by Roe Horvat
“Mrs. Mrázová?”
She lifted her head and immediately hurried toward Marta, enveloping her in a short, formal embrace. Simon’s father shook Marta’s hand limply and stepped aside.
“Oh Marta, thank you. I can’t—”
“Simon is fine, Mrs. Mrázová. It was an accident, but his injuries are minor,” Marta continued quickly, trying to spare herself a long conversation. “Why did you think he’d tried to kill himself?”
“Beg your pardon?”
“Simon did not attempt suicide. Why would you call me and say something like that?”
“But his hands…”
“You haven’t even talked to him.”
“I wanted to speak to the Kaplan first.”
Marta shook her head at the notion.
“Why?”
Mrs. Mrázová chuckled sadly as if she were talking to a naïve child. “I need to pray for my son—”
“Have you spoken to the doctor? Have you even tried to speak to Simon?” she asked, keeping calm despite her instinct to lash out.
“He’s been so vulnerable. Since you moved away, he hasn’t been himself. You shouldn’t have left him, Marta,” Mrs. Mrázová said with a gentle reproach in her low voice. “You were good for him.”
At that, Marta bristled. Simon’s mother knew they’d never been together. She had to know it very well, but at some point, somehow, she got the impression that if she repeated a lie enough times, it would become a reality. Marta had heard enough.
“We were never a couple. Simon is gay. Get it into your head. Simon will never be in a relationship with a woman because he is gay! He is my best friend, and I love him. And he is gay!”
“Marta!” Mrs. Mrázová stepped back, flinching as if she had been slapped. Mr. Mráz sucked in a breath but said nothing. He even moved further away as if trying to melt into the background. How could these people have propagated and produced someone like Simon?
“Does the truth offend you? Is that why you were so sure he must have hurt himself? Because that’s what queer people do in your world?”
“I will not listen to you insulting my son!” Simon’s mother spat. “You of all people! He sacrificed so much for you!”
Marta felt heat rise up from her stomach into her chest and throat. True fire from within. It felt terrifying…and marvelous.
“Insult him? By saying he is gay? Have you listened to yourself? Do you have any idea how incredibly hurtful and ignorant it is to imply such a thing?”
Simon’s father only stood there, looking at his shoes, his pale blue shirt perfectly matching the dull color of the wallpaper behind him. Marta felt no regret, no need to restrain herself. She should have said something years ago, but years ago, she was a broken teenager. Today, she could face this woman without a hint of self-doubt.
Mrs. Mrázová stepped closer and opened her mouth, but Marta didn’t let her say anything else.
“Your only duty as a mother was to love and support your son. You failed as a parent, and you failed as a human being. You don’t even know your own son! You have no idea how intelligent, compassionate, and generous he is. You should be proud of him! Instead, you’ve only ever caused him pain!
“Simon’s done more good in his short life than people like you could ever dream of doing. But Simon has me now—us. His chosen family, those who really love him. And I swear, next time you try to hurt him again, or spew more of your evil prejudice on him–”
“You don’t get to threaten me!” Simon’s mother spluttered. Her hoarse voice, shaking chin, and red eyes only provoked Marta further. She felt sorry for this woman. However, the tiny sliver of emotion could never surpass or soothe her righteous anger.
“I can and I will! Threaten you and protect Simon from you and restrain you physically if I must! If you want to pray, go pray for yourself. Because I doubt there’s a cure for your blindness and hatred.”
The expression in Simon’s mother’s face morphed from shock to a barely restrained fury.
“Marta!” she exclaimed again, a loud, harsh shriek, but Marta had already turned her back on them.
She left the chapel, casting a last mocking glance at the sign that spoke about quiet.
***
Mike pushed himself from the wall, approaching the bed slowly. Simon eyed him, suppressing his annoyance.
“So…” Lukas, who was sitting at the edge of the bed just as Marta had a few minutes ago, stroked Simon’s forearm.
“Yeah, just a misunderstanding.”
Lukas looked down, shaking his head. Mike reached them, resting his hand on Lukas’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” he said. Lukas half turned in his sitting position and covered Mike’s hand with his.
“No, baby, I apologize. I jumped to conclusions.”
Simon raised his eyebrows at them.
Lukas sighed. “Mike and I…err…discussed it in the car. Mike…he thought it was his fault.”
Simon raised his eyebrows, perplexed. “How?”
“Because, you know…we’re trying to find him. Find Matěj,” Mike said quietly.
Simon couldn’t help it; he laughed. It sounded broken and a little deranged.
“You thought I’d kill myself over that?”
Mike shrugged, looking down at his and Lukas’s intertwined hands.
Simon felt ten times the fool. Humiliated. He’d been proud to be the one in control, the reliable, reasonable one. It was only a grandiose delusion. His friends saw him like this—weak, wounded, depressed. Suicidal, even. Anger overtook his muscles, clenching his fists and tightening his jaw.
Lukas lifted his gaze and looked Simon in the eyes.
“I’m sorry. I still feel as if I failed you,” he said, but Simon shook his head.
“How the hell could you have failed me? I got drunk and fell flat on my face!”
Lukas’s mouth skewed into a half-smile, and then his expression fell again. His gaze roamed over Simon’s features, and Simon knew very well what his best friend catalogued, analyzed, and concluded—the exhaustion and weight-loss were painfully obvious. Lukas gripped Simon’s forearm and squeezed.
“How are you really, Simon?” he asked, predictably.
Simon sighed. The anger left him. He turned his head to the left and looked at the gray clouds outside, behind the smudged window. The vast emptiness of the sky matched the emptiness in his heart.
The pressure behind his eyes intensified, but Simon had shed all his tears the day before.
“Simon,” Lukas prodded gently.
“It’s…not good,” Simon whispered, still looking away.
Lukas bent down and hugged him.
***
When Simon came home from the hospital in the evening, there was a mess of broken glass and blood waiting for him in the middle of the living room. No mercy on the stupid.
He would have to throw out the rug. He was turning around, heading for his closet to dig out the vacuum cleaner when he saw it. In the middle of the scattered glass pieces together with an empty bottle of Absolut vodka, lay Arthur Rimbaud’s A Season in Hell & Illuminations. Blood-stained. How fitting.
Simon approached the book as if it were a wild animal readying to attack him. He poked away a large shard of glass and carefully picked up the book. The blood on the cover was dry, already smelling foul. The book opened in his hands.
How ridiculous all you’ve been through will seem when I’m no longer here. When you no longer have my arms beneath your neck, nor my heart to lie upon, nor my mouth upon your eyes. Because one day, I’ll go far away.
Wincing at the pain in his hands, Simon threw the book against the wall with all his strength. It fluttered in the air, the pages rustling like a scared bird’s wings, until it landed on the floor, shot down, bloody, dead.
3: Meeting Mattias Chrs
—Freiburg im Breisgau, Germany, November 2016—
Mike was sweating nervously, struggling against the need to jump up and down. The town was beautif
ul; the historical center of Freiburg im Breisgau took his breath away. In the morning, Marta and he had taken a walk around the medieval cathedral, which had miraculously survived the destruction of World War Two. He was fascinated by the small water canals that wove through the Old Town. He almost stepped into one by the Bertoldsbrunnen crossing.
However, Mike wasn’t here to admire the sights. They’d talked a lot with Marta about how to do this. She was terrified, and he didn’t blame her. She didn’t want to be there in case Matěj reacted badly.
Mike was supposed to intercept Matěj in front of the hospital. He’d called early the same day and got information on the clinic’s working hours. Just to be sure, he came forty-five minutes earlier, and was ready to wait for one more hour. If he didn’t succeed today, he’d try again on Monday. He hoped he’d recognize the man from the pictures Marta showed him.
The search had been almost ridiculously easy. Simon had said the last place where police traced Matěj was Munich. The Embassy in Munich had records of Matěj consenting to his documents being translated to German and procuring an apostille for his diploma four years ago. If Matěj stayed in Germany he wouldn’t have been able to change his legal name completely. So, they googled.
It took many hours over several days, but finally, they found Matěj’s Germanized name at a clinic’s home page. Dr. Mattias Chrs, Die Klinik für Orthopädie und Unfallchirurgie, University Medical Center in Freiburg am Breisgau. There was a picture—a boring portrait of the passport variety, a bleak face among other bleak faces of the clinic’s employees. Marta gasped when she saw it.
Mike called, pretending to be a pharmaceutical salesman, and the nurse or secretary told him that Dr. Mattias Chrs was usually busy with patients and very hard to reach, and if it was urgent, could he please leave a message and his phone number? Mike hung up. Matěj still worked there—it was the last piece of information they’d needed.
Mike expected more…obstacles. He’d been ready to play private eye, spy, whatever. Instead, he was supposed to…what…negotiate? Harass Matěj until he agreed to meet with Marta?
At five in the afternoon, there were many people exiting Die Klinik für Orthopädie und Unfallchirurgie. Mike’s gaze swept over face after face. Maybe Matěj was sick? Or was he on vacation? In October? Not likely. Mike was worried that Dr. Mattias Chrs would pass him unrecognized. Or work overtime until some unreasonable hour.
He needn’t have worried.
The sun had already set, but the street was sufficiently illuminated. A tired-looking, thirtyish man in a long dark-gray parka exited the hospital’s main entrance at 17:24, close behind a throng of middle-aged women. He paused, giving Mike enough time to recognize the stubbly face, the light-blue eyes, and even the small empty holes in his ears where wooden gauges used to be. The man rooted in his leather messenger bag, and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He lit one, and continued slowly down the street.
Mike took off after him. Dr. Mattias Chrs walked slowly, seemingly exhausted, the cigarette smoke wafting around him. He left the University Hospital campus and headed down Breisacher Strasse toward the Old Town. Wet leaves from the ancient chestnut trees whispered under their feet on the sidewalk.
Mike gathered his courage. How to begin? He’d imagined this moment many times. It was his instinct to be direct. But what if he scared the man away?
“Dr. Chrs?”
The man stopped abruptly and turned. “Ja?”
Mike managed not to run into him.
“Hello,” Mike waved awkwardly. The man, and it was Matěj, eyed him up and down in apparent confusion.
“Wie kan ich dir helfen?” he asked.
“No. I don’t speak German, sorry,” Mike answered. “My name is Mike. I came here from Prague. I’m a friend of Marta’s.”
The effect of his words was so physical, Mike immediately felt bad.
The man in front of him stepped back, and the cigarette fell from his fingers into a shallow puddle at his feet. He reached out with his hand as if feeling for something to lean on, but only encountered air. He stumbled backward once more. When he seemed to find his balance, his feet firmly on the sidewalk, he stared at Mike for an uncomfortable minute, his face a mixture of surprise and raw fear.
“Explain, please,” he said, his accent strong, his voice so hoarse the passing cars almost drowned it. Then his eyes widened. “Has something happened to her?” he blurted out loudly.
“No! No, nothing like that. Will you walk with me? We could grab a coffee somewhere?” Mike suggested.
“Um, yeah,” Matěj nodded, fumbling for something in his pocket. He pulled the cigarette pack out once more. “Do you mind?” he asked, lifting his wide-eyed gaze to Mike.
“No problem,” Mike said. “I should apologize. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
Matěj snorted out a harsh laugh. “Uncomfortable is not the word I’d choose. Could you please…tell me why you’re here?”
Mike cleared his throat. Here goes. “Marta and me…we work together at the language school. She’s a good friend. She asked me to help her find you a couple of months back. Once we heard back from the Embassy in Munich, it was easy—”
“But why?”
“She’s missed you.”
Mike hadn’t even noticed the low concrete wall along to the sidewalk until Matěj sat on it. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and took a deep drag from his cigarette. He was silent, so Mike continued.
“She was worried you’d be angry, or wouldn’t want to see her. We understand if you’d rather be left alone—”
At that, Matěj lifted his head and stared at Mike, looking perplexed.
“Angry?” he asked.
“Well, she doesn’t know why you’ve never contacted her again…” Mike attempted. He heard himself talking, afraid he wasn’t making much sense.
The man stared forward, smoking, his fingers trembling. Then a tear gathered in the corner of his eye, spilled over, and ran downward into the groove between his cheek and nose. Matěj didn’t make any move to wipe his eyes. He didn’t seem to be aware of the wetness tracing down his face. Instead, he continued smoking with purpose, the cigarette disappearing as if he were eating a chocolate bar.
Mike couldn’t help but notice the man was incredibly beautiful. Even tired and…rough, the man’s face, defined hands, his square shoulders and lean figure created an awe-inspiring picture. Those blue eyes told stories—intriguing, epic, tragic ones. Every line, every blemish, and the purplish circles under those eyes only added depth, another layer of paint on the brilliant artwork of nature and life. He was easily one of the most attractive men Mike had ever seen—the kind of man who intimidated him, who made him back off with his hands in an apologetic gesture. Because the baggage behind that kind of beauty was more than Mike was ever willing to struggle with. And he could just see why someone like Simon fell for this man—for the same reasons Mike would have avoided him.
“She wants to see me?” Matěj asked after a long while, his voice a shaky whisper.
“Yeah.” Mike nodded, the excitement welling up again. They were going to make it! “She’s at the Hotel am Rathaus, it’s ten minutes that way.” Mike pointed toward the end of the street.
Matěj nodded. “I know where it is.” The tears flowing freely now, he lit a third cigarette.
Mike waited patiently, watching Matěj exhale, and said, “Do you want to go there, now?”
Matěj’s face pinched, the corners of his mouth turned down, drawing deep wrinkles into his skinny cheeks. He nodded again, breathing out a strangled sob. He rubbed his palm over his face, encountering the wetness, then he grabbed the edge of his sleeve and wiped at his eyes. He seemed to be holding onto his composure with all his might.
“Finish your cigarette,” Mike said and laid a hand on Matěj’s shoulder. He watched the man smoke and cry for a few minutes, feeling a surge of happiness amid the sorrow.
He was going to fix this.
The
happiness only intensified when he entered the hotel lobby with Matěj on his heels. Marta jumped up from the sofa, rushing toward them. She bypassed Mike and threw herself into her brother’s arms not waiting for him to say a word. After a second of hesitation, he hugged her back.
***
Despite his sore feet and the chilly, darkening evening, Mike took another walk. It didn’t feel right to stay at the hotel room with the reunited siblings. After more than three years, they must have plenty to talk about.
He bought a sub in the joint by the old-looking gate with a green tower on top. He didn’t have the energy to discover local food. The streets were busy, and the humidity in the air crept under his jacket. In the end, he dived into a pub close to the hotel and ordered a lager. He messaged with Lukas while he drank, and the minutes passed faster.
When he came back, it was already eight. He knocked, and it was Matěj who called, “Come in!”
Mike found Marta on the generic two-seater sofa in the tiny twin room, her brother sat on the edge of a bed, facing her. Marta’s face was tear stained, but she smiled at Mike.
“I can wait in the lobby…” Mike suggested.
“No! No. Let’s all go out,” Matěj said. He turned to Marta, his movements nervous and jerky. “Beer?”
“I could definitely use a beer, yeah.”
“You must be hungry, too,” Mike added. “I’ve had a sandwich. But I could eat something warmer.” He grinned, clueless as to how to lighten up the heavy atmosphere in the room.
“Beer and food and city lights,” Marta said, pushing herself up from the low sofa, and Mike exhaled with relief. His friend was tough.
Matěj took his parka and messenger bag, which Mike knew held his cigarettes. But he didn’t light one when they exited the hotel. Instead, he threw an arm around his sister’s shoulders.
