A Hyacinth for His Hideousness

by Tharah Meester

  He didn’t know how much time had passed, but at some moment the boy rushed out of the bedroom and pointed a finger at him. “I want things tidied up here! Just so that is clear! And I want curtains so that people on the street aren’t continually staring at me when they pass by!”

  Gavrila, who had already been in the process of tidying up, turned around enraged. “If you think you have anything to say here, you are mistaken! And you don’t scream at me! Do you understand?”

  “You strike me as much as you wish, and I’ll scream as much as I wish!” Hyacinth shook the blond locks from his face which still seemed terribly childlike.

  “Don’t push your luck,” Gavrila snarled and admonished his delicate counterpart with a stern glare of warning. It was ignored.

  “Buy curtains then perhaps I won’t get the idea of pushing my luck! I want curtains,” he added once more – nearly in desperation.

  “I’m not interested in what you want! And now, dammit, get out of my sight!” That order was obeyed.

  When he was alone, he wiped a hand across his face and, with a groan, sat on the chair which he hadn’t sat on for months because it had been too loaded with paper. Stunned, he stared at the front wall without curtains. A passer-by cast a furtive glance inside and pulled the brim of his hat lower over his head when he noticed Gavrila glaring at him.

  There were so many people who hated him – a sentiment based on reciprocity – and who perhaps wished to harm him. Should they draw false conclusions from their marriage and erroneously assume Hyacinth means something to him, they would in such a case get the idea they could use the young man to achieve their goals. His throat tightened.

  Admittedly, curtains weren’t a bad idea after all.

  Chapter 3

  Someone hammered at the door. Hyacinth jumped up from the bed where he had remained for hours. He hadn’t even gotten up when Ardenovic left the house somewhat later and returned shortly thereafter. Meanwhile it was dark outside.

  “Are you going to come and eat?” intoned the dark voice of his accursed husband, and although he didn’t feel like being in Ardenovics company, he did have an overwhelming hunger. That lured him out of the dismal room.

  He paused, taken aback, when he noticed opaque curtains hiding the translucent panes from him, and him from the curious gawkers outside.

  A faint smile played on his lips, but he discarded it when Ardenovic paid him only enough attention to nod in the direction of the table.

  Hyacinth sat down and was handed a bowl of hot, wonderfully aromatic soup and two slices of white bread. His mouth was watering, however he delayed tasting anything until Gavrila had taken a seat in the chair to his right.

  “I’ve filled the cupboard,” the man said quietly while setting his own bowl on the table to begin eating.

  Hyacinth joined him and allowed each drop of the repast to dissolve on his tongue. When had he last had anything so good?

  It had been years since his mother had provided a meal for him. Then she became too sick to take care of the household or to nurture her son. It had been her soul which became ill and robbed her of any interest whatsoever in the world around her. Not that she had ever shown much interest in him before then.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you hadn’t burned the articles?” Ardenovic demanded straightaway, and Hyacinth despite the truculent tone of voice was thankful to him for chasing away his thoughts.

  “You didn’t ask me.”

  “You’d have been spared the blows had you opened your mouth,” the other snapped.

  Hyacinth wondered what reason the man had to be so enraged because of that omission. After all, it wasn’t the other one’s rear-end that was aching now. Why was he complaining at all?

  In reply he merely shrugged his shoulders and put aside the spoon when he’d finished eating.

  “Have seconds if you’d like.” It was remarkable how quickly that undertone of menace could disappear.

  Hyacinth stood up to refill his bowl. When he sat down again, Ardenovic noticed the wood tube in his jacket.

  “You’re poking around in my things too much,” he asserted and snatched the object out of his pocket and popped him hard with it. Of course, not applying anything nearly like the strength and force his father usually had.

  Nevertheless, Hyacinth massaged with two fingers over the spot and mumbled an ‘ow’, before he tried to satisfy his curiosity: “What is that?”

  “A stethoscope,” the man replied, put the tube in his jacket and turned once more to eating. He was still on his first bowl. Obviously he had no appetite.

  “What’s it good for?”

  “For auscultations.” His explanation wasn’t very helpful.

  “What’s that?“

  “Auscultating. From auscultare, which means to listen. With it you can determine if everything in the body is in order and if not, what is not in order. For example, you can listen to the lungs or to the heart.”

  “Will you ‘scultate me after we eat?” he asked hopefully because he wanted to see how the stetho-thing worked.

  “Will you auscultate me? You need to pronounce the whole word.”

  He could only roll his eyes at such fussiness. “Whatever you say. Will you do it?”

  “No.” For emphasis, Ardenovic shook his head then raked his hair behind his ears where he usually wore it on both sides. He dipped the spoon in the soup once again, but without putting it towards his mouth. Instead, he let it sink to the porcelain and leaned back.

  “Why not?“

  Ardenovic coughed into his hand and – surprisingly – politely turned away from him. “Because you‘re not ill.“

  Of course, it was rather he who appeared to be. “May I auscultate you?”

  “Most certainly not, boy.”

  “So you’re a doctor?”

  “I was a military surgeon,” was the brusque reply, and it was obvious how unwilling Ardenovic was to discuss it.

  “You were a military surgeon?” he asked anyhow.

  “We live off of my savings and my veteran’s pension. You won’t lack for anything if that’s what worries you.”

  Hyacinth hadn’t wasted any thoughts on money. He was just curious, but he kept silent instead of countering his husband.

  Again he scrutinised the curtains and wondered if he should express his gratitude, but let it be. Secretly he observed Ardenovic’s hard facial features. His cheeks gave the impression of being hollow, much too bony. Dark shadows circling his equally dark eyes made him look morbid. Quite frankly, the man was ugly beyond all belief. His appearance was no less than grotesque. Actually, no one liked to look at him, and even Hyacinth turned away from him with a shudder. He wondered if it wasn’t just Ardenovic’s exterior, but rather his conduct which made him seem so repulsive.

  His thoughts seethed with anger; that was plain to him, but it happened without his intention. He hadn’t wished to be so dismissive because he owed Ardenovic his life. Had he not intervened, Hyacinth would now be lying in a box a few metres below the cold, frozen earth.

  He ate the rest of his soup in silence. Where had Ardenovic learned to cook so well? And would he prepare a meal for them every evening? That seemed like a luxury and a benefit for his stomach. It was used to being empty and keeping him awake at night even if he had not roamed about the city streets but had lain on the hard floor of his tiny bedchamber.

  At some point, Gavrila broke the stillness: “I’m expecting guests and would prefer you to remain in the background during their visit.”

  “Perhaps important people whom I would cause to become stand-offish with my oafish behaviour should I open my mouth?”

  “Far from the truth,” Ardenovic responded in a strange tone, examining him from his mud-coloured eyes which had a sharp, dangerous expression in them. “Simply do what I say instead of questioning my orders.”

  “Are you sure you were a military surgeon and not a sergeant?” he asked in such a quiet way that one might think the other couldn’t
hear him.

  To his surprise, Ardenovic actually did. “Yes. I am certain, and would rather you keep your impertinent tongue in check.”

  Hyacinth had to suppress a smile for incomprehensible reasons while he saluted unenthusiastically. “As you order, Sir.”

  Almost imperceptibly, the man next to him shook his head but said nothing.

  *

  A short time later a group collected around the dining table under the pretext of playing cards for the curious passers-by who, thanks to the new curtains, could see little or nothing inside.

  They huddled together each week. Not because they were friends, but because they shared the same secrets. And kept the same goal in sight.

  Perkovic and Haggard helped themselves to the soup and paid little attention to their cards. Pierce Fletcher, a corpulent, nervous individual, barely took his eyes off Hyacinth who was reclined in a corner of the sofa and acted as if immersed in a book. Gavrila wondered if the lad could read at all or simply wanted to listen in on their conversation. Instead of admonishing Fletcher, he remained silent. The fellow was still mourning his wife. The widower posed no threat to the young man – not in any way.

  Furthermore old Bartholomew Urly was there and likewise showed considerable interest in Hyacinth. “What is the lad’s name again?” he asked for at least the fiftieth time since he had arrived – which wasn’t yet ten minutes ago.

  “Hyacinth, Sir,” the boy replied amused before Gavrila could answer. “Hi-ya-sinth. It’s really quite simple.”

  Bartholomew chuckled and shuffled his hand. It was a terrible habit which the man cultivated in a manner both frightfully loud and horribly passionate.

  “Bartie, they’re fine now, aren’t they?” Fletcher moved his glasses around before he looked up angrily as if dark shadows were in his field of vision which he could chase away by paying attention to them.

  “Let’s get on to the immediate matter,” Perkovic stated with a full mouth and gulped before he pulled the necklace from his pocket and placed it in the middle of the table.

  Fletcher gasped in fright and shoved his chair a half-metre back. “Those damn bastards! Are they after us?”

  “No one is after us, so stay calm!” Gavrila grumbled, having had already too much of the present company.

  Hyacinth lowered the book to his lap and looked over with curiosity.

  “Where did you get it?” Bartholomew picked up the glittering gold trinket to inspect it further.

  “A dead man in the morgue had it clutched between his fingers as if it meant a great deal to him,” Perkovic explained and reached calmly for another slice of bread. The meal was the sole reason for his participation in the meeting.

  Fletcher snivelled between pursed lips and tried to dab the tears now welling in his eyes whereby he brushed against his glasses. He pulled them off and pretended to clean them so he could lower his head. The loss of his wife had turned him into a fearful, nervous being and would permanently hinder him from ever again leading a normal life.

  “We must keep our eyes open,” Haggard said after no one had spoken for a while. He rubbed his broad nose.

  “Keep your eyes open for what?” Hyacinth enquired, as he now stood directly behind Gavrila and held firmly onto the back of his chair. The lad regarded the necklace in Bartholomew’s fingers.

  “None of this concerns you. Perhaps you’d better withdraw to the bedroom,” Gavrila replied harshly and signalled with his head in the direction of the door.

  “Why shouldn’t he know what this is about?” Haggard wrinkled his brow. “Perhaps he can help us.”

  Gavrila hated having his authority questioned and balled his hands into fists. “I don’t want him dragged into this!”

  “But the lad isn’t a child anymore.” Bartholomew chortled and brushed through his straw-white beard before he readily handed Hyacinth the piece of evidence.

  “Correct, Sir. That I am not,” the young man agreed with a triumphant sidelong glance at Gavrila who was intensely irritated.

  Fletcher broke in with a tremulous voice: “Gavrila is right. The boy shouldn’t be present. What if he’s an informer?“

  With that accusation, dead silence overtook the room which, thanks to the young man’s endeavours, had an almost pleasing ambience. With gritted teeth, Gavrila stared into the eyes of the obese man who swallowed tensely.

  “Be careful what you say, Fletcher,” he whispered a warning to him.

  Those idiots were forcing him into a corner. He had planned to send Hyacinth into the bedroom – with even more urgency, once Bartholomew had intervened on the latter’s side. Gavrila meant to let it be known who gave the boy his orders. But Fletcher’s insipid remark forced him to keep his husband in the room to put that overweight bundle of nerves in his place.

  “Sit down,” he snapped at the lad who obediently took a seat next to him and displayed an expression of deepest satisfaction. The slight smile that played around his lips bewildered Gavrila. He cleared his throat. “Haggard is right. We have to be on our guard. Obviously these bastards have surfaced again to do the devil’s work in the streets.“

  “Those filthy sons of whores,” Bartholomew declared with unaccustomed gruffness, and wrapped his fingers so tightly around his glass that his knuckles turned white. “Who knows if they aren’t doing it intentionally?”

  Fletcher cringed and glanced over his shoulder. “Doing what intentionally?”

  “Attracting our attention,” Bartie explained and studied the cards which they wouldn’t be playing with. At least they wouldn’t as long as Hathaway or one of his lickspittles didn’t turn up here. With that pretence they would reach for the papers but have a perfect excuse available for their gathering. One which would not convince the inspector but deprive him of any basis for action.

  “Why should they do that? They know we can’t have anything on them,” Perkovic interjected while still chewing.

  “I will bring my brother’s murderers to justice.” Gavrila squinted, fixating on the drunkard with the dishevelled locks which extended to his chest.

  “I know you don’t want to hear my opinion, Gavrii.”

  “If you know that so well, perhaps you can hold your malicious tongue.”

  “Why should they want to turn their attention to us, Bartie? Tell us then,” Fletcher challenged him, smoothing his light hair.

  “I don’t know, Pierce,” Bartholomew shook his head slightly and it got quiet again because each of them seemed absorbed in his own thoughts.

  “Who are they?” Hyacinth suddenly asked, feeling like a curious child – which was not far removed from the truth. The boy was barely eighteen, and was definitely interested.

  “A secret society,” Bartie said. “We have all lost something valuable to those murderers and we’re out for revenge.”

  “They’ve taken nothing from me, but I am always ready to stand by my friends.” Perkovic grinned and set out a whisky bottle while he fidgeted with his slim, red scarf and dug his nails into it.

  Gavrila cupped his hand to his mouth to cough. His throat burned, his mouth was horridly dry and his head ached. It had been a long day, and he was longing for some solitude.

  At once he wondered why he held on with such tenacity to this circle of ‘card players’. They made no headway back then and would be forever marking time.

  His husband was dissatisfied with the short explanation. “What kind of secret society? And what does this necklace signify?”

  They enveloped themselves in silence. It became so unbearable that Gavrila finally felt compelled to answer: “We don’t know.”

  *

  Weary, Hyacinth lay on his stomach in their narrow marriage bed and thought about things while Gavrila gently thrust into him. Shortly before, the man had reached out and had gruffly asked if it was alright with him. Hyacinth had replied with a soft affirmation.

  This time it didn’t hurt as much, and his shame left him in peace. In any event, he was occupied with other things. With more
important things than his sense of honour and the fact that his husband injured it in this manner.

  He suppressed the sound attempting to escape his mouth from the unpleasant sensation. Instead, he asked the question which had been burning on his tongue since Ardenovic’s friends had left. “Why have you met so often and still not learned anything?”

  “It concerns a secret society, boy. Information isn’t so easy to come by,” the cold man lying atop him replied panting.

  “It’s obvious from your collection of articles you’re working feverishly on the matter. Why haven’t you been able to find out anything? None of you?” He shook his head and tightened his jaw as a hard length slowly withdrew only to glide back into him.

  “It’s just difficult,” Gavrila responded out of breath and seemed impatient with him. “Perhaps we could delay this conversation until a more opportune time? It would prefer for you to shut your mouth for a while and concentrate on the business at hand.”

  Against his will, Hyacinth had to grin. “What am I supposed to be concentrating on? You are the one who should be gentle and restrained. Although I have nothing against you being as quick about it as yesterday.”

  “Hyacinth!” For the first time his husband used his given name whose syllables he stressed in a peculiar way. It didn’t sound as bad as he’d expected, to hear his name spoken from that mouth.

  “What?” he asked because he coudn’t make sense of why Gavrila had gasped in horror. He turned his head to look into that grotesque face. To his surprise, Gavrila’s cheeks were red. It appeared remarkable on his pale skin. The man extended his fingers toward his chin to – not roughly – push him into the bedding, to prevent him from looking at him. Whatever was the matter now?

  He didn’t understand but obediently kept his mouth shut until Gavrila streamed warmly inside of him. He then released and turned his back to him.

  Hyacinth rolled over toward him and watched his shoulders rise and fall with each trembling inhalation. “Your fingers are always so cold. Maybe next time you could warm them up beforehand?”