A Hyacinth for His Hideousness

by Tharah Meester

  “I’ll make note of it,” came the response in a husky, nearly inaudible voice.

  “May I help you solve your brother’s murder?”

  “I doubt you’re capable of that.” Although the words were injurious, the tone of voice revealed it was not meant maliciously.

  “I’d still like to try,” Hyacinth insisted. It was important to him. He had read the newspaper reports and felt sympathy. Judging by Gavrila’s diligence, his brother had meant a lot to him.

  “As I’ve already said, I wouldn’t want to drag you into this affair. Stay out of it.” Ardenovic slowly pronounced the words.

  Hyacinth propped up on his elbows on the pillow. “Why not? I’m not as stupid as I might appear to be. I…”

  “Enough of this nonsense! Go to sleep.”

  “No, seriously!” he protested, determined to make it known that he had some positive attributes about him. “I can read and write some. I have learned whatever I could on my own. I was striving to go to the academy one day, so I worked hard. I’m even good at arithmetic, which probably doesn’t help us much, but I am thoroughly in the position of being attentive, and perhaps I can even be used for spy…”

  “Enough now! You won’t do any of that!” The roar made him stop and finally brought him to the point of lying down again.

  Saddened, he turned to the wall to stare at it. He wanted to help, wanted to have a task and a meaning. He had held onto the hope of being useful. At least once in his life. So many dreams and not one of them would be fulfilled. That might sound bitter, but he was certain it was the truth.

  *

  Halfway through breakfast, the young man still hadn’t spoken to Gavrila, devoting himself entirely to the food before him. At last he cleared his throat and thus gained the attention of the obstinate blond. “I’ve thought about what you said.”

  “What about exactly?” Hyacinth asked somewhat uncertain. His slender fingers closed around a cup of warm milk.

  “You said you wanted to learn. I know someone who could give you instruction.” Just as he had finished speaking, he observed an intense radiance in Hyacinth’s emerald-green eyes and sensed a strange emotion unexpectedly emerging – something nearly akin to joy about the idea having struck a chord with his husband. “Seymour Wiplay is a tolerable old man who would surely be glad to take you on. He owns the small antique store three buildings from here. If you’d like to, then…”

  “Yes! Please!” Hyacinth nodded eagerly. He seemed genuinely enthusiastic about the prospects of being able to acquire some knowledge.

  Gavrila was relieved to have apparently diverted the young man from the secret society and the murder of Dimitri. It was not good for the lad to be involved in those matters. “I will introduce you to him after breakfast.”

  Once again a nod in response set the lad’s locks in motion. A very attractive sight… and Gavrila lowered his head to avoid having to look at him any longer.

  *

  “Can I also have such a thing?” Hyacinth asked while they walked along the narrow street. During which he made every effort to sidestep deep puddles and not get too much water into the perforated soles of his shoes.

  Gavrila replied to his request with an uncomprehending stare. To make it clear what he wanted, Hyacinth tapped with two fingers against the spot on Gavrila’s jacket covering his pistol. He felt the wooden handle and his husband flinch.

  “A weapon?” Gavrila asked hoarsely though it should have been obvious. “If you’d like to have one, I’ll buy it for you.”

  Hyacinth grinned with joy, but said nothing because, at that moment, Gavrila rapped on the glass door of the antique store, gaining the attention of an old man. He had been bent over a lectern standing in the middle of the room then turned, examining them perplexed.

  At last his lips spread into a smile and he reached for a cane to support himself while he slowly approached.

  Curious, Hyacinth scanned the shop stuffed full of all manners of quaint objects and could not wait to ask questions about all of them.

  Finally the door was opened and they were let in. “Gavrii, what a pleasure to see you. You haven’t shown your face since Saturday, my boy.”

  My boy? Hyacinth had to grin and even broader still when Gavrila’s cheeks reddened.

  “Been occupied,” he murmured defensively.

  The old man turned to Hyacinth and scrutinised him with interest. “And this must be your newly-wed spouse. I’ve already heard the news.”

  “So, they‘re already talking?” Gavrila interjected with little enthusiasm and audibly ground his crooked teeth before he took two steps to the side and pretended to study a small wooden figurine.

  “Of course, my son.” The grey-haired man nodded. Deep furrows in his face marked laugh lines and brooding wrinkles. No anger could be read in those features, as if he had never yet experienced any in his life. “As you know, people like to talk about you.”

  “Why?” Hyacinth enquired, confused.

  While Wiplay tossed a shaky dismissive wave, without turning to him Gavrila issued an embittered response: “For many reasons. Mainly in regard to my repulsive appearance, my lone-wolf personality and my cold-heartedness.”

  “Well, well.” Mr Wiplay gently shook his head and tried to respond, but Gavrila interrupted him, ending the discussion.

  “Now, as to the reason I’m here. I’d like you to take Hyacinth under your wing and instruct him. It appears he’s quite eager to learn.”

  “But of course! Give me a day with him and we’ll find out what we need to work on,” the old man declared and let the tip of his walking cane bicker with the floor. “I am never too tired to teach. You should be aware, youngster, I was once a schoolmaster in Levona. I can teach you much and tell you a few interesting stories.” With that, he took Hyacinth by the arm and led him toward the staircase.

  “Not any long-passed stories that concern me, Seymour!” Gavrila warned emphatically, displaying a menacing glower – even grimmer than his usual countenance.

  “Perhaps they’d interest the boy.” The old man heaved a provocative laugh.

  “Not any past stories,” Ardenovic repeated under deep furrows in his forehead. “I mean it, seriously.” He then faced Hyacinth. “I expect you for dinner no later than five-thirty. Should you come home earlier and I’m not there, lock the door and allow no one in.”

  “This distrust of the whole world is typical of him.” Wiplay amused himself over Gavrila who irritably rolled his eyes and took a deep breath.

  “Hyacinth, did you hear me?” his husband demanded with evident impatience.

  “Yes,” he replied expansively. He wasn’t deaf.

  “Will you do as I say?”

  “Yes, Sir.” He grinned and saluted mockingly which Gavrila acknowledged with an almost indiscernible lifting of his brows. After that he left the store.

  Hyacinth watched him until he disappeared from sight. “Will you tell me the long-passed stories despite his ban?”

  “Perhaps, my boy. But first we’ll put your level of knowledge to the test so we’ll know where to start with your instruction.”

  *

  Lying stomach-down on the floor, Hyacinth read from a large, heavy book, familiarising himself with the history of the Empire.

  He had difficulty with the small intricate letters put on paper with cramped handwriting, but he put forth a greater effort than any pupil ever had.

  “...it came to be that the K-King was led to the gal... gallows.” He ended the final sentence of the page and started to turn to the next one.

  “Enough for today.” Mr Wiplay smiled and nodded approvingly. “Very well done. You are definitely teachable. It’s a shame no one put you in a school. But it’s never too late. I suggest we meet for two hours every morning. Even before breakfast, as the spirit is most awake then. But don’t forget to read during the day, even without me, and to practice writing.”

  “Agreed.” Hyacinth kept to himself how much he’d like to attend u
niversity and how little he believed that this dream would ever be fulfilled. He closed the history book and massaged his bleary eyes. “Now, Sir? Do you believe my diligence has earned me a story about my husband?”

  “If you will bring me another cup of this splendid tea, I will think about it,” came the teasing reply, and Hyacinth quickly jumped to his feet, prompting the old man to laughter.

  He hurried into the kitchen to put water on the stove.

  They had eaten biscuits with tea at noon, and he was already hungry again, which is why he hoped Gavrila had cooked for him. At least the man had spoken about dinner. Mere thoughts about the soup from yesterday made his stomach growl.

  “Be so gracious and bring me a couple of butter cookies, my dear boy,” Mr Wiplay called from the parlour in his scratchy voice.

  “Yes, Sir!” He rummaged in the turquoise-blue painted cabinet for the treats and picked up a porcelain bowl to fill it.

  Waiting for the water to boil, he leaned against a sideboard and reached for a small statue standing on the counter. He turned the wood between his fingers and rubbed along the finely carved lines which depicted a young man folding his arms across his chest while standing on a pedestal in a relaxed pose. On its underside were engraved the initials M. L. He was pondering over whose name these letters stood for when the kettle whistled and tore him from his contemplation.

  Carefully he poured the water into the pot where two teabags were suspended. At first he hadn’t known what they were. Mr Wiplay had had to explain, which he did patiently. At home there had rarely been tea and when so, then only from infused and sifted leaves. They couldn’t have afforded anything as expensive as those little bags.

  He placed the filled and steaming pot along with two fresh cups and the bowl with the baked goods on a tray.

  “That was fast.” Mr Wiplay smiled as Hyacinth entered the parlour. “You truly are curious, hmm?”

  “No, what gave you that idea?“ he retorted jokingly and placed the tray on the table next to the Mister then eased himself down once more onto the thick rug in front of the hearth. It was cosy with the fire warming his back, the softness of the foreign wool under his backside and the nice man who had already found a way into his heart.

  Mr Wiplay spread a napkin over his lap to prevent the crumbs from soiling his trousers. “Quite honestly I think it’s smarter not to talk about Gavrila. He would not approve, as you certainly noticed. And where in the world should I even begin?” He reached for a cookie.

  “Best place is at the beginning,” Hyacinth suggested with a sly smile, attempting to conceal his disappointment.

  A soft, coarse laugh was the Mister’s reply as he tilted his head. “Such an innocent face and such a snippy tongue.”

  “Please, Mr Wiplay,” he pleaded while flashing an endearing expression intended to help him prevail.

  “Perhaps another time.” His teacher consoled him with an exculpatory smile and handed him a full cup.

  For a while he listened to the crackling of the fire. “Do you think he sent me to you because he wants me out of his way?”

  “Out of his way?”

  “The death of his brother. He wants to explain it. I offered him my help, but he continually refuses to accept my offer. He doesn’t think I’m up to it.”

  Wiplay’s mouth broadened into an ironic smile. “Apparently it’s more a matter of something other than thinking you’re not up to it.”

  “A matter of what?”

  His teacher left him short an answer and waved off the question with a trembling hand before he turned to his cookie. He had a difficult time with the crumbling confection.

  “Did you know Dimitri?” Hyacinth cautiously probed and took a sip of tea. It pleasantly warmed him on the inside.

  “Oh yes.” The facial expression of the elderly man changed, became sombre. Apparently horrible memories about the murder overcame him. Hyacinth considered whether he actually wanted to stir those up and agitate the old man. However, his curiosity was stronger than his scruples. “There was very little in the newspaper articles about the circumstances of his death. Do you know anything about that?”

  “Gavrila and Dimitri had a terrible altercation on that evening. It was raining buckets, lightning and thundering like crazy.”

  “What were they arguing about?”

  “I don’t know.” With those words Mr Wiplay briefly lowered his gaze which led Hyacinth to suppose they were not truthful. “Dimitri stormed out of the house after he…” The man didn’t complete the sentence but began a new one: “Days passed. Dimitri remained impossible to find. At last a beggar knocked on Gavrila’s door and said there was something in the city morgue which might interest him. He found his brother there, terribly disfigured. Tortured and slashed to the point of being unrecognisable.”

  Hyacinth swallowed and dispelled the emerging images of horror in his mind.

  Wiplay shook his head with sadness. “No one knows who did it. Or where Dimitri was that night. Furthermore, he didn’t belong in that morgue.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he was a wealthy, successful attorney, a man with influence and power. Such an individual is normally recognised by the police and brought to a proper mortuary where the dead are shrouded in fine clothes and bedded on velvet and blossoms.”

  “Wasn’t Dimitri taken to such a place once the mistake was noticed?”

  “The mistake wasn’t noticed.”

  “But after all Gavrila was there! Surely he would have told the people they had damn-well messed up!” His husband would certainly not have spoken in a kind tone of voice, rather with a proverbial – or a genuine – pistol aimed at the chest of a morgue worker.

  “For a long time, Gavrila didn’t come home. As I learned later, he suffered a breakdown, remained overnight and kept watch on the steps in front of the morgue. Two homeless men picked him up and took him with them. Weeks passed before he was himself again. At least enough so to return home. When that day came, Dimitri had long been below the ground.”

  Once again Hyacinth had to gulp. His throat had constricted and his heart was aching. “It hit him that hard.”

  Old Wiplay nodded faintly and stared into his tea which meanwhile had become cold. “Since that night, nothing has been the same.”

  *

  The house was submerged in darkness when Hyacinth entered shortly before five-thirty. He’d hoped to encounter his husband, but Gavrila was not there.

  Heaving a sigh, he closed the door behind him and lit a few lamps and candles and made a fire in the hearth.

  The room filled with light, and he discovered the prepared pans on the cold stove. On the sideboard stood a small basket with vegetables; a knife lay on the floor. Something must have interrupted Gavrila while cooking and had lured him to hurry out of the house.

  Should he be worried? Contrary to his will he was. Had something terrible happened?

  He stooped to retrieve the utensil and placed it on the counter. The uneasy sensation in his abdomen certainly wasn’t caused by hunger. Feeling helpless, he took a seat at the table and propped his face in his hands.

  What he had learned about Dimitri stirred things up inside him. More than ever he wanted to help find the murderer. Perhaps then Gavrila could finally come to terms with his brother’s death. Perhaps things would improve for himself. Perhaps the knowledge would make the loss a bit more bearable.

  He pulled at his hair with a low groan. At the moment there was nothing for him to do other than to make his husband’s arrival home pleasant and spare him some work. Thus he stood up to set the table.

  He found a white tablecloth in one of the cabinets, carefully spread it over the blemished wood then smoothed it out as he had seen once through the window of a fine restaurant. Of course, he had never entered such an establishment, but he wanted to do everything as well as possible.

  He took utensils from a drawer and set them until they looked neatly arranged. A few candles in the middle of the table achie
ved true wonders and made the place look inviting for an evening meal.

  Satisfied with himself, he fell back onto the chair where he had sat before.

  After a while he became cold and bored. Since he didn’t wish to get up and go over to the hearth, he held his fingers over the flames of the candles. When he burned his hand, he jerked back and cursed: “What kind of idiot are you?”

  Hurriedly, he strode into the kitchen and ran cold water from a storage kettle to cool off his fingers. They felt better, so he leaned against the sideboard.

  His gaze finally settled on the food waiting to be cooked.

  The only meal in his life he had prepared before was oatmeal – and that had not been particularly tasty. He remembered the thrashing he’d received from his mother after he had burned the mush once. His backside ached when he thought about those powerful blows with a cane.

  Therefore he should probably keep his fingers off the food so as not to ruin anything. He glanced at the clock on the wall showing it was nearly six-thirty. Gavrila would certainly be hungry whenever he came home. Not to mention his own stomach growling.

  Well then, he would have to make more of an effort this time to put a proper meal on the table.

  Determined, he intended to get to work but already stumbled over the fact that he had no idea what the vegetables were lying in front of him.

  He recognised the potatoes – not that he’d ever eaten any. But that other stuff there, those ugly lumps were completely unknown to him. Maybe it was something imported?

  He began by peeling everything – surely he’d do little damage with that. All the while he was praying his husband would come home and take over. Of course, Gavrila didn’t do him the favour.

  Half an eternity later he had peeled off all clothing from Mr and Mrs Vegetable and cut them into small pieces because he didn’t know what else to do with them. Somehow he had the feeling of steering toward a disaster, but his optimistic nature encouraged him to continue.