buzerant soul. Dad went after her.”
Marta grimaced at the much-hated word—the Czech equivalent of faggot. The nonchalance with which Simon used it never ceased to surprise her. “She called me,” Marta hesitated, fingering Simon’s bandages. “She said you tried to kill yourself.”
“What? Why the fuck?” Simon jerked up sitting and then sighed falling back onto the flat hospital cushion. “I did not. But I might kill my mother.”
“He defini
tely did not try to kill himself. Drink himself into a coma on the other hand…” A stern voice came from the door, and Marta turned.
“Ivoš! Hi!” Marta greeted the round, red-cheeked man in a white coat, Simon’s colleague and a sort-of friend. Ivoš threw a surprised look at Marta, but then he reined it in and approached the bed frowning.
“You’ve come to dance on my grave?” Simon grumbled his eyes closing again. “Who else knows?”
“Me,” Ivoš said. “I forgot to mention the alcohol in the chart. Anna, the nurse who attended last night, is cool. You’re fine. Unless you really have a drinking problem.” The old surgeon lifted his eyebrows at Simon.
“Shut up,” Simon said. “And thanks.”
“Yeah, you owe me. Since you’ve got company, I’ll stop by later. There are people around here who actually do need my help.” With that, Ivoš left the room, scratching his bald spot.
Marta watched him disappear and then turned back to Simon.
“Your mother really thinks you attempted suicide…”
“According to her, I have good reasons,” Simon seemed too tired and hungover to care.
Marta pinched her lips.
“Sorry, love. I’m fine. It was just a stupid accident.”
The adrenaline was still churning in Marta’s veins. “Mike and Lukas are on their way. I should find your parents before they tell anybody else.”
Simon nodded, sinking deeper into the mattress.
Marta kissed Simon’s forehead and left, hurrying through the corridors, her phone in hand. She dialed Mrs. Mrázová. No answer. Convinced Simon was probably right, she followed the signs directly to the hospital chapel. Which wasn’t a chapel at all.
It took Marta fifteen minutes to find it in the maze of corridors. The room was windowless, and there was a large sign outside saying The Space for Quiet. Marta barely took in the garish nineties décor with the linoleum floor and light-brown fake-wood chairs when she spotted Simon’s mother.
The tall, skinny woman in a gray blouse and long black skirt stood by a small table with electric candles on it, in quiet conversation with Simon’s father. Her gray-streaked hair hung loose past her shoulders, and she might have given an impression of an old hippie if not for the facial features. Marta believed human faces evolved and aged in sync with their personalities. The older Simon’s mother got, the more the lines of bitterness and displeasure deepened around her eyes and mouth. Even when she smiled, censure never left her gaze. Her cheeks were blotched with red, but she wasn’t crying. At least not at the moment.
