5: The Man in the White Coat
—New Town, Prague, September 2016—
Marta sat in the tiny café facing Simon. He looked good as always. His face had very distinct features: a quite irregular and prominent nose, high protruding cheekbones, broad expressive mouth, and deep frown lines between his thick eyebrows. His intelligent but tired eyes were green with golden flecks in them, and together with those eyebrows, Simon’s eyes spoke volumes even when the man was quiet. He valued practicality, always clean-shaven, and he wore his light-brown hair buzzed short, like a thick carpet on his skull. Marta liked the feel of it against her palm and usually sneaked in a quick pat on his head when they hugged. He was tall with broad, square shoulders and long limbs he controlled with the precision of a skilled basketball player. He had the kind of appearance that would leave a permanent imprint on anyone’s memory.
Then there was the ear, of course. Simon’s left earlobe had a large chunk missing; therefore, from a certain angle, Simon gave a subtle impression of a feral libertine cat. The story about how he sustained the injury used to change depending on his mood. At one point, there were several legends circulating about the day Dr. Simon Mráz had lost his ear. Lately, he hadn’t bothered explaining even when asked.
His green eyes shone against his lightly tanned skin, and the white coat he wore for work was draped over his chair. He usually played with random objects or drummed his fingertips on the nearest surface—it was a habit which had intensified when he stopped smoking a couple of years before—but he rarely appeared nervous. It just seemed the force of his personality, the energy and strength pulsing through him, needed an outlet. Because otherwise his face was always as calm and collected as his behavior. Marta found it absurd that even Simon’s fidgeting was graceful.
He had a shift starting soon so they sat down directly across from the hospital entrance despite the disputable quality of the coffee.
“How are you, love?” She liked his Moravian accent. He did not prolong the vowels in the annoying way the people born in Prague generally did. He twirled a coaster in his long fingers, his penetrating gaze fixed on her face.
Ready to jump out of my skin at any moment. Marta was keeping a secret from Simon for the first time. She hadn’t realized how difficult it would be.
“I’m okay. What about you?”
Simon sighed, straightened in his chair and looked through the window. He smacked the coaster on the table and rubbed his big wiry hand over the top of his head. Something was off. Marta waited, curious.
“I need to talk to you. I want to change our plans for tomorrow evening, but I would hate for you to feel cornered or forced, so you can say no to any part of the plan or just wave your hand and I’ll drop it.” He was talking too much. And Simon was not a talker.
“Simon, what’s going on?”
Simon shifted uncomfortably and took a deep breath. Here goes.
“I’ve been seeing someone lately.”
Marta held her expression, refusing to let anything show on her face before she was sure of how she wanted to react. This was no place for unguarded emotions. Simon deserved her support in any choice he made for himself. This was the very reason she wanted to move out in the first place.
“As in the same person repeatedly?” she asked and felt her forced small smile quiver around the corners. But Simon wasn’t looking at her. He looked out the window at the passing trams.
“Yes. His name is Jano. He’s a chef. Moved here from Eastern Slovakia last year. We’ve been seeing each other for a couple of months. I didn’t want to say anything in case it didn’t last.” Simon straightened in his chair and leaned back, fastening his gaze on Marta. “You don’t have to meet with him. Only if you want to. I thought I could invite him to dinner tomorrow. If you’re okay with that.”
“Of course, I am!” Marta stated, impressed with the strength of her own voice. She could do this. It should have happened a long time ago. “I want to meet him,” she clarified unnecessarily.
Simon smiled, but his face was tense.
“I only want you to be happy, Simon. You know that.”
“I do. And thank you.”
“Does he… make you happy?” She whispered the question.
Simon cleared his throat. “I think he could.” He looked through the window again, and his eyes half closed. His face contorted with deep unease before he schooled his features again. When he was fully in control of himself, he continued slowly, in a steady quiet voice, “It’s been more than three years. Some days it feels like he’s been gone forever. Some days I wake up and reach beside me expecting him to be there. Which is ridiculous because he almost never stayed the night. I could count on my right hand the number of times I woke up next to him.”
Marta listened to Simon with stunned disbelief. He was opening up to her. Finally. Gathering all her strength and self-control, she spoke quietly as if Simon were a wild animal she was afraid to spook. “I always suspected you didn’t want to date because of me.”
“No.” He looked up at her, his gaze steady. “No. I simply didn’t have the urge. I hadn’t met anybody interesting enough. It wasn’t because of you.”
No, not because of me. Because of him. And now I want to find him so I could hurt you more. “I’m certain he loved you back.”
Simon stilled. He didn’t seem to breathe for a moment. The flash of pain was brief yet significant, but Marta refused to regret her words. They’d never talked about Matěj, but times were changing now. They were stronger. No more codependency, no more brushing things under the carpet.
“I still miss him,” she said, the words providing a strange relief. “Sometimes I’m angry at him, too. But I miss him terribly.”
“I know,” Simon said, his voice hollow.
“I’m glad you’ve found someone. We should have moved on ages ago.” She could feel the power in her growing and solidifying. She was strong enough to handle this. She was strong enough to handle life.
Simon traced the edge of his empty coffee cup with his index finger, following the motion with his gaze. He remained silent. A hint of unease nipped at Marta’s consciousness, but she ignored it. They were fine, it was okay, they’d made it through.
“There were times when I thought it would just be you and I against the world forever, but that’s ridiculous. I really am glad for you, you know? I want this for you.” She lifted the coffee cup to take a sip, but it was already empty. She put it back on the table. “I remember one time, Dad was away on a job, and we were in the kitchen in the old apartment on Jagellonská Street. It was one of those easy days when we could be together without the…”
She cleared her throat instead of finishing the sentence. Simon frowned, looking to the side at nothing in particular.
“I don’t really know why that moment stuck with me. You sat exactly like this, opposite to me. And Matěj was baking. He was practically jumping around in the kitchen—he was so energetic, chatting and joking. It was beautiful to see him happy. You were shaking your head, smiling at something cheesy he’d said. And he lifted his hand and touched your cheek and told you to ‘loosen up, Doctor.’ He left some flour on your jaw. And I saw it in his face and in yours. You sat there, trying to rein it in, but it was all over you. The happy calm and the excitement, even the lust… I was so jealous then. I wanted something like that for myself one day. I still do.”
She looked up at Simon and almost cringed from the sheer sadness in his eyes, “I’m so sorry. I’m not telling you this to hurt you. Shit, Simon.” She lifted her hands, exasperated with herself. “What I wanted to say was…I want to see that look on your face again. You deserve it.”
It took a minute before Simon sighed and spoke again. “I was foolish then. It’s not like that now, and it feels…healthier.” He checked his watch. She recognized his need to escape.
“So, I meet Jano tomorrow, then?” she asked.
Simon nodded. “At seven,” he confirmed. “He’ll be cooking.”
“That’s great!” Marta smiled, stretching out her hand to cover Simon’s briefly. “I’m happy for you.”
He nodded again. His face was impassive, no sign of any emotion whatsoever. Marta pushed her worry at his expression aside. It was a habit—always analyzing Simon’s moods. She needed to stop it.
“I have to go,” Simon said, already rising from his seat. “I have a patient in ten minutes.”
Marta stood, too, and reached out for a brief hug.
“See you tomorrow,” Simon mumbled against her hair, and he was out of the door and across the street before she could respond.