In silence, Vrila regarded him; his lips were slightly open but he didn’t appear to want to reply. He looked disconcerted.
“Well then, you’re the doctor; you must know.” Hyacinth finally shrugged. “Maybe later I should auscultate you to reassure myself that I’m not mistaken.”
His husband’s pale cheeks reddened noticeably, and Mr Wiplay chuckled. “I’m sure he has no objections to your playing doctor.”
“Seymour!” Vrila scolded him with an indignant gasp then directed an admonitory glare at Hyacinth who laughed reticently.
“Don’t worry, Gavrila. I’d concluded myself that you’d become closer to one another today after I caught the two of you kissing earlier,” Mr Wiplay defended him, and the expression in his eyes softened: “On top of that, even a blind man could see how you truly like each other.”
So, would he? Hyacinths heart began to race with those words. Was it that obvious how much they liked one another? That pleased him because it meant he wasn’t just imagining Vrila’s affection. It actually existed.
Vrila cleared his throat and inconspicuously massaged his temples before he changed the subject of conversation to something innocuous.
*
It was early evening when he took Seymour home. The sleet had returned. While his old friend unlocked his door, Vrila held an umbrella over his head. The tiny bell jingled as they entered.
“Are you getting along all right?” he asked the old man when he heard him quietly sigh.
“But of course. I’m just so overjoyed the two of you have found each other.” Seymour turned to him after he’d removed his overcoat. He gave the impression of being happy and greatly relieved. Not until that moment did Vrila become completely aware of how much anxiety the man had experienced on his account.
“Seymour, it’s not like the lad would ever really be in love with me,” he responded, because he felt he needed to clarify and to disabuse his friend of the illusion of a wholesome world. At the same time, he wanted to put the racing of his heart in perspective. Why had he even brought into play this word – love? It had absolutely no relevance here, and Seymour hadn’t even mentioned it; rather he alone had started with it!
His old friend didn’t let himself get worked up. “Oh, isn’t it so?”
“No, of course it isn’t so. How could he? You … you know what I’m like.”
“Yes, I know what you’re like. But what’s more important is how you see yourself. So tell me, what are you like then?”
“Intolerable and repulsive,” Vrila responded tersely.
“Oh, you’re incurably stubborn when it comes to your distorted self-image! Let the boy decide for himself how he sees you.”
That reminded him of Hyacinth’s words that so often swirled in his head. Why do you think I see you with the same eyes as everyone else?
“He shouldn’t see anything else in me! I don’t want him to get disappointed!”
“Then make sure you’re the kind of person he sees in you.”
“That’s insanity, Seymour. Don’t you constantly tell him we should all be ourselves and never change to suit anyone else’s mould?”
“Yes, that’s what I say and I’ll stick with that. But I know Hyacinth sees in you exactly the man you try to hide behind your rough façade. You do it because you’re afraid, but it’s high time for you to finally become who you truly are.”
“You’re talking addle-headed nonsense. What you’re saying makes no sense at all! And what would I be afraid of?”
“You know that well enough yourself. I don’t wish to open old wounds. It’s unnecessary because I see from your expression it’s clear to you what I mean.” He pointed his finger at Vrila and narrowed his gaze to examine his face.
Vrila turned away to avoid being scrutinised. “You’re mistaken. About a lot of things.”
He expected a protest, but Seymour remained disturbingly relaxed and self-assured, totally convinced of his own opinion. “You love him. Is that also a mistake?”
Shocked at those words, Vrila trembled. When he raised his voice, he didn’t sound like himself. “It’s not a mistake!”
“See to it that you don’t lose him,” Seymour cautioned. “Open yourself to him and reveal who you really are, my boy. Hyacinth’s already known it for a long time; it’s up to you to take this step. Leave the past behind.”
Vrila gulped hard and choked. His throat was so tight it hurt.
“Do you think I’m capable of being a… a good husband?”
“More than any other man I’ve ever met.”
For the first time since he’d discovered, to his horror, his passion for Hyacinth, those words gave Vrila the impression he could do him justice. “Thanks.”
“No reason to thank me. I’m just telling the truth.”
“Nevertheless,” Vrila countered with a soft smile, “for everything, Seymour.”
The old man who for all those years had been his only father figure, energetically waved off the comment and sniffled: “Don’t make me sentimental, boy. Go to your husband and you two keep on kissing one another.”
With that, he turned and started up the spiral staircase. Vrila almost laughed while Seymour gently shook his head over the two of them.
When Vrila was almost out the door and on the street, he turned around to Seymour once more. The old man had stopped halfway up and looked at him over a shoulder. His wrinkled features had formed into a wistful, contented expression, and his eyes were sparkling. Now Vrila really had to laugh, and with the umbrella in his right hand and the doorknob in his left, he couldn’t cover his mouth.
Seymour reacted to this outburst and seemed as delighted as if he’d waited an eternity to see him laugh again.
Affected by this thought, Vrila now hurried out into the cold.
For a moment he thought about the future awaiting him. With Hyacinth at his side and Seymour in the neighbourhood. It meant family for him – and as it seemed, for the young man as well.
He paused in the middle of the street and grinned quite openly with happiness while the weather raged around him. Through the curtains he could make out Hyacinth’s slender figure casually leaning on the counter. Sergei, who had just arrived as Vrila left the house with Seymour, sat on the sofa. He’d been thrown out of the hospital before Fowler had regained consciousness.
With a smile he admitted to himself that even Perkovic was a part of the family.
When it at last became obvious to him he was standing in front of his own house and staring in like the biggest oaf in all of Ascot, he held his head high and squared his shoulders to step inside with an indifferent expression on his face.
However, he couldn’t so easily dispel the pleasantly warm feelings in his breast nor his grin. Certainly not when the smile of his husband struck him – right in the heart.
Chapter 14
Sergei knocked at the door. His usual doggedness was joined by a grim joy at the prospect of confronting the widower.
“Perhaps you should leave the talking up to me,” Vrila suggested considering his friend’s impassioned fervour.
“I’ll talk to him,” Hyacinth interjected. “I was the one who found out he’s lying. I’ll also be the one who confronts him with it.”
Displeased with the suggestion, Vrila was no longer able to dissuade the lad from his plan, since at that moment, the door opened. Only a tiny crack enabled him to recognise Fletcher’s face and see a multitude of door chains. “Wh-who’s there?”
“It’s us, Fletcher. Open up; we need to speak with you,” Perkovic replied impatiently and shifted weight from one leg to the other. “Do you intend to leave your comrades standing out here in the cold?”
“Oh, it’s you,” came the response, and Vrila could perceive his relief, which they would soon spoil.
The numerous chains jangled as the lord of the house unfastened them to admit his allies after what seemed an eternity.
“Restrain yourself,” Vrila whispered to his husband who rolled his
eyes in response. It upset him that Hyacinth gave no impression of taking his reservations seriously or even of having the slightest inclination to follow his order. Even though Fletcher seemed harmless, he still didn’t want to risk letting the man take his anger out on his lad.
They stepped into an uncomfortably narrow vestibule and paused at its end until Fletcher had barricaded the door once more and led them upstairs into his living room.
The room wasn’t large, the walls unusually low. Vrila felt uncomfortable and nearly smothered. Dismal pictures were hanging everywhere, affecting his mood. The furniture was just as sombre, in a blue, nearly black hue. The various pieces appeared to be old and in need of repair.
Although Vrila had presumed Fletcher only experienced paranoia outside his home, inside as well the man constantly glanced around to keep everything in view. Though perhaps their arrival had unsettled him that much.
“Have a seat. Are there any new discoveries? Have you found out something?“ Fletcher asked and lowered himself onto a half-tattered chair, its stuffing falling out like the innards of carrion.
That comparison nauseated Vrila, therefore he preferred to remain standing while Hyacinth and Sergei each sat down.
“No, we’re here for a different reason.” Sergei shook his head and clenched his teeth. “Mr Ardenovic has a few questions to ask you.”
“More questions? No, why do you want to torment me?” the widower exclaimed and cringed when a floor plank squeaked under Vrila’s feet. He stared wide-eyed at him and seemed to need some time to comprehend it was merely him and not some avenging spirit. What in hell was the man hiding?
Vrila hadn’t expected much from the visit, but now that they were assembled there, the gloomy atmosphere caused a change in his attitude. Fletcher was keeping something to himself, and at once he had the feeling it was of significance to all of them.
”Mr Fletcher, I…” Hyacinth exhaled. The surroundings seemed just as stifling to him as to Vrila. “I was told you argued frequently with your wife. Is that true?”
“No! No, that’s not true! Who’s telling such horrible lies?“
“People in the city are saying it. Mr Wiplay told me. By the way, he sends you cordial greetings. He thinks it possible you may remember him.”
A shadow fell briefly across Fletcher’s face then he smiled so abruptly they were all surprised. “Oh, yes. Seymour Wiplay, the man with the antique store. I remember, but we haven’t seen one another for a long time. So he says that people are talking about me?”
“Rumour has it that your marriage wasn’t as fulfilling as you remember, Sir.” Hyacinth nodded gently. “Of course, that is only from the perspective of some people unknown to us who didn’t know you and your wife very well.”
As if to get himself out of quicksand, Fletcher grabbed for the olive branch being extended. “That’s true! Those people didn’t know us! People gossip so much in this town. They imagine things, pull shit out of thin air to discredit my Molly!”
“So, there’s not a scrap of truth in those rumours, then?”
“No! Certainly not!” Fletcher asserted and shook intensely.
“You have never argued with your wife? Perhaps it happened in public and caused people to believe something was wrong in your marriage.”
“No, we never argued! Never!” Fletchers pudgy cheeks turned red with anger – or on account of his obvious lie.
“Mr Fletcher, all married couples argue from time to time,” Hyacinth stated softly and cast a fleeting glance at Vrila – tenderly, so it appeared to him. “There’s no shame in that and most certainly says nothing about whether they love each other or not.”
Vrila’s heart skipped a beat since he understood the innuendo. Those sweet words made him blush against his will, and he turned to face the ugly pictures on the walls.
“Molly and I never, never, never argued! Never! There was never an angry word, not even an angry look!” Fletcher covered his face with his plump hands. “Not an angry word,“ he repeated and inhaled sharply.
“That’s utter nonsense,” Sergei interjected with a scowl. “You can’t tell me you were married for thirty years and never argued. That’s ridiculous, and you must take us for complete idiots if you think we’d believe you.”
“It’s the truth!” the widower objected in desperation and balled his hands so firmly into fists his knuckles turned white.
“You’re trying to pull the wool over our eyes,” Sergei growled and bent over Fletcher, who sank farther down in his chair. “We don’t know what you’re hiding from us, but I swear we’re going to find out, and then, my good man, we’ll have you by your fat gullet!”
As Vrila was about to reprimand his friend by sharply calling out his surname, Fletcher leapt up.
“I’ve done nothing! I’ve done nothing wrong!” he screamed completely disturbed, caught hold of himself again then held up a finger: “Out of my house, all of you! I thought we were allies in this affair! I thought together we were going to put the murderers in prison and have our revenge, but I was mistaken!”
Screaming incessantly, he chased them downstairs and forced them out onto the street. After a frightened glance at Sergei’s face, he refastened the many locks on his door to barricade himself inside – from whatever it was he feared.
The weather was so dreadful the city lay in a nocturnal gloom although it still wasn’t very late in the day.
Vrila quickly opened the umbrella and held it over Hyacinth’s blond, curly head. “You did a splendid job with that one, Sergei.”
The reply was an indignant grumbling as Perkovic continued to stare at the door behind which Fletcher was probably standing, observing them through the peephole.
Hyacinth had buried his hands in the pockets of his coat. “The man is more than just suspicious. Did you notice that he doesn’t have a single picture of his wife among all of those framed atrocities? For somebody who claims to have idolised his wife; that’s even more than just doubtful.”
“What do you think the fat bastard did?” Sergei asked and turned his back on Fletcher’s house.
“I think he’s one of them. I also think he’s responsible for the death of his wife. Probably she couldn’t hold her tongue, and the society made sure she was out of the way. Now he feels guilty.”
“That could explain his intense anxiety.” Vrila nodded, finally convinced that Fletcher wasn’t the pure soul he’d thought him to be. He recalled a feeling that had haunted him – as though Fletcher feared some kind of avenging spirit, the spirit of his wife.
“He sees ghosts, you mean.” Sergei grinned as if he’d read his thoughts.
“Or he’s afraid he’s going to end up just like his wife,” Hyacinth interpolated. “Or both,” he quietly added and looked with concern at Vrila who was still protecting him from the sleet with his umbrella. “What should we do now?”
Vrila found that imploring look hard to bear since he didn’t have a good answer to the question. Yes, what would – what could they do?
Sergei came to his aid: “Essentially, there’s nothing we can do. We don’t have any proof, just a neat theory about how it might have been. And even that isn’t complete. So what we actually have is a suspicion, nothing more. We certainly can’t do much with that, but at least we now know Fletcher can’t be trusted and mustn’t be privy to anything more. Good thing we saw through his façade before he learned anything about our progress. We ought to be grateful Mr Wiplay alerted us about him.”
“He’ll inform the secret society that we suspect what really happened,” Hyacinth muttered with a hoarse voice, disclosing his fear.
“Don’t give it a second thought. They’ve known for a long time that we’re on their trail. Our suspicions about Fletcher don’t really make any difference.” Vrila tried to assuage him, though he wasn’t as convinced himself.
“I also believe it’s one and the same to them. The people belonging to this order are so damn arrogant they put an informer in front of our noses and assu
med we won’t get what game they’re playing.”
“To be exact, for nearly a year we didn’t get what game they were playing, Sergei,” Vrila reluctantly reminded him.
His interjection was dismissed with a gruff hand gesture. “Ah, shut your fucking mouth, Gavrii.”
“We’ll have to be cautious, won’t we?” Hyacinth didn’t appear to be especially comforted. The triumph of having been right could have shone on his face; instead he was merely pale.
“We will,” Vrila forced himself to declare and briefly cupped Hyacinth’s cheek. To his surprise, the young man cuddled his face in his hand and closed his eyes for a moment. His skin was cool and soft.
When he noticed Sergei’s pained expression, embarrassed he pulled away from his husband and scratched the back of his neck.
“We ought to sleep on these matters for a night before we meet again. Haggard should be told today what’s going on with the Wesselins. The fine Mr Urly will have to be patient a while longer,” Perkovic stated at last and suddenly seemed to be in a hurry. “Take care not to be attacked in the streets, gentlemen.” He tipped an imaginary hat with the suggestion of an ironic smile and disappeared into a side street heading toward the Pecan Bridge.
To Vrila’s amazement, Hyacinth linked arms with him, and they started homeward. For the remainder of the walk, Vrila couldn’t make himself release his grip on the pistol in his coat. Just in case…
*
From a distance Hyacinth could already make out a bulky figure standing at their front door. His fingers enveloped Vrila’s arm more firmly, and he edged closer to him. Who in hell was that and what did he want? It was still early enough for visitors, but his suspicions were aroused by the guy lurking there.
For protection, Vrila shoved him behind himself since he also seemed curious as to whom they were dealing with.
Their steps slowed, but while his own became unsteady, Vrila’s stride assumed a more determined and menacing attitude. Something that made Hyacinth feel protected.
A Hyacinth for His Hideousness Page 32