A Love Song for the Sad Man in the White Coat

by Roe Horvat

  There was a significant number of doctors in the group and the joke was not lost on them. Simon noticed Andrea smirking and continued.

  “He seemed a little slow on the uptake to me. Sorry, Mike.”

  Simon tilted his champagne glass in Mike’s direction, but the younger man only laughed and stuck out his tongue at Simon.

  “But as I watched him, how he smoothed his way through life…the realization hit me one day. The stupid one was me. What I mean is this: irrespective of the hard slaps Mike got from life, and us giving him unnecessary crap, he continues to be a genuinely nice, modest, well-meaning guy. I don’t know how he manages it. And I guess it makes him a much better person than I could ever be.” Simon smirked, fixing his stare on Lukas. “Don’t ruin him.”

  Both partners laughed now. Simon sighed, hesitating. It was unusual for him to get all sentimental, but hell… If not this time then when?

  “Lukas, I’ve never told you I’m really happy to have you in my life. Even now, when you’re all kinds of sugary sweet with your guy.” He scrunched his nose a little. “Seriously, it gets on my nerves,” he said, only half joking. “Seeing you both should make me feel hopeful.” He grimaced at his wording, and saw Lukas start. Luckily, nobody else noticed the strange formulation of the last sentence. Simon didn’t correct himself, but it made him wrap his speech up. “That’s enough.” He took a deep breath and lifted his glass in a classic gesture. “I really envy you, guys, in the best possible way. Cheers.”

  He quickly sat down so he wouldn’t have to stand there when the small gathering of friends and closest family gave their short applause. The speech wasn’t life altering but it was okay, he thought. Lukas seemed pleased with it.

  Simon observed Mike’s mom from the corner of his eye for most of the time. Did she feel weird being the only parent at this unusual celebration? Lukas’s own mother and father couldn’t be bothered to attend even though they only lived a few metro stations away, whereas Mike’s mom had traveled from the other side of the world to be here for her son today. A little teary-eyed, she caught her son’s hand and kissed the back of it. The gesture was filled with genuine pride, and Simon tried not to gape. Mike turned to her and hugged her tightly with his right arm, not letting go of his partner’s hand. Lukas watched the scene, his features blissfully calm. Simon had to avert his gaze at that point.

  He’d already endured much more of the fuzzy pink fog than he usually cared for. It was his own fault; he should have kept the speech political and not let it slide into the personal shit. The familiar bile rose in his throat, and he washed it down with his wine. What would his mother do if she saw him holding a man’s hand? He drank more, wondering if he should take up smoking again just to have an excuse to bolt for five minutes every once in a while.

  “You were great. They had no idea you memorized the whole thing. Good job,” Marta whispered in his ear, and he forced another smile.

  “I did improvise toward the end.”

  Marta looked around and continued in a low voice. “Why didn’t you invite Jano?”

  He really should start smoking again, Simon thought as he shifted in his chair, antsy and apprehensive. “I thought we should slow down for a while.”

  “For goodness’ sake, Simon. You’re already slower than an iceberg. What’s going on?”

  “I’m not good for him, Marta.”

  “You’re not good for him? What?”

  “He was really nice to you, and I made a mess last time just because I was in the mood to do so. I was glad when you both left. What does it say about me?”

  “I think you’re sabotaging yourself again.”

  “Maybe. But I shouldn’t drag him deeper into my mess.”

  “If it feels wrong, you shouldn’t be with him, of course. But what do you really want, Simon?”

  He grimaced and mumbled, “I don’t want to want the things I want.” As soon as the almost inextricable cluster of syllables left his mouth Marta’s face became sad with understanding. She squeezed his arm and leaned her head on his shoulder.

  “You’re by far the most interesting person everywhere you go. Everybody wants to be you or be with you. Can’t you just enjoy it sometimes?”

  Simon felt all kinds of wrong listening to the praise. He didn’t want to be a star, the queer captain of their gang of marvelous misfits. He just wanted to be left alone. Then you shouldn’t have made the speech, you idiot.

  He loved his friends—they annoyed him as well, but it was a part of the package. Everybody was doing something lately—getting all kinds of new jobs, settling down, even changing their eating and drinking habits. They were all calming down. Hell, even Andrea had a steady partner finally—twelve years after her husband’s death. When he dared to look at Mike and Lukas again, they seemed so right and beautiful in their contentment. Peaceful. Only Simon was trapped in his own perpetual storm, alone in the turmoil which never seemed to affect anyone else. He used to think he was the only one who saw life clearly as the meaningless struggle to get closer to death. But now? Now he knew it was his fault. As if he were colorblind, Simon couldn’t see happiness anywhere.

  Maybe he should have invited Jano. Would he have felt better? Safer? Less exposed? Or would he have felt raw? He didn’t believe in “the one” and love at first sight and all that nonsense. He wasn’t sure he believed in love at all. He thought he was in love at one point in his life, but that love turned into an obnoxious chronic infection he was still desperately trying to get rid of. There were only people who were more or less compatible with each other.

  Jano and he were reasonably compatible. So why the hell not try it? He briefly imagined himself in Lukas’s position, Jano moving in, signing the papers for registered partnership, maybe getting a dog because it’s appropriate when you’re childless. He chased the picture away with more wine, avoiding the hurt that surely was coming.

  As if losing Matěj broke something in Simon, some part of this complicated machine that was his brain and body had been malfunctioning ever since. Ashamed and defeated, Simon admitted to himself he needed fixing. But how?

  He continued looking around noncommittally, drinking his wine, at least, until he caught Lukas’s stare. Lukas had a worried line on his forehead, his mouth thin, and eyebrows in a what’s-with-you kind of frown. Simon had noticed Lukas wearing the exact expression a lot lately. He tried for a smile and Lukas smiled back. It was so obviously forced it made Simon smile for real.

  ***

  Lukas leaned against the wall, both hands behind his back squished between his body and the stone. His bow tie was loose around his neck and his shirt unbuttoned at the top. He’d left the tuxedo jacket inside. It was almost midnight but the temperature outside remained uncomfortably close to thirty degrees.

  Simon mimicked Lukas’s position with his legs wide apart. The quiet was soothing. Simon only ever felt like this with Lukas—there wasn’t any need to fill silence with awkward conversations. They stood next to each other, both enjoying the calm warm evening. Here, one could see the stars, if only in half the sky. The other half was covered with a pinkish haze, a mesh of city lights and smog above Prague. The sound of Mike’s saxophone could be heard from inside, the muffled laughter of his bandmates drifted through the air. Everybody was half-drunk, just as they should be.

  “I used to think I was in love with you,” Lukas said, staring ahead.

  “I used to pretend I didn’t know.”

  “You’re a cold bastard.”

  “Yes. But I liked you too much to lose you because of a bound-to-fail relationship.”

  “Bound to fail?” Lukas’s gaze flashed to the side.

  “You’d hate me after a month. We’d self-destruct.”

  “True.”

  Simon didn’t know if he was irritated that Lukas had agreed so easily. He looked away, scrunching his nose and tugging on his scarred earlobe.

  “Thank you for the speech, really. Usually, you’re quite acerbic these days. I’m aware o
f the effort you’ve put in.”

  “You couldn’t have thanked me sans insults?” Simon smiled. Everything with Lukas was so familiar and comfortable. It made him both glad and bone-deep sad. Lukas had a good life ahead of him, but something else was ending. They did stupid things together, they hurt together, they fought and rose hell. And Simon loved every second of it.

  Now, those days were gone. Lukas was official with an Australian saxophone player who was barely twenty-six years old with an underpaid job teaching English at a language school, and who wrote Lukas a love song for their fake wedding. An actual love song he played on his saxophone after the ceremony while Lukas wiped at his eyes, hugging a stuffed kangaroo to his chest. Simon did not see that coming. A living, rainbow-shitting turquoise unicorn would have surprised him less.

  “Simon.” Lukas sounded serious. “You were always very sparse with your feelings. The only person I’ve seen you openly showing affection for is Marta. You’ve become a loner. I wouldn’t bring this up if I thought it’s something you want—”

  “I’m fine.”

  “That’s the lamest answer you could have come up with.” Lukas was annoyed. Good, that made two of them.

  Simon didn’t say anything. Lukas apparently had more in store for him.

  “You’re lonely. Maybe you could start treating people with a little emotion so they can stop admiring you and actually start loving you.”

  “I love you.”

  “Yeah. We’ve known each other for almost twenty years, and today is the first time you’ve said something along those lines.”

  “That’s not true.”

  Lukas looked Simon dead in the eyes, challenging him quietly.

  “Okay, maybe it is. But you knew.”

  “Look, I know you had a crappy childhood, I’ve been there. I know what your mother is like. I get all that. But what used to be a defense mechanism became a bad habit. The people in that room whom you call your friends—you’ve never let them feel like they were actually getting to know you.”

  Simon almost tore his ear off. He dropped the twitchy hand wishing for a cigarette for the thousandth time that day.

  “Someone told me something along those lines years ago,” he said quietly, his voice betraying him.

  “Do I dare to say the name of that someone?”

  Simon scowled at Lukas briefly.

  Lukas sighed. He was silent for a few seconds. Then he cleared his throat, changing the subject, but only slightly. “I know it feels like I’m leaving, but I’m still right here. Yes, Mike and I registered, and I fully intend to marry the man once I’m allowed, but it doesn’t mean we’re leaving you behind. You’re welcome at our place any time. Just like always.”

  Not quite. Lukas wasn’t aware of it, but he radiated happiness and love like a beacon. And Simon felt if he were exposed to the light for longer periods of time, he’d burn and dry out like an old-time vampire under the midday sun. It was a new low for him, this selfishness—wanting Lukas to be unhappy and alone so Simon wouldn’t be the only one suffering. Simon grimaced while averting his gaze.

  “Is this some kind of an intervention?” he asked sourly.

  “Do you think you need one?”

  “I certainly hope I don’t.”

  Lukas pushed off the wall and patted Simon’s shoulder. “My man is waiting for me. He’s promised to carry me over the threshold.”

  Simon chuckled. “I thought he was the bride.”

  “There’s no bride, thank fuck.”

  As soon as Lukas disappeared inside the restaurant, Simon’s smile wilted.

  8: The Misadventures of the Foolish Virgin

  —Dejvice, Prague, October 2016—

  Jano usually worked on Fridays, hence Simon had more time on his hands than was good for him. In one of the many attempts to make some sense of his own life, he decided to go through all the old books and documents gathering dust in his two large bookcases. He sat on his living room floor, surrounded by several small piles, and turned the pages of an old tattered copy of The Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy trying to lighten his mood. He came to the part with the Vogon poetry and put the book away smirking.

  Deceptively hidden, under the marvelous Douglas Adams, slept Simon’s copy of Arthur Rimbaud’s selected works. As a teen and young student, Simon had pored over Rimbaud’s verses—almost enough motivation to learn French—but Simon always thought it was a vile language, complex yet without order. The masterfully conducted Czech translations had to do.

  He used to be fascinated by Rimbaud and Verlaine’s story, but in the past few years, it had filled him with disgust and contempt. It was century-old gossip—longer than that even. Paul Verlaine, at the age of twenty-seven, had left his wife and baby for Rimbaud, who was only seventeen at that time. They’d lived together in London for barely a year before Verlaine ended up in jail for shooting his young lover in the wrist. He should have shot the manipulative bastard to death, Simon thought.

  Simon was convinced that young Rimbaud had exploited Paul Verlaine, taken everything the poor poet had to give, written one hell of a book about it, and then fled to assuage his itching wanderlust leaving Paul to rot in jail, forever to be scorned and eaten by regrets. Quite an accomplishment for a teenage boy.

  Simon fingered the pages and saw his old penciled marks by the passages he’d found especially offensive. There were a few dark hours in Simon’s past when he’d sat with the book long after midnight nitpicking through the text, looking for proof of Rimbaud’s crimes against Verlaine’s love and sacrifice.

  One night I sat Beauty on my knee. – And I found her bitter. – And I hurt her.

  Like a minion stumbling and sliding into the muddy ditch he himself had dug, Simon couldn’t stop. He was drawn to the passages where Rimbaud wrote from Verlaine’s perspective, describing their relationship and how Verlaine, or the “foolish virgin,” lived it. Even after reading the book countless times, Simon still marveled at the twisted mindfuckery. The evil genius was maybe eighteen when he wrote it. Simon glowered at the pages as if he could erase the familiar words with his stare.

  His kisses and his warm embraces were a heaven, a dark heaven, into which I have entered, and where I would have preferred to have remained: poor, deaf, mute, blind.

  Oh Paul, you fool.

  One more unsettling emotion emerged, making Simon stare at the black letters unseeingly. What had happened to Paul Verlaine’s baby? Simon never gave much thought to the infant. The poor kid was apparently not good enough to keep Dad at home nor interesting enough for the biographer to mention the child’s fate in the preamble. Well, it was Paris in the 1870s. Kids were expendable.

  Simon rubbed his hand against his breastbone, unaware of the movement. You have to let it go.

  Ashamed of the arrogance of ever comparing his love life to Verlaine’s, he grimaced. He was stronger now, older, wiser. He put the book onto the pile of rejects he was going to leave at a secondhand bookstore. He’d learned to value stability and trust since the time he’d made the notes in the obnoxious book. Or, at least, he hoped he’d learned.

  With the bookshelves clean and their contents alphabetized, emails answered and an article on toxic psychosis revised, Simon had nothing to do but stare through the window at the violent summer storm and drink.

  The amber liquid danced in the glass as Simon swirled it from side to side. The humidity from the late summer rain was making its way into the apartment. He inhaled deeply, observing the protruding veins on the back of his hand. A flash of memory accosted him—a single long finger on his skin, tracing the same bluish veins. He squeezed his eyes closed and swallowed the rest of the whiskey.

  Why is it all coming back now?

  ***

  After all the pouring rain and electrical display of storms, Sunday was hot and dry again. They were driving out of the city to hike in the hills close to Benešov when Simon brought up the subject. Jano sat in the passenger seat, gulping down an energy drink. Simon eyed t
he can with disgust. He was still tired after his night at the hospital and merely looking at the can of chemicals made his stomach queasy. What was wrong with regular coffee?

  “Have you ever thought about having a kid?” he asked casually, looking back and putting the car in reverse to park on the gravel path. The tall trees created a heavy canopy that hid the aggressive sun and cast a cool shade over the trails.

  Jano flashed Simon a strange look. “Where did that come from?”

  “It’s a normal enough question,” Simon said. They got out of the car, taking their backpacks from the trunk. Simon locked the car and headed for the narrow path. Jano followed muttering about the lack of uteruses in the present company.

  “I was serious,” Simon grumbled.

  At that, Jano bristled. “Okay, you seem to have thought about it, so tell me, Simon. Do you want kids?”

  “Someday, yes.” Simon deemed it safer to ignore the ironic undertone in Jano’s question. “Moving abroad would be necessary, I guess. For instance, there’s a constant shortage of psychiatrists in Norway, Sweden, and Germany.” He shrugged noncommittally.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Simon.” Jano’s eyes flashed with anger.

  “What?”

  “How much do you actually know about this?” Before Simon could answer, Jano started rattling facts. “Czech gay couples can be foster families but they cannot adopt. Only a single person or a married couple can adopt. Have you any idea what it means in reality? Or of the legal consequences?”

  Simon inhaled to say something again but was interrupted before he could get out one syllable. Jano’s voice gradually rose in volume.

  “All the countries in Europe allowing gay couples to adopt have a decent social system, which means the number of infants available for adoption is close to zero. The South American countries that offer children for adoption to Europe almost never accept same-sex applications. Denmark has surrogates but the cost is way above what you can afford on your salary, I promise you that.”