A Love Song for the Sad Man in the White Coat

by Roe Horvat

  ***

  Late that night, after they’d said goodbye to Matěj, agreeing to meet for lunch the next day, Marta and Mike lay in their beds, the lamp on the bedside table separating them, casting a warm yellow light onto the plush off-white carpet.

  “He saw it happen,” Marta whispered.

  “Yeah. I thought so.”

  “He said, he told Dad to do it. That he used to think he wanted him to die already, but he didn’t believe for a second Dad would actually kill himself. So when Matěj found us, Dad was waving the gun around, threatening he’d shoot himself if we left… Matěj told him to do it. And Dad did.”

  “Jesus, Marta,” Mike exhaled heavily. He couldn’t imagine. Marta’s father shot himself through the mouth. According to what Lukas said, there had been blood, bone splinters, and tissue all over the kitchen.

  Marta’s voice was quiet but calm. “The only thing I regret is that we didn’t find him earlier. I could have spared my brother so much pain.”

  “He thought you’d blame him?”

  “Probably. He didn’t say so. I think he blames himself enough for all of us.”

  “I’m really sorry,” Mike mumbled, not sure what else there was to say.

  “You think he’d want to come back to Prague?”

  “No idea,” Mike answered honestly. He loved Prague. It was the best city he’d ever visited, no contest. It was beautiful, vivid; the ancient history and modern art intertwined, all the pubs, breweries, jazz clubs, and cafés, the amazing people from all over the world… Prague was the best. Tourists or no tourists.

  But career-wise, it wouldn’t be a smart choice for Matěj. Mike knew from Lukas how the situation in the healthcare system was—young doctors working gruesome hours for significantly less than in Western Europe. And then he remembered Matěj’s face when Mike told him in the afternoon that his sister had missed him. He’d come back. “Maybe. I think he might.”

  4: The Lesser People

  —Lesser Town, Prague, November 2016—

  The air was crisp, and a sharp, bright sun hung barely above the city roofs. The group of Italian tourists who passed Simon in one of the back streets of Lesser Town all wore dark winter coats and huge sunglasses. They looked like a troop of Men in Black. Simon wasn’t in the mood to smile at his own errant thoughts.

  He’d been walking for more than two hours. He’d stopped for takeout coffee, and the mug now lay in the trash bin on The Old Castle Stairs.

  He fingered the small box in the pocket of his parka and squinted into the sun.

  “You’ve always had dysthymic tendencies. I thought you knew that about yourself,” Andrea had said.

  Simon let the box of antidepressants sink deeper into his pocket and pulled out his hand. It was chilly—the late autumn giving way to looming winter. Simon’s fingers were dry and red from the frosty wind. He’d forgotten his gloves.

  “We’ve found him, Simon,” Marta had said.

  What if he started taking the Cipralex Andrea prescribed him? It was a low dose, easy to phase out after a few months. SSRI antidepressants were so common. Simon had prescribed them to hundreds of people during his career. Burnouts, clinical depressions, double depressions, anxiety disorders, insomniacs, substance-induced mood disorders, premenstrual dysphoria, or just…a divorce. There was next to no risk of developing an addiction, and it was not associated with weight gain. It might inhibit libido.

  Simon thought about his nonexistent sex life. When was the last time he even masturbated? What libido was there to inhibit?

  “You are not clinically depressed, Simon. I’d recommend Cipralex for three months, and an attitude adjustment. Namely psychotherapy.” Andrea’s voice had sounded stern as if she were reprimanding a child.

  Which was just as well because Simon had behaved like a pre-adolescent. “I’m not talking about this with someone who’s more stupid than me.”

  “What did I just say about the attitude?”

  “KBT only. No kooks with scented candles.”

  “You’re an asshole. Unfortunately, there are no prescription drugs for that.”

  If he took the pills, would it change him? He knew how the SSRI antidepressants worked in theory. He never questioned their importance and functionality when he recommended them to others or spoke about them in seminars.

  But what if he lost something he actually liked about himself? Would it be worth it? Was there even a possibility he had it in him to feel anything else than…a failure?

  Happiness was short-lived—a flash of a match before the flimsy piece of wood burned into black coal.

  The river bank wasn’t crowded—it was Sunday, not the main tourist season, and it was still early. In the bright sunlight, the grace of the stone walls and renaissance facades shone. This morning, the ancient dame Prague woke at her best. Pigeons rose from the bridge in a cloud of fluttering wings, spiraling around the statues, only to land back a few meters away, next to the sketch artist who barely moved, wrapped up in fleece blankets like a burrito.

  Simon had always wondered what were the stories behind those faces—all the people selling handcrafted jewelry, watercolor pictures, pottery, scarves, portraits, and caricatures, in the shadows of the majestic statues of the Charles Bridge. There were always at least twenty of them, regardless of the weather, men and women of all ages. Did they see the point in selling a pair of copper earrings to a lady from Moscow? Was there a deeper meaning to their toil?

  Simon had never had grand expectations from life. He had been raised in guilt and fear of punishment, and the afterlife had been there to look forward to. Life on Earth was just a senseless cycle of suffering. Then Simon lost his faith in the afterlife and found a meaning in improving the life of others here and now.

  “Why?! You’ll feel better. Isn’t that enough for you?”

  Why should Simon care if he felt better?

  One more week. He’d try for one more week. He’d eat more, and run less. He’d book a therapy session with the elderly psychologist Andrea had recommended.

  He didn’t want to feel better about the reality. He didn’t want to numb his mind, to trick it into enjoying life. He wanted to become better. How long would it take for misery to become experience?

  Simon wouldn’t take the pill today.

  5: The Journey

  —Munich and Prague, December 2016—

  Matěj didn’t fly to Prague. He wanted more time. Peace and quiet. The awfully early bus ride took five hours. Then he had more than three hours in Munich to walk around, eat a burger, have a beer, get rained on, and then he boarded the train to Prague. Those six hours on the train were far too short. He’d need a whole day of staring at the passing landscape, the gray, darkening winter sky, wet fields, old snow patches, roofs, and woods. It wouldn’t have been enough.

  He was trying to think things through. He was trying to be smart; all his actions were carefully premeditated. He hadn’t quit his job at the Freiburg University Hospital. He’d taken a four-month leave of absence. He’d researched his possibilities in Prague, including realty prices. He counted how long his funds would last if he had trouble finding a reasonably paid position. By leaving Germany and working in the Czech Republic, he’d lose more than sixty percent of his income—working the same job under worse conditions, with less vacation time, worse insurance, not to mention the wolf-sheep mentality of the staff at the clinics in Prague. He was leaving friends behind—he’d miss Alex. And Jens. He’d visit often. Alex and Christian could come to Prague for a weekend in the spring. Chris would love that.

  Matěj took his decision seriously. He was trying to think logically, see his options, the pros and cons from a bird’s perspective, to measure and calculate, to prepare for how his life would turn out. Still, the image of his future in Prague was blurred, impossible to comprehend. Whenever he thought he’d reached a conclusion, some kind of insight, it slipped from his grasp, and his thoughts scattered like a ripped string of mismatched beads.

  For th
e past month, during his long, treasured Skype conversations with Marta, neither of them had mentioned Simon. Not once. Now, forty minutes away from his destination, Simon was all Matěj could think about. His career choices, the job hunting, the income. Simon. His savings, the apartment, living with Marta? Simon. Could he ask Lukas for help? He had to have contacts all over the city. Simon. Matěj swiped over the screen of his phone and increased the volume of the old Radiohead song he’d been listening to. Simon. Simon. Simon.

  At 22:39, the machine stopped at the Prague main train station. The stomach ache which had been slowly intensifying for the past four hours was peaking as Matěj stepped down the stairs and onto the platform. The crowd overwhelmed him immediately, and he stumbled, bracing himself against his luggage. He stepped aside, finding refuge by a bench, and let the throngs of passengers pass him. He was just about to dig out his phone from his messenger bag when a bright, cheery voice made him jump.

  “Matěj!”

  Marta had on a long, dark-gray wool coat on that flowed around her slim legs as she rushed toward him. Matěj spotted Mike a few meters behind her, his young, kind face stretched in a grin.

  “Hi!” Matěj managed before she threw her whole body into a hug. He panicked for a second, the force of the undeserved affection making him flinch inside. He hugged her back, because there was nothing else he could do.

  “Mike will give us a lift. I didn’t want to take the night bus in case the train arrived late.” She leaned back, inspecting his face. “Hi,” she said again, her eyes flitting between his.

  Matěj took a deep breath, exhaled, and answered with a careful smile. Her gaze dropped, and she patted his chest absentmindedly.

  “Come on, you must be tired.”

  “I’m fine,” Matěj mumbled automatically and reached for his luggage before the awkwardness could grow.

  “Welcome back!” Mike enthused, and Matěj felt his cheeks grow hot. Fuck, how was he supposed to behave?

  Mike took his luggage from him and leaned closer to whisper, “It’s all good, man. Relax.”

  Matěj couldn’t help the bewildered chuckle that escaped him.

  The drive was short but choppy. There was still traffic even this late, and they seemed to hit a row of red lights. Marta sat in the front passenger seat, half-turned toward Matěj, her hand braced against the driver’s seat.

  “I don’t have an extra bed but the couch is comfortable, I promise.”

  “Please, Marta, you don’t have to—”

  “I do want to! We can hit the Christmas market tomorrow and decorate. If you’d like… I don’t have much. Everything stayed at Simon’s—”

  At Simon’s.

  Simon.

  Matěj saw Marta’s eye grow wide just as a flash of light from the traffic outside ran across her face.

  “We’re here!” Mike chimed in. “There’s nowhere to park, you guys okay if I just drop you off?”

  He double-parked in the narrow street, letting the hazard lights blink.

  “Yeah, of course! Go home and sleep.” Marta bussed her friend’s cheek quickly, leaning across the center console, and exited the car, tugging at her coat so it wouldn’t get stuck in the door.

  Where is Simon?

  His sister kept apologizing when they climbed the four flights of stairs, struggling with the luggage.

  “No elevator, but it’s mine.” Marta switched smoothly to Czech now that Mike was gone. She pushed the key into the lock. The door opened into a dark, short hallway with a simple shoe rack and a tall, shabby coat stand.

  Marta flicked on the light, and Matěj squinted.

  The apartment was tiny. One large room with a kitchen corner, a reasonably big bed in a bedroom area partially separated by a bookcase, and a living room area, where a new IKEA couch with fresh sheets and dark-blue pillows waited. There was even a shoe-box-sized balcony, but Matěj didn’t want to smoke. Not in front of Marta on his first evening back in Prague.

  Marta dragged his luggage into the room and pushed it against the wall close to the couch. Matěj took of his shoes, hung his jacket, and stood staring awkwardly.

  “It’s almost midnight,” Marta said, her voice low, as if she were afraid to spook him. “Are you hungry? Or do you want tea?”

  “No. No, thank you. I ate on the train.” He cleared his throat, shuffled from foot to foot, and looked around. “Do you happen to have a beer?”

  Marta laughed. A deep, loud sound, that made Matěj sag with relief.

  “Of course! Master? Pilsner?”

  “You’ve got a Master?”

  “Yes,” she said, grinning.

  “Awesome.”

  She turned to the fridge, and Matěj continued scanning the room. He’d never been here before yet it felt familiar. The color scheme, the knickknacks, Marta’s books, a Doctor Who poster with a giant Dalek in the center…and on top of the bookcase a photo of them together. Without making a conscious decision, Matěj stepped closer and picked the picture frame up. He was maybe twenty in the photograph, possibly twenty-one, hugging a grinning teenage Marta from behind. His eyes burning, he put it back.

  A touch to his shoulder blade startled him.

  He turned and took the open beer bottle in an automatic motion.

  “I’m so sorry,” he blurted.

  But his sister only stroked his cheek.

  “I’m just happy you’re back. Beer and then sleep, okay?” she said. Matěj stared. She was so collected, serious yet kind. An adult. She had grown strong, and it was with no contribution from him.

  Next to her, he felt anemic—a fragile, anxious insomniac who couldn’t even formulate a decent apology.

  They sat at the breakfast table, the room illuminated only by the lamplight in the window. He watched her—how she held her bottle in a strong grip, her nails short and blunt, free from polish. Her hair was long, her natural color, tied in a practical, messy bun at her nape, a few strands curled around her ears. She was pale but not unhealthily so. It was December, after all, and if she’d had a summer tan, it must have disappeared already. Her smile was faint, but constant, her features sharper, the contours of her mouth bore a hint of sarcasm. The girly roundness of her cheeks was gone, her light-blue eyes were clear and wise. In three years, she had become an independent adult. He wanted to be proud, but the guilt lay like a gray film over all his impressions.

  “I only moved here three months ago. It’s been great, but sometimes lonely.”

  Simon.

  “Mike seems like a good friend,” Matěj ventured.

  “Yes, he’s great. He and Lukas registered in September. They’re good together.”

  And Simon?

  “You’ve worked with him long?”

  “A little more than a year. He’s a good teacher. A bit political sometimes,” she chuckled. “You’d think that at his age, he’d have trouble gaining respect. But he’s like our most popular English teacher.”

  “I can see that.” Matěj nodded. Mike had charisma and youth. Being likeable seemed to be his dominant quality.

  Marta drank more from her bottle, leaving only a third left. Matěj had almost finished his.

  “You want to go to the Christmas market tomorrow?”

  The Christmas decorations are at Simon’s.

  “Sure. Mead and Linzer cookies.” He attempted a smile again, forcing his lips to stretch against the strain and fatigue he could feel permeating his face muscles.

  “Good.”

  Marta stood and put her empty bottle into the sink. She reached for his just as Matěj broke the silence.

  “And Simon?”

  Marta froze, her hand midair, but she recovered quickly. She took his beer bottle and rinsed it, before turning back to him.

  “He’s my best friend.” She watched his reaction as she said it, not with curiosity. Her expression was pure concern, an almost motherly worry.

  Matěj hid his face in his palms, rubbing and kneading his cheeks and eyes. He exhaled through his trembling fi
ngers. She stepped closer and rested her hand on his shoulder.

  “I shared the loft with Simon from the day Dad died until this summer. He got me through school.”

  Even though he’d suspected something like that from their Skype conversations and what Mike had said, the realization was painful. Simon had taken care of Marta when Matěj had abandoned her.

  “But when you came to Freiburg, you came with Mike, not Simon.”

  He felt Marta’s hand in his hair, stroking and combing gently.

  “Things happened… Things that didn’t have anything to do with you. I didn’t want to stress him further.” Marta’s voice grew lower and lower.

  “Oh, God. He must despise me.”

  At that, Marta hugged him. She didn’t say anything. Wrapping his arms around his sister’s waist, Matěj sighed into her stomach. He’d been such an idiot. Selfish, weak, stupid. So stupid. He’d never deserved someone like Simon in the first place. Now, he was even less.

  If only he had woken up from his stupor a few months earlier. He should have come back by himself. He’d owed it to his sister. Yet here he was, using her kindness to save himself.

  Marta’s hand in his hair did nothing to soothe his self-loathing.

  “I’m not going to lie. He’s…difficult. But I want you both in my life,” she whispered. “We have time.”

  Time. That’s what Alex had said. There was time. Everything wouldn’t fix itself during a few days. He had to be patient.

  “Come on. Shower, bed, sleep,” Marta said, tugging at his hair playfully. He squeezed her once and stood.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “Anytime.”

  6: Rage

  —New Town, Prague, December 2016—

  We’re at Dolce Vita.

  After reading the short text from Lukas, Simon grew worried. He was hurrying through the darkened streets of the city toward the tiny café they all knew so well. Apprehension made him look around himself nervously. It was an innocent enough text exchange, but if he was supposed to come immediately, something of importance must have happened.