6: Rage
—New Town, Prague, December 2016—
We’re at Dolce Vita.
After reading the short text from Lukas, Simon grew worried. He was hurrying through the darkened streets of the city toward the tiny café they all knew so well. Apprehension made him look around himself nervously. It was an innocent enough text exchange, but if he was supposed to come immediately, something of importance must have happened.
Simon turned around the corner, and his heart started beating faster. What was going on with him? He felt sharp claws of fear creep up his spine. The hair on the back of his head stood as he opened the glass door to the café, and he stilled in the doorway seeing the figure in front of him. A man’s back was to him, Simon couldn’t see his face. He was a little shorter than Simon, his frame smaller all around, almost skinny. He had on a dark-blue hoodie, snug faded jeans hugged his lean legs, red Converse sneakers were peeking out from under the threadbare grayish fabric. His posture was relaxed, hands in the back pockets of his jeans; the edges of the familiar clockwork tattoo peeked from underneath his pushed-up sleeve. The man rocked on his heels.
Simon knew immediately who it was. He would have recognized him just from the angle of the man’s spine, the way his hair lay on his neck. The gauges in his ears were a different color, but Simon knew.
He felt the presence of others in the room vaguely, the voices maybe greeting him, somebody touched his arm. Simon couldn’t move.
He was a rational man—he valued self-control and awareness. He’d seen his share of drama and sorrow in life. Hell, he’d created a lot of drama himself in the past few months. But nothing could have prepared him for this moment.
In slow motion, the shoulders of the man in front of him stiffened, he turned, and Simon saw Matěj’s face for the first time in years. His blue eyes were huge, both excited and terrified. His voice the softest of whispers, barely audible, when he said, “Simon…”
He was still breathtaking.
His face was thinner, tired, his features strained, haunted, his black hair the usual mess, irregular stubble covering his sunken cheeks, and he’d replaced the wooden gauges in his ears with simple black ones. Simon felt all the memories rushing back, flooding his head. He saw glimpses of the same beautiful, ragged face in a hundred different moments. The black eyelashes casting shadows on Matěj’s cheeks as he slept young and peaceful in Simon’s bed, a fading bruise on his jaw… His head thrown back in a fit of laughter or in pleasure… The crooked mischievous smirk, his forehead sweaty in the midday sun when they were out somewhere running…
And Simon felt the urge to fall to his knees and wail in the agonizing pain and overwhelming relief. Matěj was right there in front of him, close enough to touch.
Simon probably looked crazy, because Matěj made no move toward him, just continued to stare at him, his lips moving, trying to form words. They were both mute.
Simon started shaking. It took him a moment to recognize the emotion that sent his hands in tremors and his head moving vehemently from side to side in refusal.
White-hot blinding rage.
Never so angry before in his life, Simon spun and rushed back on the street, gripping the back of his head, his teeth grinding together.
How dare he! Who the hell did he think he was, barging back in Simon’s life like this, expecting what? That Simon was here all the time sitting on his ass waiting? Because that was exactly what Simon had been doing. Waiting and waiting and wallowing in memories. Trying to hold on to every detail and trying to forget it all at the same time. Fuck that!
Simon did not know where he was headed, did not feel his own speed, but soon he heard footsteps behind him and a too familiar voice called, “Simon, please!”
He stopped on some crossroad—a tiny park and a battered old art nouveau house created a backdrop to the surreal scene. Matěj caught up with him but stopped two meters away, judging smartly he should stay back.
Simon opened and closed his mouth, the muscles in his face caught in furious spasms. The anger flooded his body and mind like lava, melting all reason, all his self-control.
“Almost four years,” were the first words Simon uttered, seething. Because damn it, those years felt like walking knee-deep in fast-setting concrete. Matěj flinched at the menacing whisper. “Where the fuck have you been?” He paced, his hands in fists, his head still shaking. No, not like this. No!
“I…worked in Freiburg, in Germany,” Matěj answered, nervous but collected like Simon would be around a psychotic patient. The composure of the man who’d destroyed his life made Simon see red.
“Working in Germany,” he spat, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “And do you have any idea what was going on here while you were working in Germany?”
“I talked to Mike. Simon, I’m—”
“Mike,” Simon laughed evilly, not recognizing his own voice and not caring. “Well, let me fill you in further because Mike knows shit!” He kicked a wall and then spun taking two steps toward Matěj pointing a finger at his chest. “You left me here with your heartbroken, beaten-up sister who was weeping in my arms every evening for a fucking month straight! I organized a funeral and cleaned up the apartment after your fucked-up bastard of a father. I wiped your father’s splattered brains from the walls. I talked to detectives and lawyers for her. I paid for her psychotherapy and prescribed her anti-anxiety meds. I held her hair when she vomited in the middle of the night after dreaming of you. Then I locked myself up in the bathroom so I could lose it myself without her worrying about me.
“You left without a word, without a note, never calling or…shit! Sending a fucking email! We were worried sick—sometimes I thought you were dead in a ditch somewhere! And all the while you were what? Working in Germany!?” Simon yelled the words. “And now, when we have finally managed to put ourselves back together after the shitstorm you left behind, here you are. Just like that?
“You’ve ruined me. You’ve ruined my life. And I thought there had to be a damned good reason for you to disappear on me. But no, you were off earning euros in Germany.”
Simon was high on the anger, reveling in the raging energy. He felt like he’d just stood up and started sprinting after being bed-bound for years. The relief! The clarity of mind his rage brought was invigorating.
And Matěj stood there taking it all.
“I am so sorry, Simon. Forgive me,” he stammered. “I thought…”
But Simon was winning, and he deserved to win. “Forgive you?” he asked mockingly. “Go fuck yourself!” he said. Then he turned and started walking away.
“I messed up!” Matěj shouted after him, his voice breaking. “I know I messed up!”
Simon stopped, tilting his head to the side. Should I…? He considered turning around for a brief second—to shout some more, to scream, to spit in the face of the man who made him lose his control, who made him feel like he was less than nothing, to slap the deceptively beautiful face.
Dismissing those urges, he calmly stated over his shoulder, not looking back, “You should have stayed. Whatever happened, you were supposed to be here for your sister.”
Then he continued down the street.
***
Matěj crouched down, his body sagged, and his hands gripped his head, slapping his temples a couple of times. Then he rubbed his face with his palms and finally rested his elbows on his knees. He sat in the middle of the sidewalk, staring toward the end of the street where Simon had disappeared a few minutes ago.
That was how Marta and Mike found him ten minutes later. They got him to his feet and led him to Marta’s apartment where he curled into a ball on the couch.