A Hyacinth for His Hideousness

by Tharah Meester

  He seemed to idealise his brother, but perhaps Dimitri had only meant well. The Staks were known to be a crude people.

  However, Hyacinth couldn’t forgive him for leaving Vrila to his fate and even having made it worse by sending him to the military. No forgiveness for that man. Maybe he was being too hard, but Vrila was more important to him than a brother who was no longer alive. If he were, they wouldn’t be friends. That much was certain.

  “We ought to stick our noses in the books some,” Mr Wiplay suggested and seemed just as melancholy as Hyacinth who nodded hesitantly.

  Vrila had sent him here to learn something and he didn’t want to fail him. Not after his husband had experienced so many disappointments and had had to endure them silently.

  *

  Without a sound, Gavrila entered the antique store where he had spent a great deal of time before Dimitri’s death had torn his life into pieces.

  The small bell on the door didn’t ring and he surmised that Seymour had taken it down to soak in vinegar and water to remove its dirt and rust. The old man preferred everything to be in its proper condition.

  From upstairs he heard the silky, dulcet voice belonging to his husband. Totally against his will he had to smile.

  In a fragmented manner, the young man was reading aloud from a book.

  Slowly, his fingers on the wrought-iron handrail, he climbed up the spiral staircase and tried not to attract attention.

  “The at-attorney didn’t have it e-ea-easy but cast the adver…ver…ersarial… the adversarial party in su-such a bad light that the judge de-ci-cided to rule in his f-fa-vour.”

  Meanwhile, upstairs Vrila had come in unnoticed and looked down at Hyacinth sitting in front of the fire on the deep-pile carpet, bending over a thick volume. A surge of emotions spilled through him when he gazed at the curly blond head as he followed the words in the book with the tips of his fingers in order not to lose his place while his expression appeared so concentrated that anybody could see how hard he was trying.

  Hyacinth was about to continue when Vrila gently cleared his throat to reveal his presence. His husband looked up quickly and blushed as their eyes met. Vrila became aware of his racing heartbeat and wanted to divert his attention from it by saying something.

  “I didn’t know you were making such an effort,” was all he could think to say – a statement he berated himself for an instant later. That was all he could think to say? To Hell with him!

  Hyacinth looked hurt and even more deeply shamed than before. “It’s only this bad when I read aloud and, besides, Mr Wiplay says it’s getting better. Ask him, if you don’t believe me,” he blurted out and turned his eyes to Seymour for support. In mocking chastisement, the latter raised his right eyebrow and smiled.

  Vrila coughed lightly with a fist in front of his mouth. “I didn’t mean to say it’s bad. Your zeal is highly laudable.”

  Hyacinth sat up straight and closed the volume. He held his head down not to have to look at Vrila. Who could blame him? There were reasons why he had no mirrors hanging anywhere in the house.

  “Why don’t you get your husband a cup of tea from the kitchen, my boy?” Seymour said, and Hyacinth got up with unaccustomed obedience.

  “Never mind, I don’t intend to stay for long,” Vrila stated and caused Hyacinth to stop in the doorway.

  Seymour waved off this objection. “Go on, boy. Your spouse is going to sit a while with me. Isn’t that so, Gavrila?”

  He nodded with a sigh. “Then so be it.”

  Hyacinth disappeared into the kitchen, and Vrila took a seat in the chair next to Seymour.

  “Hyacinth is extremely gifted and fully aware of a subject when he’s set his mind to it,” his friend began with a warm smile. “He’s already well on his way. His education was shamefully neglected, but we can catch up on all of it, especially with his zeal, which you already mentioned.” The old man grinned mischievously. “Of course, not until after you dropped that brick.”

  “I didn’t intend to disparage him.” By God, the last thing he wanted was to reproach or offend the lad.

  “I know, I know. You merely didn’t know anything else to say, because you were at a loss for words. I just wonder why that could be.” The white-haired man let out a gentle laugh.

  Vrila sensed himself turn red like a young boy and looked away. His mentor had always seen through him much too easily. He didn’t like that one bit. Especially now when he wanted to conceal his emotions as much as possible. Now, when he was feeling something again…

  “Gavrila, the boy has a sharp mind. It’s going to be wasted if we don’t send the lad to a university.”

  His chest tightened. The university. That’s what Hyacinth wished for so ardently. “I’m afraid I can’t afford that, but… I’ll see what I can do. How fast can he catch up on what he’s missed?”

  “With my help he could be ready for studies in about three years; I’m sure of it. I could contribute some money if it helps you. I also don’t have very much, but we ought to consider a plan.”

  In the adjoining room, the tea kettle was whistling, and Vrila wiped a hand across his face. He didn’t have the slightest inkling where he could get hold of so much money, but he wanted to fulfil Hyacinth’s wish. More than anything else.

  “Have you two already spoken about it?” he asked in a whispering voice so he couldn’t be heard in the kitchen.

  To Vrila’s dismay, Seymour nodded with a smile on his lips. “He’s thrilled by the idea of being able to take on university studies soon.”

  That was exactly what he’d expected, already knew. “He has his heart set on that.”

  “Yes, it’s become apparent to me,” Seymour quipped. “And most of all he dreams about the École de Supériorité.”

  Those words evinced a desperate, almost horrified groan from Vrila. Only the highest of the highest went to that university. To study there, someone didn’t just need a gigantic stack of money but also a name, even better a title. How could he possibly send Hyacinth to that school? Nevertheless, in his thoughts he searched for a way. Since the lad had confessed to liking him, his own brain wasn’t working properly any longer. Heavens, his heart raced whenever he merely thought of Hyacinth’s words. I like you too.

  “You mustn’t turn any more pallid than you already are, my boy.” Seymour laughed under his breath. “Hyacinth knows this dream won’t be fulfilled. He’s too smart to seriously hope for that, but an alert mind wants to continue its education. Whether it be the École or the university or something different, the lad is destined to learn.”

  At that moment, Hyacinth returned and handed him a cup before he again sat down on the carpet in front of the hearth.

  Entranced, Vrila looked down at him. Here and now he wanted to promise to make the university, no, the École possible for him. But he dared not because he didn’t know if he could keep such a promise. How bitterly disappointed would Hyacinth be, if Vrila promised something then broke his word? He knew the answer, so he kept silent. The first task was to find a solution; afterwards he’d speak with his husband.

  Hyacinth looked up at him, stared directly into his eyes, and Vrila lost himself in his counterpart’s gleaming, green eyes. I like you too… His heart cramped, as did his stomach, and with trembling breaths he lowered his head. Could he believe Hyacinth after he’d asserted something so insane, something so absurd? Should he trust him, when it seemed so ludicrous that the lad liked him? Vrila didn’t know how someone could like anybody so repulsive. Strands of hair fell over his face, but he didn’t brush them back behind his ears because he preferred to hide beneath them than to show his hideous facial features. Despondent and confused, he gazed into the hot, steaming liquid which smelled of herbs and honey.

  It was Seymour who broke the unbearable silence: “The matter with your arrest surely had something to do with Dimitri, didn’t it?”

  With clipped words, Vrila told about Howard and described his assignment.

  “I know
you don’t want to hear it, but you ought to let the affair be laid to rest if there’s no way to solve it.”

  “But it can be solved, like every puzzle,” he retorted sternly to emphasise his determination.

  “Hyacinth told me you still can’t sleep,” Seymour continued and focused on him, crinkling his forehead.

  Vrila cast a severe glare at the boy. “You’re talking about me behind my back?” What had Hyacinth told the old man?

  “I confided in Mr Wiplay because I’m worried about you,” came the timid reply.

  “There’s no need for that. I told you everything is fine.”

  “As a doctor, you of all people should know that it’s not good to get too little sleep,” Seymour interjected with the wisdom of age.

  As if he didn’t know! It was hard enough for him not to get any sleep, damn it to Hell!

  “I can’t do any more than try! It’s not a conscious decision that I lie awake all night long!”

  “We’re not reproaching you; we’re just worried,” Seymour said.

  “How chivalrous of the gentlemen,” Vrila exclaimed with hostility.

  “As always, he can’t believe anyone would seriously care about him.” Seymour rolled his eyes with exasperation and, like Hyacinth, shook his head before rubbing a temple with a quivering hand. “You’ll have to keep a sharp eye on him, my boy.”

  Hyacinth looked to his teacher and nodded as if Vrila were no longer in the room. ”I’ll do that, Sir. I’ll report to you immediately, should anything change.”

  “The hell you will,” Vrila objected, although he had the feeling no one here cared in the least about his commands. The situation demanded too much of him, for he was entirely unaccustomed to concerns over him.

  “If you continue to flail around so wildly, you’ll spill hot tea all over your thighs,” Hyacinth calmly admonished him. “Drink it instead; it’ll do you some good.”

  With a snarl Vrila did as he was told and believed he saw the corners of his husband’s mouth turn up into a benign smile.

  Hyacinth inclined his head to a grinning Seymour. “See how obedient he can be when he wants to?” he said with a teasing undertone in his soft voice. “Now I have to see to it that he wants to be more often.”

  Only with effort was Vrila able to suppress a laugh. He pursed his lips to conceal his amusement. Hyacinth’s impishly sparkling regard struck him, and the lad seemed to notice he’d been amused. In the young man’s features he recognised a strange mixture of amazement and triumph.

  Was he somehow determined to make him laugh? Why should he be?

  “Incidentally, I have a question for you, Mr Wiplay,” Hyacinth continued. “What do you think? Can a person be apodictic or not?”

  Indeed, he achieved it with that. Vrila could no longer contain himself and let out a quiet, wheezing laugh, whereby he held a hand in front of his mouth, knowing how dreadful his upturned mouth looked.

  Hyacinth considered him with a grin and a look from slightly narrowed eyes which had something confidential, even affectionate about them – if someone wished to convince himself of it.

  After a suppressed cough, Vrila, whose heart was fluttering wildly in his chest, regained enough control of himself and awaited Seymour’s reply.

  “Oh, I think a person certainly can be. Words are a means to a purpose. There are strict rules, but in my opinion, we should allow more freedom to the users of this means. Every individual knows what is meant when someone characterises him as apodictic. So, why shouldn’t the word be used that way?”

  “Just like I told you.” Hyacinth shrugged his shoulders spanned by the only shirt he owned at the moment.

  “Well, surely Seymour must know. I beg your pardon,” Vrila muttered with a raspy voice.

  Hyacinth appeared surprised but knew how to cover it up. “You should in future have more confidence in your husband,” he responded, sounding extremely serious. As if he’d bring up something full of meaning and not merely allude to their minor literary difference of opinion.

  Vrila cleared his throat several times. “We should be on our way.” He emptied the cup and put it on the side table next to his chair.

  “Be on your guard, boys. With each passing year, it seems the city becomes more dangerous.” Seymour heaved a sigh in sudden melancholy as he rose to accompany them downstairs and to begin the day in his store.

  *

  “Should I expect a severe lecture?” Hyacinth asked when they stepped out onto the street.

  As a reply, a gentle clap on the back of his head struck him though felt more like a reticent caress than a punishment. “There it is.”

  Hyacinth had to smile. So his husband was beginning to soften, hmm? His rigid façade seemed to be slowly crumbling, and he himself was in a gleeful upheaval over it. About it and the fact that he’d made Vrila laugh. He wouldn’t relent until he did so again – to do it over and over until Vrila finally kept his hand from his mouth and allowed him to see him laughing. Curiosity and anticipation about how his husband’s amusement would look churned in his stomach.

  Once at home, Vrila inserted the key in the lock and turned it. The second he opened the door, a postman approached them. The heavy-set man with blond hair examined them with thinly veiled curiosity, then he focused a piercing gaze on Hyacinth.

  “The Ardenovic gentlemen,” he greeted with a faint nod and placed a few letters into Hyacinth’s hands before he continued on to drop mail into postal slots.

  Hyacinth followed Vrila inside and scoured through the envelopes. He threw everything that didn’t look interesting on the counter. “Here’s a letter from Bartie. May I open it?”

  “Feel free to,” Vrila insisted, starting a fire in the oven to prepare breakfast. “And don’t act like you wouldn’t do it even if I forbade you.”

  Those words which contained a core of truth caused the corners of his mouth to turn up.

  The table was already set. He sat down at his usual place and opened the envelope, pulling out a card. He skimmed over the words which were composed in a beautifully embellished handwriting. “He’s inviting us to a social function. This evening. He writes that he’s definitely counting on our showing up, therefore we shouldn’t disappoint him.” He smiled while considering the friend to whom he owed a favour. In any event, he had freed Vrila from prison. Hopefully he didn’t expect additional, greater services in return for his beneficial intervention. “Will we be attending?”

  “Well, it would seem he’s commanding us to.” Vrila busily dealt with the pans, cracking eggs on their edges and letting them fry in oil. “You don’t have to accompany me if you’re not interested.”

  “Oh, but you’re the one who stands in the corner at such occasions, glaring at people as if you’d devour them on the spot.”

  Vrila raised his head and glanced at him under arched eyebrows. Was this supposed to be reproachful? Instead, his spouse gave the impression of trying to suppress his amusement. “If we had already eaten, I’d have to ask you if you inadvertently had a jester’s breakfast.”

  Hyacinth beamed with utmost satisfaction. Indeed, it was entirely possible to banter with his husband. That was a good thing – a beautiful thing… Just like the twinkling in Vrila’s dark eyes. Almighty Lord, where had this insane thought come from?

  He concentrated on the card again, although there was nothing left to read that he hadn’t read already.

  He searched for words to break the silence. “Before we go visit the tailor, I should take a quick bath.”

  “I don’t mind.” Vrila nodded as he brought in breakfast and sat next to him. “Bon appétit.”

  “Bon appétit,” Hyacinth whispered and reached for his fork while not letting Vrila’s profile out of his sight.

  Again he wondered how his laughter might look. And although his crooked teeth could hardly be overlooked, he had the feeling Vrila’s laughter would have no repulsive effect on him whatsoever…

  *

  While Hyacinth was taking a bath, a
n excited knocking erupted at the front door. Even without looking, Vrila knew it had to be Perkovic. Only he had that persistent, intrusive manner of knocking. As he got up to open, he saw the man wasn’t alone.

  Haggard and he were holding between them a confused and bedraggled looking man. His grey hair was dishevelled and jutted out wildly from his scalp, reaching to his narrow chest. A black, dusty wool scarf hung around his neck, and a long overcoat enveloped his body.

  “What in hell?” Vrila asked bluntly when he let in the uninvited guests. His displeasure was considerable. Why were they dragging this old man into his house?

  “Our dear Mr Fowler has something to tell you, Gavrii,” Sergei replied with a smirk. He still sounded sober.

  They set the stranger down on a chair at the table and, while Haggard leaned against the counter to watch the interview from a slight distance, Sergei dropped down next to the homeless man.

  “So, Timothy,” he began in a calm, friendly tone. “Now, from the beginning again for my friend here.” With a hand, he pointed to Vrila.

  The old man, whose face appeared creased and greyed by age, looked up at him and gulped before he spoke in a voice that could have competed with a grindstone: “Sir, I didn’t mean to hurt you. Only, my brother was taken from me! Since then I’m very cautious whenever someone comes to our home.”

  “Your home?”

  “You entered without knocking. I became terribly frightened. After all, my brother was taken from me.” Fowler licked his lips, seemed to be suffering from a dry mouth. He fidgeted with his hands, and Vrila noticed a bandage apparently stained with blood around the right one.

  Gradually it dawned on him. That was the fellow who’d overpowered him in Elwood? Excellent, he’d let himself be knocked down by a wispy, old homeless man. What kind of protector had he been for his young husband?

  “We had no way of knowing you were residing in that dump,” he defended himself.

  “But of course I live there! Didn’t you see the sign on my door? It shows a silhouette of a goat, because my mother was so fond of those animals.”