by Roe Horvat
Mike had to know what that meant. He scratched behind his ear and rubbed his hand over his skull uncomfortably. “It’s why the police didn’t look for him that hard.”
Simon gave just a sad smile and a shrug in response. Mike seemed to finally understand his point.
“Was there some problem between you and Matěj?” Mike asked, as if out of the blue, making Simon dislike him even more.
Simon sighed in defeat. “Matěj was an emotionally deprived orphan and an abuse victim who had been forced to take care of his sibling since the age of twelve. He was unpredictable at best. He was seven years younger, my student. Any romantic or sexual contact between a teacher and student was of course highly inappropriate if not forbidden. And then there was the tiny detail of being openly gay in a still mostly homophobic society. I’d have to try really hard to think of something that was not a problem.”
“Marta said you two broke up just days before he disappeared. Yet you were there for his graduation,” Mike ventured, and Simon barely restrained from snapping at him. He took a few calming breaths.
“We came to a mutual agreement. The relationship wasn’t going anywhere. We just had…trouble letting go.” Oh God, what an understatement. The tear-stained face flashed in front of Simon’s eyes, and he winced. I will leave you be after tonight, I swear. Simon hadn’t let himself think about that particular night for years. He didn’t know there were even deeper layers of pain for him to discover.
Mike tore him out of the memory. “Why did you stay in the relationship for months? Why did you even start in the first place?”
“Because I was stupid.” He began pacing, looking for something to do with his hands. Unluckily, he’d already spent several hours cleaning the whole apartment. “There’s no point in looking for someone who does not want to be found and does not want to return. It’ll only hurt her further.” He started wiping the kitchen counter again. Mike stood next to him, stoically watching his frantic movements.
“She’s an independent, intelligent person, Simon. She thinks she needs closure. I promised to help her because she knew neither you nor Lukas would. Your wounded ego is not reason enough to—”
“This is not about anybody’s ego!” Simon yelled and then cringed at his own loss of control. He exhaled and continued calmly. “I took care of her after he left. You didn’t see her then. How do you know what’s best for her?”
“That’s the point, Simon. I believe she knows what’s best for her.”
Simon stood with his back to Mike, his hands gripping on the counter. He shook his head and closed his eyes. “You don’t need my permission for anything. Do whatever the hell you want.”
“You are the most important person in her life. I thought we shouldn’t leave you out of this.”
“In this particular case, I really don’t mind being left out. Thanks for the breakfast. You know where the door is.”
The echo of the closing door still resonated in the empty space when Simon turned and stared.
The D-word was a stinking hairy creature skulking in a corner. It was wet and blind. Like a mole but bigger, with sharp, bared teeth, ready to bite down all the way to the bone and hold on tight. Simon stepped around it and dressed for yet another run.
11: Mother Dearest
—Dejvice, Prague, November 2016—
Since Mike’s visit, a specter had followed Simon everywhere. It was exhausting.
Simon caught himself looking around on the streets, watching the passing strangers like he had the first few months after Matěj had left. He checked his phone more often, expecting a call from no one in particular. He woke up with a start every morning and experienced even more trouble falling asleep. He felt it coming at him from all sides, nowhere to hide. The Big Bad Truth was going to catch him, rip him apart and swallow him like a bag of cookies, leaving small lifeless crumbs of Simon on the ground to be eaten by Prague’s most disease-infested pigeons. And he was being melodramatic.
There was a chance that Mike and Marta would find Matěj. Simon knew rationally what the most probable outcome would be. Still, he had to go and start daydreaming about explanations and excusable circumstances. It was Marta’s fault. She made him into a marshmallow through her constant worrying, babying, and hugging. Oh, he loved the hugging, with the little pat on his head…
Then she became independent, making the sad, gay shrink painstakingly superfluous. And while Simon was feeling as though he’d been gutted with a ladle, the annual visit of his parents happened.
His mother was almost as tall as him; gaunt and gray-haired, dressed completely in black, she looked like an old librarian to a library where the shelves were shaped according to a Möbius strip. Simon had tried for years to convince himself of his unconditional love for his parents, but they did not make it easy. He thought he was a bad person because he couldn’t forgive and forget; they were the people who’d brought him into this world, taken care of him, loved him in their way and even tried to understand him—not successfully, but that was beside the point. Staring into his mother’s eyes now, Simon felt guilty and ungrateful.
“We’re visiting some friends tomorrow, and in the evening, we have tickets to the Lucerna Theatre. We’ll take the train back to Brno on Monday morning, but we’re free tonight.”
She never said what she really wanted. There were only hints and suggestions. He wanted to yell at her so many times—what the hell do you want? He never did, though.
His father nursed his beer, people-watching moodily. He hated crowds. The trip to Prague was Simon’s mother’s idea, as usual.
“Sorry, but I can’t tonight. I’m holding a guest lecture on Monday. I really need to work on it.” It was a blatant lie, but his parents knew nothing about his job, just like they knew nothing about his thoughts and opinions. They were better off not knowing.
His mother barely blinked at the refusal. “How is Marta?”
“She’s fine, I think. Happy. She’s dating someone new.” Simon thought he’d bring the conversation to a safe, more distant topic. Apparently, he was terribly wrong.
Mrs. Mráz looked like a wax figure just then. Her lips barely moved so it seemed like the voice came from some kind of a speaker device hidden cleverly in her stiff coat. “Such a waste,” she mumbled.
“Helena…” Simon’s father sighed, not looking at them.
“He’s thirty-six years old!”
“He is right here,” Simon said calmly.
“Simon, please! You do not look good, and I know you’ve been unhappy since Marta moved away. Why couldn’t you just—” She caught herself, straightened in her seat, and said in a lower voice, “You have many friends in the field. Couldn’t you talk about it with someone? There are organizations who help people like you.”
“Your people do a lot of helping as well.”
“Don’t be ironic with me! We do help—more than you’ll ever know. And I can’t give up hope there is some solution for you.” She actually blinked away tears. Boy, she was good. Simon suppressed the evil smirk fighting its way out. “You have been given so many gifts and you decided to throw them all back in our face.” She did not dare to mention God, but Simon could see the itch in her whole body. It cost her a lot to be this mild.
“There was no decision, Mom.”
“Of course there was! We are all born selfish animals. Then we grow and learn restraint! You used to be so guarded, so sensible. You say yourself you rely on reason. Everything you do every day…you do all of it consciously. That’s why I don’t understand why you chose this…this twisted way—”
And that was about as much as Simon could manage. His mother had avoided the topic of his sexuality lately so he hadn’t taken into account how she might react to the news about Marta. He should have kept his mouth shut. He started gathering his things in an apparent intent to leave as soon as possible. There were no theatrics. He just really needed to leave or he would have to grab his mother’s shoulders and shake her so violently her earring
s would probably fly away like projectiles.
Simon’s father caught her hand on the table, and she sucked in a breath instead of finishing her speech. He looked uncomfortable. Simon thought looking uncomfortable was all his dad ever did—when his mother’s religious fervor showed too much, whenever Simon’s sexual orientation became an issue, and anytime they discussed anything to do with their family. Simon regretted they did not have more children. All the pressure was on him, and he was a bitter disappointment. A convertite, sinner, childless and, well, icky. His mother still tried to convince herself Simon did not act on his “gayness.” The thought of her son touching another man was too much for her. Simon never tried to explain anything anymore. It was fruitless and exhausting.
“I have to go. As I said, I have an important lecture on Monday.”
Simon fled the restaurant heading straight for home. He had to go running. The trip by metro was too long; Simon would suffocate in Prague’s underground one of these days. Trying to block out the dirt, smell of urine, and ever-present people, he climbed the stairs, quickly reaching the open space and taking deep breaths. Up here in Dejvice, the air was almost chilly. He would take his car and drive out of the city to run in the woods. He needed the sense of solitary freedom.
He turned a corner, watching the familiar facades as if he saw them for the first time. Something didn’t add up. Something was different. Was it the weather? Sinister low gray clouds created a lid on the shaking pot of Prague’s inner city. Inversion. That was it. Simon hurried toward his home, breathing heavily. He crossed the street, dodging an angry driver in a polished black Audi. The driver honked, and Simon fought the urge to flip him off.
He was almost home when he saw it. The black bird with a red cap sat glued to the facade high above, next to the third-floor windows. A woodpecker? Here?
Simon stood frozen, staring up at the bird. The woodpecker looked around jerkily and did the unthinkable. It started hammering on the facade, digging a hole in the solid material. The sound echoed in the narrow street. Tap, tap, tap. The bird paused, inclining its tiny head to the side as if contemplating its efforts and then continued. Tap, tap, tap, tap.
Simon stood with his neck bent back, his mouth hanging open. He couldn’t take his eyes off the foolish bird that was doing its damnedest to excavate a hole in the building’s hard surface. Its tiny bird brain had to hurt.
And all Simon saw was himself—banging his head, face first into the stone. Tap. Tap. His job, his patients, his teaching. Tap, tap, tap. His family. Tap. Tap. His friends, his interests, his personal goals. Tap, tap, tap. His love. Tap, tap, tap, tap… The bird continued drilling as if its life depended on it. Tiny pieces of plaster fell down on the sidewalk.
In a wasteland made of stone and concrete, Simon couldn’t even dig himself a hole to crawl into.
***
The run was good. It exhausted him in the right way. Every time he caught himself brooding, he pushed harder; his muddy shoes ate up the trail, the whispery sounds of the autumn woods inaudible over the blood rushing through Simon’s head. He’d puked twice by the time he reached his car. He rinsed his mouth with water and stretched. Then his body went stiff again while he drove back. He scrambled awkwardly out of the car, stumbling toward the elevator like a drunk.
He showered, forced down half a sandwich, and poured himself a glass of pure vodka. The image of the woodpecker digging into the facade wouldn’t leave his mind. He stared at the truly Russian amount of the clear liquid in his glass and smiled bitterly. He deserved a break from himself.
***
Do not drink and dial, Simon, never drink and dial… He tried Marta first. Voice mail. Do not drink and dial, Simon. That was enough. Do not dial the phone, Simon…
“Simon?” Jano’s voice was sleepy and strangely unfamiliar. “Is something wrong? What time is it?”
“I don’t know. I’m sorry,” Simon slurred curling into a ball on the sofa. The room swayed a little.
“Oh, hell, Simon, baby…” Simon winced at the endearment. Why the fuck did it not feel right? Why hadn’t it ever felt right? “You’re drunk, aren’t you?”
“I think so.”
“What do you need, Simon? I feel like…” Jano sighed audibly, and Simon closed his eyes. “I wanted you to need me, Simon, so much. I wanted to help you. But I can’t save you, baby. You’d kill me in the process.”
Simon couldn’t feel anything but deep respect for the man. He was smart. Simon thought he should say so.
“You’re really smart, Jano, really smart,” he said.
“Yeah, much good it did me.” Another deep sigh. Simon lay on his side, one hand barely holding the phone limply over his ear. “I’m going to let you go, Simon, okay? I have to let you go now.” And Simon knew, even through the alcoholic fog, that Jano didn’t mean just hanging up the phone.
“I’m so sorry,” Simon mumbled, “so sorry.”
“I know. Get some sleep, okay?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re going to be okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Goodbye, Simon.”
“Bye.” The line went silent.
There it was. The D-word transformed yet again. Now it was a pool of tar. The more Simon thrashed around, the deeper he sank into the blind heavy wetness. It seeped into his pores, glued his eyes and ears shut. It got into his mouth robbing him of taste. It stuck to his fingers tarnishing his touch, blackened his lungs and poisoned his mind.
So, this was how it felt, then. The Big D. Briefly finding himself in the eye of a storm, Simon experienced a few seconds of clarity. All the symptoms, those early signs, his friends’ warnings, the insomnia, the exhaustion, the constant running when the endorphin rush never seemed to arrive anymore. Instead, he threw up every other day. Doctor Simon Mráz, the renowned psychiatrist, was depressed.
Simon began crying. It was the ugly, bawling, snotty kind of crying.
Part 2
1: The Melting of the Cruel Doctor Frost
—New Town, Prague, December 2012—
MUDr. Simon Mráz, PhD, assistant professor at the First Faculty of Medicine, Charles University in Prague, sat at the center table in the lecture hall, drawing stick figures on his notepad. Instead of his usual white coat, he wore a dark gray jacket that itched uncomfortably around his neck. He squinted at the paper, fighting drowsiness.
Four minutes to half past seven.
It was still mostly dark outside. Who the hell came up with the idiotic notion doctors should learn to rise early? They were no fucking bakers. He felt last night’s long run in his thighs and calves. Even his shoulders ached. He’d overdone it again.
A stick figure scratching its ass. A stick figure showing a middle finger to the public.
Two minutes to half past seven.
A stick figure biting another stick figure’s leg.
The giant lecture hall was barely half full of pale, haggard medics. Simon felt genuinely sorry for them. He wouldn’t pass the test they were facing. A significant part of the horrendous amount of information he had once forced into his brain cells was long forgotten. He didn’t even remember how he had managed the pressure of the last few exams in med school. Thank Evolution for selective memory. There had been a lot of coffee, cigarettes, and fear of choking involved, for sure. Today, he was on the other side. Nobody questioned his knowledge anymore, and this wasn’t even his field. He was just filling in for another assistant professor, playing the guard dog.
He should feel relaxed, detached. He couldn’t.
He scanned the familiar crowd of students and pretended not to look for a certain face. Simon saw him only yesterday in the cafeteria, partly hidden by the crowd, and let himself look longer than he was supposed to. He remembered the curve of the boy’s neck as he bent over the counter. The vertebrae protruding, tendons disappearing under the dark, soft hair on the nape…
Simon blinked his eyes shut and opened them again, eyeing the clock. The fool was going to miss the te
st. Arrogant punk. There was nothing Simon could do to get the boy out of the mess if he was going to consciously skip the exam.
A stick figure standing on its head. A stick figure biting its own leg.
One minute past half past seven.
Simon could feel the eyes of the students on him. How long could he drag it out? He’d give him two more minutes.
Two more stick figures—punching and kicking each other kung-fu style.
Simon put the pencil down and pretended to count the printed exam forms.
Four minutes after half past seven, the door creaked and Simon’s head snapped. There he was, the infamous Mr. Chrs. His hair stuck out in all directions, he had purple circles under his large glassy eyes, and there was a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. He’d obviously run here. Old, black Pink Floyd T-shirt, threadbare dark jeans and his usual red sneakers were in place. A great-grandfather of all messenger bags hung over his shoulder; his hoodie was tied to it in a messy knot. He looked thinner than he was because of the paleness and apparent fatigue in his face. The clockwork tattoo on his arm was prominent as he held a paper mug in his hand. He smiled crookedly. The two almost-white circles in Matěj’s otherwise navy blue irises made it difficult to look directly into the young man’s peculiar eyes. And he was out-of-this-world beautiful. Simon thought so, at least. He dropped his gaze before it weirded him out completely.
“Glad you could join us at last, Mr. Chrs,” Simon muttered dryly, gathering the stack of papers.
“Oh, so sorry I’m late, Dr. Mráz. I was getting you coffee. High on sugar, right?” The laughter in his student’s voice made Simon fight his own smile. A few muffled snickers could be heard through the hall. It was not the first time Matěj Chrs had been deliberately inappropriate toward Simon who always had to pretend he didn’t find it refreshing.
Simon put as much sarcasm into his voice as he could muster this early in the morning. “How considerate of you. Sit down, we’re getting started.”