8: The Misadventures of the Foolish Virgin
—Dejvice, Prague, October 2016—
Jano usually worked on Fridays, hence Simon had more time on his hands than was good for him. In one of the many attempts to make some sense of his own life, he decided to go through all the old books and documents gathering dust in his two large bookcases. He sat on his living room floor, surrounded by several small piles, and turned the pages of an old tattered copy of The Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy trying to lighten his mood. He came to the part with the Vogon poetry and put the book away smirking.
Deceptively hidden, under the marvelous Douglas Adams, slept Simon’s copy of Arthur Rimbaud’s selected works. As a teen and young student, Simon had pored over Rimbaud’s verses—almost enough motivation to learn French—but Simon always thought it was a vile language, complex yet without order. The masterfully conducted Czech translations had to do.
He used to be fascinated by Rimbaud and Verlaine’s story, but in the past few years, it had filled him with disgust and contempt. It was century-old gossip—longer than that even. Paul Verlaine, at the age of twenty-seven, had left his wife and baby for Rimbaud, who was only seventeen at that time. They’d lived together in London for barely a year before Verlaine ended up in jail for shooting his young lover in the wrist. He should have shot the manipulative bastard to death, Simon thought.
Simon was convinced that young Rimbaud had exploited Paul Verlaine, taken everything the poor poet had to give, written one hell of a book about it, and then fled to assuage his itching wanderlust leaving Paul to rot in jail, forever to be scorned and eaten by regrets. Quite an accomplishment for a teenage boy.
Simon fingered the pages and saw his old penciled marks by the passages he’d found especially offensive. There were a few dark hours in Simon’s past when he’d sat with the book long after midnight nitpicking through the text, looking for proof of Rimbaud’s crimes against Verlaine’s love and sacrifice.
One night I sat Beauty on my knee. – And I found her bitter. – And I hurt her.
Like a minion stumbling and sliding into the muddy ditch he himself had dug, Simon couldn’t stop. He was drawn to the passages where Rimbaud wrote from Verlaine’s perspective, describing their relationship and how Verlaine, or the “foolish virgin,” lived it. Even after reading the book countless times, Simon still marveled at the twisted mindfuckery. The evil genius was maybe eighteen when he wrote it. Simon glowered at the pages as if he could erase the familiar words with his stare.
His kisses and his warm embraces were a heaven, a dark heaven, into which I have entered, and where I would have preferred to have remained: poor, deaf, mute, blind.
Oh Paul, you fool.
One more unsettling emotion emerged, making Simon stare at the black letters unseeingly. What had happened to Paul Verlaine’s baby? Simon never gave much thought to the infant. The poor kid was apparently not good enough to keep Dad at home nor interesting enough for the biographer to mention the child’s fate in the preamble. Well, it was Paris in the 1870s. Kids were expendable.
Simon rubbed his hand against his breastbone, unaware of the movement. You have to let it go.
Ashamed of the arrogance of ever comparing his love life to Verlaine’s, he grimaced. He was stronger now, older, wiser. He put the book onto the pile of rejects he was going to leave at a secondhand bookstore. He’d learned to value stability and trust since the time he’d made the notes in the obnoxious book. Or, at least, he hoped he’d learned.
With the bookshelves clean and their contents alphabetized, emails answered and an article on toxic psychosis revised, Simon had nothing to do but stare through the window at the violent summer storm and drink.
The amber liquid danced in the glass as Simon swirled it from side to side. The humidity from the late summer rain was making its way into the apartment. He inhaled deeply, observing the protruding veins on the back of his hand. A flash of memory accosted him—a single long finger on his skin, tracing the same bluish veins. He squeezed his eyes closed and swallowed the rest of the whiskey.
Why is it all coming back now?
***
After all the pouring rain and electrical display of storms, Sunday was hot and dry again. They were driving out of the city to hike in the hills close to Benešov when Simon brought up the subject. Jano sat in the passenger seat, gulping down an energy drink. Simon eyed the can with disgust. He was still tired after his night at the hospital and merely looking at the can of chemicals made his stomach queasy. What was wrong with regular coffee?
“Have you ever thought about having a kid?” he asked casually, looking back and putting the car in reverse to park on the gravel path. The tall trees created a heavy canopy that hid the aggressive sun and cast a cool shade over the trails.
Jano flashed Simon a strange look. “Where did that come from?”
“It’s a normal enough question,” Simon said. They got out of the car, taking their backpacks from the trunk. Simon locked the car and headed for the narrow path. Jano followed muttering about the lack of uteruses in the present company.
“I was serious,” Simon grumbled.
At that, Jano bristled. “Okay, you seem to have thought about it, so tell me, Simon. Do you want kids?”
“Someday, yes.” Simon deemed it safer to ignore the ironic undertone in Jano’s question. “Moving abroad would be necessary, I guess. For instance, there’s a constant shortage of psychiatrists in Norway, Sweden, and Germany.” He shrugged noncommittally.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Simon.” Jano’s eyes flashed with anger.
“What?”
“How much do you actually know about this?” Before Simon could answer, Jano started rattling facts. “Czech gay couples can be foster families but they cannot adopt. Only a single person or a married couple can adopt. Have you any idea what it means in reality? Or of the legal consequences?”
Simon inhaled to say something again but was interrupted before he could get out one syllable. Jano’s voice gradually rose in volume.
“All the countries in Europe allowing gay couples to adopt have a decent social system, which means the number of infants available for adoption is close to zero. The South American countries that offer children for adoption to Europe almost never accept same-sex applications. Denmark has surrogates but the cost is way above what you can afford on your salary, I promise you that.”
Simon composed himself enough to interrupt Jano there. “So you have thought about it?”
“Of course I have! I am a thirty-year-old man from a family of five siblings. I’ve got seven nieces and nephews I’ve seen growing up. I’ve put more thought into this than you ever have!”
“Then why are you so angry?” Simon asked calmly, genuinely confused by Jano’s reaction.
“Because this isn’t some random idea for me! I’m not looking for an interesting way to fill in the blanks. I don’t want to use some helpless human being like a piece of tape to cover the emptiness I’m feeling!”
Whoa. Simon blinked several times. He felt like he’d just been slapped.
“And I am?” Filling the blanks in his life with a kid? That was not what Simon was doing. Or was it? Did Jano feel his life was empty? Or did he just know Simon better than he’d realized?
“I can’t believe I’m having this conversation with you.”
Jano seemed to deflate a little, but Simon was still trapped in a surreal moment, his thoughts on a loop. How had they come to this point of the conversation? “Why?”
“Let me see… Maybe because you’re unable to have a committed relationship in the first place?” Yes, Jano seemed to have found his spine after all. The anger and hurt flowed freely through his words. “And now you drop this bomb on me. What reaction did you expect, seriously?”
“Shit, I’m not asking you to adopt a kid with me.” Simon tried talking quietly and calmly; it only seemed to fuel Jano’s anger more.
“No, apparently you are not. What do you want from me, Simon?”
“Calm down. I’ve been thinking about the possibilities.”
“No. You haven’t really been thinking about it. You briefly entertained the idea.” Jano was embarrassingly right and he wasn’t done yet. “We’ve been together for what, a few months? I already feel exhausted from trying to drag any emotion out of you.” He paused but not long enough for Simon to recover. “You didn’t protest when I said you couldn’t commit. I wonder, why was that?”
Okay, Simon could accept he was an asshole when it came to the kid question, but this wasn’t fair. He couldn’t help raising his voice as well. “Of course, I can! I haven’t fucked around on you!”
Jano sighed and looked away. The fight left him; his body sagged. He was silent for a few seconds, making Simon wary. It must have been a premonition because his next words were like a kick in the crotch and an elbow in a kidney. “You’re holding on to a nonexistent relationship with a dead guy, Simon. Honestly, fucking around wouldn’t feel worse than this.”
Simon stopped walking and blocked the narrow trail. He acted reflexively to dodge the pain. “He is not dead,” he growled.
“Then where the hell is he? Where is this life-altering love of yours?”
“Fuck you!” Simon yelled and immediately froze, suddenly mute. He’d just screwed up. Irrevocably. He should have seen it coming, but he was so self-obsessed lately. Damn.
Jano gave a sad smile. “Thought so. I’d rather go home now if you don’t mind.” He turned around and walked the short distance back to the car.
***
They drove back to Prague in silence. From time to time, Jano looked out the passenger window, grimacing in anger until he fought tears in such an obvious way it made Simon cringe with embarrassment, as if he were watching early rounds of a talent show.
Simon parked in front of the panel structure from the seventies where Jano’s one-bedroom apartment was. He struggled to find something humane to say that wasn’t completely meaningless.
“I’ve never lied to you. I told you in the beginning there’s a lot of baggage. You said you were okay with it,” Simon remained studiously calm.
“Yeah, well. It was stupid of me.” Jano sighed, his voice on the edge of breaking. “I’m not sure if I want to raise a kid in this country. But I definitely don’t want to have a family with someone who doesn’t love me.” With that, he climbed out of the car, carefully closing the door behind him.
***
Simon parked his shiny spotless Škoda in his garage twenty minutes later. It was hardly surprising that through the conflict Jano had gained points in Simon’s opinion. He wasn’t a pushover after all; he was a bottler. He remembered all of Simon’s mistakes and saved them for later, bottling all the hurt until it spilled over. The questions remained: was the damage Simon had done reparable? Did he even want to try? Or should he take the cowardly way out and consider it a breakup?
In hindsight, the whole argument felt absurd. Why, oh why had he felt the need to talk about kids with Jano? He had to give his personal Mr. Hyde the thumbs-up for that advanced sabotage.
At home Simon drank some water, changed his clothes and went for a long run in the afternoon heat.
***
Three days later, Marta lingered near Simon’s living room door, waiting. They were going out after a long week of barely any contact. Simon didn’t admit how much he missed her, but she suspected for sure.
He buttoned his shirt, checking around him for forgotten items. His phone was in his back pocket, his wallet—
“You’re throwing these out?” Marta interrupted him.
He turned to see her crouching next to the small pile of books he’d intended to take to the secondhand store.
“Yeah.”
“Hm.”
She started going through them, reading the inscriptions, carefully building another small column. He left her to it and went to his bedroom to pick out a jacket from the closet.
When he came back, Marta was standing in the middle of the room waving Rimbaud in front of Simon’s face. Fucking Rimbaud.
“You used to love this one. I remember you sitting with it countless times.”
Simon averted his eyes. “Doesn’t mean I loved it.”
Marta looked at the book a little stunned. “Huh.” She frowned. “You know that Verlaine was probably abusive to Rimbaud when he was drunk? He used to beat his wife as well. He shot Rimbaud in the end.”
That’s the true nature of gossip, right there. No matter how old the story—one hundred and fifty years in this case—everybody remembered and passed on the parts which touched them personally. The truth became distorted by hundreds of other life stories until it became a cliché.
“There were many layers to that story,” Simon said, sounding detached.
“Looks old, this edition. Isn’t it a waste to throw it away?”
“It was printed only twenty-eight years ago.”
“Oh.” Marta paused, holding it in both hands, staring at it as if it had eyes that were staring back at her. “I want to keep it. Can I pick it up next time?”
Simon bit back his annoyance. He would never get rid of that stupid book. Shit.
“I don’t want to drag it to a bar with me,” Marta explained, probably sensing something was off.
“Of course. Leave it on the table. Let’s go.”
***
Marta’s cheeks were tinged with pink and her ears shone red between the loose strands of hair. She was tipsy, but so was Simon. This drink had to be her last—he shouldn’t let her order another mojito.
“Simon. Don’t hate me, but I asked Mike to help me find Matěj.”
Simon lifted his glass to his lips and set it down again without drinking. The sentence replayed in his head once more. …help me find Matěj. He leaned back, watching Marta grow completely red in her face.
“I wanted to tell you but there never seems to be a good time for this kind of thing. So, I’m telling you now because I’m drunk enough.”
“When was that?” Simon asked, not sure why it was important.
“Just before the wedding. We haven’t really got started. We’re waiting for a response from the Consulate in Munich.”
Thankfully, the alcohol lay like a dulling filter over all of his senses and thoughts. He could see himself becoming angry, hurt, or unreasonable in some other way, yet he felt eerily calm. Maybe he’d suspected something like this all along? The involvement of Mike stung, though. She’d told Mike first.
“Why now?”
A self-deprecating smile flickered across Marta’s features before she leaned back and sighed.
“You know, Mike asked exactly the same thing. The best answer I can come up with is that I should have done it months…years ago. I should have run after him directly from the hospital. I didn’t. Now is the best I can do.”
Many words rushed through Simon’s mind, most of which he couldn’t say because he cared for Marta too much. He settled on, “What if he doesn’t want to be found?”
“Then he’d tell Mike, and we let him be.”
Suddenly, Mike was the solution to everything. The hero. “Isn’t that rather cowardly?”
Marta scowled at him. “No. It’s respectful. If he’d prefer not to see me, he shouldn’t have to.”
Such nonsense! Why was she so careful? So full of concern and compassion when her brother didn’t care at all? “He would have come back already, Marta.”
She opened her mouth and closed it again. Simon could see her calm herself with effort. He didn’t want her to restrain her anger at him. He wanted her to lash out and scream at him. He wanted someone, please, to shake him, hit him, make him feel anything else than this vague sense of waste and pointlessness.
“I want closure if nothing else,” Marta said finally. “What do you wish for yourself, Simon?” She asked in all seriousness, suddenly looking very sober, obviously expecting an honest answer.
“Mostly I wish none of it had ever happened.”
“But then we would never have met. I wouldn’t have made it without you.”
Simon waved down the bartender and ordered two shots of tequila and one more beer for himself. Marta raised her eyebrows but downed her shot when he did.
Simon shook his head and continued the conversation as if there hadn’t been any interruption.
“That’s not what I wanted to imply. I’m failing at this. I just want it to mean less. I want him to mean less.”
Marta’s eyes glistened, and Simon felt the plush warmth of alcohol holding him tighter. He settled into the feeling, enjoying the numbness while it lasted, before it was replaced with murderous headache and morning-after self-hatred.
“He loved you too,” Marta said.
“He told you?”
“No.”
There was a heavy pause filled with silent understanding. They both knew what the other thought. Marta’s hope and Simon’s skepticism warred in the silence just as they always did. It was so common between them it made them smile at each other.
“You see, even if he did love me what difference would it make now? Feelings are just unfulfilled wishes. In the end, actions determine your future. And what we do is never based on how we feel inside. It can’t be.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Because of logic. Because people want conflicting things. You never meet another person who feels exactly the same as you do. Every single human interaction is a compromise of sorts. And with every compromise you die a little inside.”
“Simon, that’s a horrible thing to say!”
“Doesn’t make it any less true.”
“You could hack your brain into little cubes with your logic and you still couldn’t kill the love you feel.”
“Jano left me,” Simon said, not caring about the argument anymore.
“What?”
“Said, and I quote, ‘I’m tired of waiting for you to fall in love with me,’ end quote.”
“I’m sorry, Simon,” Marta reached across the table, but Simon moved away.
“Your brother is turning my life into a car-wreck. And he’s not even here.”
Simon’s heart clenched when he saw the tears filling Marta’s eyes. The faucet in Simon’s bathroom didn’t react as quickly as her tear ducts. Damn it. He was an ass.
“Forgive me, my love.”
This time it was Marta who ordered another round of tequila just as Simon felt the hit of the previous one to his frontal lobe. Thoughts tangled; logic left him. What a lovely feeling.
***
Simon didn’t remember leaving the bar but he remembered the taxi drive to Marta’s place and then home.
The book was waiting smugly on the dark glass coffee table when Simon stumbled into his apartment. He gave it one last evil scowl and dragged himself to the bathroom, managing to brush his teeth before he collapsed on his bed. He was going to pay for this at work in the morning.
Simon, you fool.