Stained

The sand was grey in that shadowy evening, and as we walked, our footsteps were wiped clean by the rushing waves; the breakers hurling themselves with suicidal conviction and vindication at the darkening shoreline. Mathias strode along by my side, making those obligatory noises of non-committal conversation: the words we spoke tainted by those we hadn’t needed to. We walked in that place where no one would take him but me; in that place where I could take no one else, where the weather was stormy and clouds lay low. The cold water lashed against the sand and black rock in its quick, aggressive movements; against the gritty sand where we walked, bare-footed, with our trousers rolled up, seemingly silent. The sea was green, foul with life: foul with death.

Mathias himself was pallid, and emaciated, and exhausted; characteristically ghostly, characteristically expressionless. He was young, and coldly beautiful. Every movement Mathias made was a movement made carefully; every footstep, every frown, every gesture. He would always have to be careful. And there were a lot of things that would occupy a mind like his.

“The commission.” He would say to me. Words that he repeated, therefore, it was something tangible that meant something to him.

“You have nothing to worry about.” I said, but I had always been a liar. “It’ll be fine.”

He cut his grey eyes to me in a glance that I should have tried to interpret, but it was too brief. When I met his eyes he looked down at the surf that curled round his footsteps, as if I had caught him doing something he shouldn’t have been. There were times, like this, when he seemed strangely childlike, and brittle. Then the moment would pass, and the sea would whisper to us in the distance. I glanced at his hands and wrists, pale and bruised grey. They were fresh wounds. Bloodless, yes, but fresh.

“The commission.” He would say: just two words which had no real meaning to me. His voice was low and articulated. He was softly spoken. And I would always reassure him. I didn’t need to be sincere. He looked at me again; pale, grey eyes sharply focused on the storm behind my own insouciance.

“How’s Pavel?” I had felt the question come, because it always did. And it always would. Mathias hated him, but maybe so did I. I wasn’t really sure about him anymore: physically, Pavel was the closest person to me, but emotionally, the farthest away.

“How the hell should I know?” I smiled a little, for his benefit. It wasn’t needed, really. “He does what he likes.” I shrugged.

“You know that.”

He didn’t say anything, but he looked at me with those hollow grey eyes. Almost drowned out by the howl, he quietly said: "Just an easy source of conversation."

I snorted. “Because it’s easy to talk about someone one holds in such contempt?”

A smile of decided derision tugged at the corner of his young mouth. “Are you talking about me, or you?”

I paused. “You.” He raised an eyebrow, but left it at that.

I kept walking along with him, the constant lurch of the water, the soft slopping of the waves against the rough, callous rock like a reminder of the turmoil that would, undoubtedly, be waiting at home: if Pavel was waiting for me there.

* * *

But Pavel never comes home when he says he will; he stays out with his students. That's what he tells me, anyway.

I was perched on the edge of the sink, smoking a cigarette, when he came home. “Marushka?” At first his voice was gentle, but then he saw me and his expression hardened. “He's been here hasn't he?” His lined face contorted in some unidentifiable passion.

I shook my head; gauze-like smoke floating darkly in the gloom like a tangible manifestation of the unbreakable barrier between us. But it was made of more than just smoke and shadow. It was made from the very festering material of our countless, lying years.

“Not since Friday,” I said, “but he may as well have been.” He picked up my annoyance immediately; even the cause of it. He had had a lot of practice at that.

“I was out with my students.” I nodded.

“Well, that's where you always are, isn't it, Pavel?” I twitched the ash off the tip. “Out with your students; satisfying your ego.” I took a drag; holding the smoke at the back of my throat to feel the tar itch.

“This isn't about me.” He said. “It's about that bloody invalid being here again. You know I don't like him, and yet you still bring him here.” He sat down roughly, in a coarse way that Mathias never would.

“He's not an invalid.” I felt myself grow ugly and cold. “You have no idea what he's like.”

“Then what is he?” Pavel stood: gesturing emphatically. “What is he like?”

“He's not like you!” I snarled.

“No,” he said, “he's not like me, is he, because he responds to your childish and selfish manipulation; he lavishes all that attention on you; this sordid attention you just have to have.”

“No, Pavel,” the cigarette had died in my fingers, “he's not like you, because he needs me. Mathias needs me. My husband doesn't need me – he just swans off with his students because he can't stand the thought that he's getting old. They won't make you any younger.” He wanted to interrupt me, but I didn't let him. “Just face it, Pavel, we've been independent of each other for years; the only reason it bothers you is because you're offended I can live without you.” I sneered gently. “Didn't you think it was possible?”

He shook his head as I put the dead cigarette in a nearby wineglass. “You don't know what you're talking about.”

“You're jealous because Mathias is the one constant in my life, now.” I told him, and his expression convulsed in disgusted deceit. “And because he needs me, but I don't need you.”

It was too truthful.

“Marushka,” he said, and as his eyes sought me out in the darkness, the phone began to ring. We both looked at it, like we would look at an intruder in our home. Though it wasn't really 'our home' anymore. Not now. “Marushka, don't answer it.” I watched him. The phone rang. Within a moment I had crossed the room. Pavel lowered himself into the chair, watching me wearily.

“Yes?” He watched me with eyes that regretted retrospection. “Yes it is.” I listened. “I'll be there as soon as I can.” I didn't turn to him: “He's back in hospital.”

“You don't have to go.” He said to me as I pulled on my coat, grabbed my keys. “He can take a taxi for once in his life - you don't always have to go for him!” He tried to keep me there. “I'm so sick of sharing you.” He said quietly.

I was already on the step outside, in the cold, and in the dark. He had followed me to the door. “You had your chance.” I said, leaving that man there, watching me leave him.

* * *

I found him as I was walking the monotonous corridors of the hospital, where malleable flesh comes to rot. He sat on an examining table, sallow and stagnant; rolling down his sleeve with his grey eyes cast to the floor. The nurse, whose name I could never remember, was talking.

“Other than that there's nothing much I can do.”

He nodded slowly, and looked at me without expression.

“What happened?” I asked her. She looked over her shoulder at me; her mouth a hard line across her face.

“He had another haemorrhagic diathesis.” He was still expressionless. “A mild one.”

I stood by Mathias, putting my hand on his. He didn't respond. I looked down at his clothes: stained in his own blood. It looked like nothing more than a nose bleed to me: but with a haemophiliac, this abnormal tendency to spontaneous, often severe, bleeding could be fatal. This was just the latest in a long list of similar cases. He had to be careful. Even as little as a knock to the head could cause internal bleeding that would kill him.

“But since you've been taking the desmopressin, you should be alright.” And as she continued to talk, for a fraction of a second, his eyes moved like a child who had been caught cheating, before resuming their former passiveness. But I had seen it, even if the nurse had not. He saw me looking and his eyes said: “Don't tell on me.” I said nothing. She stopped speaking.

“Will he be able to go home tonight?”

“I don't see why not,” she answered; “as long as he rests.”

I nodded, supporting him as he got up from the examining table. Out in the corridor, he let me go, walking on his own with his pale face shaming the white walls that were foul with decay.

Opening the door to Mathias' flat was like opening a door into the back of his mind – the mess I found inside never surprised me. The place itself was sparse; its kitchen windowless, cold. The filament bulbs cast unnatural shadows in a room that was already full of them.

I stood at the door and imagined how it must have been. I saw him hold his hands to his nose to stop the bleeding; I saw how, having gently taken the phone from its cradle, he had sat down slowly; his back against the wall. I saw his head tilt backwards as he waited either for the blackout, or the ambulance, whichever came first, to find him. I saw the resignation in his face; the desperate childlike fear behind his grey eyes. The white tiles were stained, like the faded linoleum, the phone receiver, like his clothes; like his life – all stained with blood. Those red hand-prints were grasping for something – something that remained, even now, out of his reach. A future, perhaps. An end. The pool of blood on the floor had congealed; crusted into dark decay.

I hadn't asked him: but now I that I'd seen this again, I had to know. “Why aren't you taking the pills?”

He looked at me with his grey eyes, with his cadaverous expressions, and he spoke slowly: “It's my choice if I live or die, isn't it?”

“If you don't take them next time you may not have a choice!” I hadn't known I was so angry, but I was screaming – my hands had formed fists, both of them; my skin taut against the knuckles. “You promised me you would look after yourself.”

He laughed: it was hollow and artificial and short-lived.

“Don't you see, Marushka?” He lowered himself slowly into a chair; his face hardened, his expression darkened. “That's exactly the problem. There will always be a next time.”

I looked in his fridge. Mathias was the only person I knew who kept blood in the same place where he kept his milk.

“Why didn't you get a transfusion?” I had these little red packages inventoried.

He closed his eyes, leant back, spoke softly: “It wasn't serious enough for that.”

“Was it triggered by something?” I ran the tap, holding my stained fingertips underneath.

“She wasn't sure.” He was so pale. “Though she said it may have been stress that encouraged it.”

“Stress?” I squeezed out the water from a cloth I'd found under the sink, turning the tap off. “What are you stressed about?”

“The commission.” He opened his eyes and leant forward, running a hand through his hair. “If I don't get it –” he blinked slowly at the floor, his eyes unfocused. His jaw hardened. “I might not call the ambulance next time this happens.”

“Jesus, Mathias,” I said hoarsely; “why can't you just take the god-damned pills?”

“I don't want them.” He said quietly, arching his fingers; “If they find out that I'm a haemophiliac – then I'm done. They'd never take me, I'm too much of a liability.”

“Mathias–”

“I'm too much of a risk,” he continued, and though the tone of his voice never changed, the more he talked, the more and more he was beginning to scare me, “too big a risk for anyone to take on.” He raised slim fingers to his brow, massaging his temple. Everything has a way of falling apart. I thought of Pavel, briefly.

It was a horrible place, the shadows gathering in the corners of the room, the smell, the memory – but I couldn't leave Mathias there alone with such darkness in his mind; the pale fingers of disease closing round his senses, slowly taking him away from me. His face was pallid, and his grey eyes darkened by his overwhelming exhaustion.

“You should go.” He didn't open his eyes, or move in any way

“Piss off.” I said. “This place is a mess and I don't trust you enough to clean it properly.” His hand-prints were not easily washed away. He smiled slowly like it took him a lot of energy to do so, and then suddenly his expression fell, as if a rogue thought had ruined it for him. He got up and stood in the doorway.

He said: “You should go home to your husband.” I met his gaze.

We stood like this for quite some time. Then he turned his grey eyes away, and left the room. Mathias opened the door for me, leaning against it with almost all his litheness, and watching me with a dulled expression as I passed.

“Call me.” He nodded slightly, vaguely. “Hey,” I snapped my fingers, and he blinked pointedly. “I said call me.”

“I heard you.”

We stood silently looking at each other. He was alone in his light-headed depression, while I watched what seemed to be the last dregs of enthusiasm in him draining away. His eyes narrowed, and I suddenly felt like it was the look of a man who would never see me again; as if I would never come back to him. It was the look of a man who wanted nothing more than his end to come. A look of suffering from a masochist. And behind the eyes; behind this there was nothing: just emptiness. Vast, grey emptiness.

He leaned forward, and I kissed him gently on the cheek; my hand lingering on his arm for longer than I had intended. We looked at each other closely: his grey eyes still fiercely nonchalant. And then I left him standing there as he was; no more than a shadow without form, moving around under the false appearance of shape.

* * *

Pavel had left the room as soon as he knew who was on the other end of the line. He had left without a word, but slammed the door on his way out.

Once he was gone, I spoke candidly: “I gave up my job for him; and gave up any hope of a real life when I did that. Our marriage is now nothing more than simple convenience, Mathias. To him at any rate.” I had never found my marriage to Pavel to be particularly convenient. Any fondness in my memory of a past happiness seemed to have completely evaporated. But that wasn’t right, somehow. I held the receiver closer to my ear, and waited for Mathias to finish. “Well, you see, that’s why we’re taking this holiday; it’s an attempt to salvage what we can of our relationship. I’m not ready to give up at this stage.” I listened to what he had to say; but it sounded like no more than disappointed silence to me. He then asked a question. “Tomorrow evening,” I replied, “quite late. Yes, we’re getting a taxi.” I felt it was my duty to try and save what I had with Pavel – this was my life and I couldn’t bear to live it in a failing marriage any longer. It was time for something to be done. “Yeah, I should really go.” He spoke softly, and I smiled. “I’ll see you when I get back.”

* * *

We went out to stand in the street, in the cold, and waited, our little suitcases sitting obediently at our feet. It was quiet. The rest of the world was asleep.

Pavel stood next to me, and as I raised my eyes to his aging face, he smiled gently. It had been a long time since I’d seen a smile like that from him; but all the arguments and hatred between us had subsided, lately. He raised his eyes to something across the street from where we stood, and his expression changed in that instant. Behind his eyes was the raw passion of disgust. I turned my head, and there, approaching us was Mathias.

But it wasn’t Mathias like I knew him; the reserved and softly spoken man whose flesh and bone needed gentleness to survive. His grey eyes had lost their focus; there was a flush in his cheek, as if he’d ran the whole way, and his voice was strong with some unnamed emotion. My husband, standing beside me, grew still and stiff.

Mathias ignored Pavel completely. “I was rejected.” He grinned like a fool. “I lost the commission. I’m a risk. I’m a liability.” He was different. He was false. He didn’t care anymore: “Just an occupational hazard.” He shrugged.

Mathias,” I was alarmed by the way he was acting. I put my hand on his arm to try and calm him down. “Mathias, I’m sorry, but…”

”You’re sorry but, yes you have to go don’t you?” He was wild, he was laughing. “You have to go with him.” His eyes cut to Pavel, who sneered at him in disgust. He lowered his voice: “You have to go with him.” Suddenly he gripped me with both of his hands, with his bruising, soft skin. Pavel started. “You don’t have to go with him.” The words tumbled out. “No, listen to me. You don’t have to go. You know you don’t want to, Marushka.” He grinned again. “You know you hate him.” Then his face suddenly fell; his eyes focused, and his voice was gentle. Pavel’s face hardened, and he stood, fists clenched, with fiery eyes fixed on us, standing in the street. “Marushka.” Mathias leant forward, pulling me in towards him in one movement, and kissed me.

It was tenderness like I had never tasted. It was a moment, a few seconds, of sinful satisfaction; of something pure, but fragile, something I had never thought I needed. Warmth and softness, passion and craving: all of this, from Mathias, who had always needed me. But almost as soon as he had his pleasure, he was gone, as Pavel finally found his courage. At the wrong time.

He was snarling, cursing, as he pulled Mathias away; and then there was the crack in the empty street. Mathias stumbled, reeling a little from the blow, smiling darkly as the blood began to flow from his broken nose. And then he opened his gentle mouth, and growling, said his harshest words: “Come on, you fucker, punch me!” He’s a lunatic, I thought. “Punch me because she loves me more than she loves you. Come on, you fucking Neanderthal, punch me!” He was shouting, provoking, goading him on. He was bringing on his death. “Punch me!”

My shouts fell silently. I found hysteria where calm had always been – I couldn’t make either of them stop: the man I loved, and the man who would soon be a murderer. The man I’d married. And Mathias, he was empty; too, too willing to let it all go. He knew it was the end. He had known the consequences of his actions. All he wanted now was his end to come. He had kissed me, then let go. He didn’t need me anymore. That was the worst part.

Pavel lunged at him again, and another hideous sound echoed in the glistening street as Mathias’ jaw shattered. He stumbled, holding a slender hand to his face, where the blood streamed and he smiled darkly. He laughed: dying in the street, dying in the night. Pavel was seething with anger, but as he finally saw Mathias fall to the ground, he stopped, and watched. I shouted at him to call an ambulance. He looked at me blankly, then ran inside the house.

I was soon bent over Mathias. He was dead.

I envied him for having the courage to let go, as he lay there in front of me; with his preserved youth, leaving me to decrepitude, decay, death, and suffering alone without him. He had always had it worse than me, but in the end, he had won. I envied him for his courage: I hated him for leaving me. His beauty was preserved in death; innocence, paleness and glittering blood from his grotesquely transformed nose: still the beautiful carrion in front of me. Stained with blood, red and pure, dark and vital. He was gone, eyes closed, mouth a little open, lying as he had fallen, his last breath a sigh of final satisfaction. He was white; whiter than the breakers, whiter than the hospital walls; whiter than the faded linoleum.

And without him I was lonely; so, so lonely – just a woman, in a street, listening to the ambulances that would never be able to bring back the only thing I had lived for; just a body, just blood – my fingertips stained with death.