A Love Song for the Sad Man in the White Coat

by Roe Horvat

  “Yes. They’re in the upper door shelf, wrapped in white paper,” Simon answered, putting his empty wine glass on the counter next to Eda’s, no doubt expecting a refill.

  Matěj stayed in the doorway to the crowded kitchen, watching the synchronized movements of the group. They were comfortable with each other, in perfect choreography, even though there were currently six of them in the small kitchen—plus Matěj—they seemed to dance. Matěj watched, and envied.

  Mike handed the Moravian paprika sausages to Simon, and Simon took them wordlessly, pulled out a cutting board and reached for a large, broad knife that hung stuck to a magnetic plate on the wall above the kitchen counter. He started cutting fine slices of the paprika sausages, arranging them neatly into a spiral on a plate. Simon and his fancy treats. A wave of nostalgic tenderness overwhelmed Matěj for the umpteenth time that night.

  “How’s the job hunting going?” Mike asked, pulling three different cheeses out of the fridge and handing them to Lucas, who sat with Marta by the breakfast table, cutting and spreading butter on baguettes. Andrea and Eda leaned against the counter behind Simon, struggling with two more wine bottles.

  Matěj was a little stunned. It was the first time he got addressed directly during the whole evening by someone other than Marta. Then he sighed. “Well, as expected, I guess, since I don’t have a specialty exam. There are openings everywhere except for Prague.”

  “Yeah, they even pay better in Plzeň or Hradec Králové,” Andrea said, shaking her head ruefully. She sipped her wine carefully, only tasting. Then she nodded at Eda, who topped off her glass and lifted his eyebrows at Matěj meaningfully, swaying the bottle of Pinot in his hand.

  “No, thanks, I’m good,” Matěj said, gesturing to his water glass.

  “The interview you had last week went okay?” Mike asked.

  “Not really. The First Orthopedic Clinic in Motole is a lost cause. The guy didn’t even try to hide his outrage over me working abroad for three years. Apparently, I’m a traitor. By the way, there are fifty doctors there. One of them is a woman. One. It could be prejudice on my part, but I’m not sure they’d welcome a gay guy. And everybody knows someone who knows someone, who’s someone’s father or uncle. It’s ridiculous. I’m meeting the people from the Second on the fifth.”

  Matěj realized how bitter he sounded and instantly wished he could take his speech back. The last thing he wanted was for Marta to believe he regretted his decision to return to Prague. Because he didn’t. Not for a second. Her back was to him, so he couldn’t tell if she was upset.

  “Isn’t that where Ivoš works?” Andrea asked. “The Second Orthopedic?”

  “Yes. Simon knows him. They studied together in Brno,” Lukas chimed in.

  Matěj sucked in a breath. Just when he thought this evening couldn’t get more awkward.

  “That’s perfect. Then you can put a good word in,” Eda enthused.

  There was a silent moment which had everyone bowing their heads, focusing on cutting, buttering, and even doing the dishes in Andrea’s case. Matěj wanted to merge into the wall behind him.

  “I’m not sure I left a good impression the last time Ivoš and I saw each other,” Simon finally said, his voice carefully neutral, void of any emotion, like Spock.

  “Oh! Is he the bald guy we met when we visited you at the hospital? He seemed cool,” Mike said loudly. Matěj saw Marta jerk her head up in Mike’s direction, but he couldn’t see her face.

  Mike’s eyes widened in mock innocence.

  “Hospital? What happened to you, Simon?” Eda asked, curiously still oblivious. How that was possible, Matěj didn’t know. The tension in the room resembled a maze of rubber bands. Even time slowed down.

  “Simon fell on a glass table and cut his hands,” Lukas answered after several uncomfortable beats of silence, his voice clinical.

  Matěj couldn’t help but stare at Simon, looking for an explanation. He watched his hands as the man sliced the sausages, one after one. From this angle, no scars were visible, even though they had to be there.

  “Ouch. Aren’t those things made from safety glass?” Eda stepped closer to Simon, inspecting Simon’s hands in a more obvious way.

  “Apparently not when you buy them secondhand at a vintage store,” Simon told him, his head down, cutting the klobásky with the care of a sushi chef.

  “But still, how?” Eda was relentless. Was he really that oblivious or was he having fun at their expense?

  “He was drunk,” Lukas said finally. Simon continued cutting—a sure, slow movement of his forearm, cut, pick up, put down, cut… How many sausages did they need?

  “His mother called everyone and said—” Mike started.

  “Mike!” Marta interrupted loudly.

  “Sorry.”

  “What?” Eda asked.

  “She called Marta and said I’d attempted suicide,” Simon explained, emotionless, still slicing in slow rhythm.

  “Jesus!” Eda gasped.

  “Yeah. She was very…riled up,” Marta told him. “But I found her at the hospital and…explained.” She said it in a way that made Matěj want to ask for details about the conversation.

  “Wow, it must—”

  “Let it go, honey,” Andrea finally intervened, putting her hand gently on Eda’s arm. He squinted at her suspiciously but then shrugged.

  “Anyway. I mean Andrea, Lukas here, and Simon know plenty of people all over Prague’s hospitals and university clinics,” he said. “I’m sure between us, we can help Matěj to find at least a temporary contract in surgery. There’s plenty talk about lack of doctors—”

  The intake of breath was loud enough to stop Eda mid-sentence. Simon swore quietly and leaned over the counter, nudging the handle above the sink with his elbow. Holding his left thumb with his right hand, he stuck his fingers under the stream.

  Matěj stepped closer on instinct and on seeing the blood mixing with the water, he reached for Simon’s hand.

  “Show me.”

  Keeping his left hand above the sink, Simon released the grip and exposed his thumb. A clean gash appeared; it went from just above the interphalangeal joint to the metacarpophalangeal, and Matěj noticed the white of cartilage for a split second before the wound flooded with blood again.

  “That’s at least four stitches,” he said, not looking up. He could feel Simon’s gaze burning into his profile.

  He gripped the injured thumb firmly, stopping the blood, and pushed Simon’s hand back under the cold stream. This, he knew. His confusion and helplessness from a moment ago faded.

  “We need to compress it before we go to the emergency room. Otherwise he’ll bleed all over someone’s car.”

  “Hospital? Again? Jesus fucking Christ, Simon!” Mike spluttered. Simon’s glare should have turned the young man into an ice sculpture, but the Australian only shook his head and added an exasperated laugh.

  Matěj deemed it best to ignore the loaded exchange. “Guys, do you have a first-aid kit?”

  “Give me a second,” Lucas called, already heading to the hall. He returned in barely twenty seconds during which Matěj did not think about holding Simon’s hand, nor the man’s breath fanning his temple.

  He dressed Simon’s thumb perfunctorily, trying to keep the wound closed.

  “We’ll never find a cab. It’s Christmas Eve,” Marta said, peeking over Matěj’s shoulder.

  “We’ve already drunk three bottles of wine between us. I can’t speak for everyone here, but I’m a little more than tipsy. I can’t drive,” Mike said, rocking on his heels.

  “Me neither.” Lukas shook his head. He stared at Matěj as he said it, a small smile playing around the corners of his mouth. And Matěj realized where this was headed.

  “Matěj?” Marta asked. She knew he’d only had that one glass. He didn’t want to drink with Simon present, afraid of what a temporary loss of control could do to him.

  “I’ll drive.” His heart hammered in his chest.

  Simo
n still hadn’t said anything.

  “Hold it like this,” Matěj instructed, wrapping Simon’s fingers over the gauze. “Squeeze it tight.”

  “I have medical training, too, you know,” Simon responded.

  Matěj found it wiser not to react.

  “I’m coming with you. I know where the Toyota is parked,” Marta decided, and Matěj managed to smile at her gratefully. Like this, Simon might not kill him solely with the power of his mind.

  Already in the hall, Lukas dropped the car keys into Matěj’s palm.

  “Give him a towel,” Matěj said to Lukas, tying his sneakers. Marta helped Simon into his boots while the man leaned against the door, cradling his hand to his chest. The blood was seeping through the gauze already. Lukas handed Simon a large dark-blue towel just before they closed the apartment door.

  “Good luck!” Mike called from the living room. Matěj couldn’t help but smile.

  In the small red Toyota, Marta spread the towel over Simon’s knees as he sat on the front passenger seat.

  “This is a joke,” Simon muttered.

  “I’m sorry, Simon,” Marta smiled ruefully, and kissed his cheek, before she closed the passenger door and jumped into the back seat.

  Matěj watched the exchange and caught Simon’s emotionless stare when the man turned his head.

  “Are you going to start the car?” he asked, the tone of his voice matching the chilly air in the car. Wordlessly, Matěj looked forward and turned the key.

  The ride from Žižkov to Bulovka took barely fifteen minutes. Late at night on the most important Holiday of the year, the streets were mostly empty.

  The emergency waiting room at the Hospital Na Bulovce was ridiculously busy in comparison. They found a seat for Simon, but had to stand themselves. There were broken arms and legs, burned hands, and bleeding noses all over the place.

  Marta filled the forms for Simon, he signed them and then stared into space, pale and aloof. Matěj rested with his shoulder against the wall next to Simon and watched him openly, his earlier restraint gone. He didn’t care anymore if Simon caught him staring. Why should he? He’d already begged for forgiveness. He was probably going to do it again. Who cared how much he humiliated himself?

  He’d expected Simon to look older, but it had only been three years. Simon looked exactly the same—his short buzz-cut hair, his evening stubble, the laughter lines around his broad mouth, the torn earlobe… The green eyes. Matěj used to be fascinated by those eyes. Expressive, intelligent, deep. Now, the strain of pain around them was too distinct. The cut in Simon’s thumb was deep, reaching into the joint. Matěj had to compliment Lukas on the sharpness of his knives.

  “You okay?” Matěj asked quietly. He wasn’t sure if the green pallor of Simon’s skin was due to the wall paint and lighting or if Simon was feeling ill.

  Simon only nodded and leaned back until his head rested against the wall behind his seat.

  “Not nauseous?”

  “No.”

  That was the last word Simon uttered. For the next half hour, Matěj was pushing the minute hand of the generic white clock with his gaze. Sometimes, Simon opened his eyes and looked around, then he closed them again. He didn’t say a word and didn’t look at Matěj. Marta tried staying busy; she went to the toilet, chatted with a teenager who was waiting for an X-ray of her wrist, bought coffee at the vending machine… Simon and Matěj barely moved.

  “Mr. Simon Mráz?” A nurse finally called from the double glass door.

  “We’ll wait here,” Marta told Simon as he stood. She squeezed his shoulder reassuringly.

  “How are you?” Marta asked Matěj as soon as the glass door swooshed shut behind Simon and the nurse.

  “You’re asking me? Why? The injured man just left that way!”

  Marta kept watching him with her head tilted to the side, waiting. He sighed.

  “I’m okay,” Matěj mumbled, looking away.

  “I’m sorry Simon’s being an ass,” she told him.

  “He’s not! He’s just… I understand him.”

  “Bullshit. He’s an ass,” Marta hugged Matěj’s shoulders, and he leaned his head on hers, grateful. She was different than he remembered. It was strange.

  “He called me after the evening at Dolce Vita,” Matěj told her.

  “I know, I made him do it. I’m sorry. I didn’t think he’d be so obtuse for so long. He’s more persistent than I thought he’d be.”

  “Marta, please, let him be.”

  “I see you looking at him, big brother. You’re watching Simon the same way as you used to. You two were always obvious. A few years back, you would have just pushed him against a wall and shut him up.”

  “Marta?!” he spluttered.

  She waved her hand dismissively. “Don’t pretend otherwise. I knew you. It breaks my heart to see you this insecure all of a sudden. Don’t give up, okay?”

  “There’s no fight.”

  “Oh, yeah, there is. Our Simon is fighting you with all his might. He’ll exhaust himself, don’t worry.”

  “Marta, he doesn’t seem to give a fuck. You saying the opposite is frankly only messing with my head.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s just… Gah! You’re both so stubborn. Men!”

  “Hey! Stick with your own rules! Suddenly it’s okay to use gender stereotypes? Opportunist!”

  She stuck out her tongue at him, and he grinned, the stretch in his cheeks reminding him of how little he smiled these days. Thank God for his sister. It was a grand, marvelous adventure getting to know Marta again. She was stronger, more self-assured, and unafraid to use her intelligence. His kid sister was amazing. And it was very subtle, but he sometimes saw Simon in her—a few mannerisms, a slang word here and there, a phrase Simon used to say. The reminder of their intertwined lives warmed him, and then burned hot in his throat.

  “He cares about you,” she added emphatically and caught his hand squeezing gently. Matěj feared it was a lot more wishing than judging correctly on Marta’s part. Still, her insistence helped. Hope. Waiting in an emergency room on Christmas Eve, Matěj let himself think about hope.

  Fifteen minutes later the nurse reappeared.

  “Is there a Matěj?” she called.

  Matěj pushed his stiff back off the wall. “Yes? What’s going on?”

  The nurse stepped closer. She was young and pretty, the lack of makeup accentuating her freckled beauty. She also seemed tired and very uncomfortable.

  “I’m sorry but Mr. Mráz is having a reaction to the anesthetics. He’s being…difficult,” she explained in a low voice. “He might be calmer if you were present.”

  Marta looked at Matěj with wide eyes.

  “He asked for you specifically,” the nurse added, her words not matching her expression. Matěj was pretty sure there was more going on than what the nurse said.

  “Okay.”

  They left the hum of the crowded waiting room behind them as the young nurse led Matěj through the wide corridor toward a brightly lit room with a miscellany of drapes. There were ten beds, most of them occupied, divided only by white curtains. And Simon was noisy.

  “Did you find him?” he called out, making the nurse smile apologetically at Matěj.

  Oh, God.

  Matěj stepped closer to the third curtain and peeked around it. A doctor sat there, his back to Matěj, a small table next to him, holding the basic kit for suture. He turned his head and nodded at Matěj, most of his face hidden behind a mask.

  “Good evening,” Matěj mumbled.

  “There you are!” Simon exclaimed loudly.

  The young doctor winced visibly behind his mask. He turned his attention back to Simon’s hand without a word.

  “Hi Simon. How are you?”

  “Pfft. It hurt like fuck. I didn’t want to say anything before, but it hurt like fuck.”

  “It doesn’t hurt anymore, though?” Matěj tried to talk quietly in hopes Simon might subconsciously mimic him. No such luck.


  “No. No. It’s gooood. It’s good,” Simon said, his voice booming through the room.

  Matěj turned his gaze to the doctor’s back. “What did you give him?”

  “Tramadol.” The young doctor didn’t lift his head, carefully removing the bloodied gauze from Simon’s hand.

  “Intravenously? You know he’s had alcohol?”

  “Sorry. We had to let him wait for an hour. He seemed to need a break.” The doctor didn’t sound sorry at all.

  “Don’t be mean to him,” Simon chimed in loudly. “He gave me the good stuff.” And he chortled. Matěj had never heard Simon laugh like that—a gleeful, childlike sound.

  “That’s great. We’ll go home soon.”

  Simon shook his head. “Home? I don’t want to go home. There’s nobody there.”

  “I meant we can go back to Lukas’s.”

  Simon tilted his head to the side, looking at Matěj with surprisingly clear eyes that didn’t match the slur in his voice. “You’re coming with me?”

  Be reassuring but neutral. “Yes. I drove you here.”

  “I know. I remember,” Simon said slowly, watching Matěj with a small smile. “You’re so beautiful,” he said suddenly.

  Matěj felt heat on his neck. He stuffed his hands deeper into his pockets. This was a disaster. He should call Marta in here instead and leave, right now. “Simon…”

  “You are. You look like shit. But you’re so beautiful.”

  Oh, God. This is fucked up.

  “My beautiful boy.”

  “Simon…” Matěj tilted his head meaningfully toward the young doctor currently cleaning Simon’s wound.

  “Oh, he doesn’t mind.” Simon grinned and turned to the doctor. “Do you mind?”

  “Nope,” the doctor quipped. The mocking was obvious even from that one syllable. Matěj rolled his eyes.

  “See, he doesn’t mind! I mean, you’re pretty, too, Doctor. But he is beau-ti-ful,” Simon added cheerfully, pointing his intact hand in Matěj’s direction.

  Then Simon squinted and seemed to think hard about something. “You’re coming with me back to Lukas’s?” The slurring was getting worse.

  “Yes. I drove you here, remember?”

  “I know you drove me here! I’m not stupid.” Simon frowned.