"No… he probably doesn’t know," Robert admitted with a sigh. "He doesn’t want to know, and… that’s fair, I guess. If I was in his position, I wouldn’t want to know what happened either… and it probably frustrates him because I feel like I’m constantly clawing at the walls and shouting, trying to get him to hear these things he doesn’t want to hear. I don’t want him to hear it, but I can’t stop screaming, you know? It’s always there… I try to get rid of it with booze but… it just makes it a little more hazy. It never goes away completely…"
He sighed, sliding a hand over his hair. “Maybe I’m just crazy at this point. Maybe this is my penance for not measuring up to anyone’s standards. It’s kind of pathetic, really…”
He leaned his cheek onto his fist, studying Rupert’s face curiously. He had a sort of glazed-over expression, but Robert was sure it wasn’t alcohol doing that. He wasn’t sure what it was exactly, but Rupert had barely touched his drink.
"I’m sure you didn’t buy me a drink just to listen to me complain all night though," he said. "You’re right about us both being survivors, but I have to admit that I’m not always so sure that’s a lucky thing. Maybe if I could get a better grip on myself and stop drowning my thoughts in alcohol I might feel differently, but… I don’t know. What do you do to um… deal with it?"
Rupert listened to Robert speak, explaining how he felt when he spoke to his brother. Rupert understood the feeling, the needing to bite and scratch and scream, fighting to get someone to listen to him. When he first came to America, living on the government stipend that he was awarded, though he didn’t understand how he could have won such a thing, that was all Rupert felt. As though the walls were closing in on him, every space getting smaller and smaller until he felt like he was going to be crushed. Those first few months, as he tried to grow accustomed to this new and strange place, he would be constantly going for walks. Always trying to find parks and meadows, places with open spaces, large stretches of sky, anything so he could try and find the space he was dying for, to feel free.
It was also why Rupert had moved around so much when he first came here. No space made him feel comfortable. No city made him feel welcome. He had gone from city to town, to small country villages, and to suburban communities. He made his way across the country, staying in a dozen different places, before he realized he was just running. Running from the war he had already escaped, the camps that were gone by now, the war criminals that were being hunt down and put on triall. Rupert had no need to fear them anymore, yet he kept moving, ending up on the other end of the country. As far as he could get from Germany and the war.
On this end of America, people were no longer so focused on the war effort. They were all turning their attention to the stars that were rising, larger than life on giant screens. There were always new movies coming out, strange movie sets going up, that were quickly abandoned as money ran out. Rupert liked to sneak onto those sets when they were quiet, walk around, find himself transported to a different world, out of the one of ugly, brutal war, and to a world where heroes lived, and there was always a happy ending. Yes, it sometimes bothered Rupert, that the movies were always glamorizing the war, twisting the truth so that the audience always felt satisfied by the end. But really, wasn’t it better that way? Being able to escape it all, even for just a few hours, was such a relief for Rupert.
So he had settled in the city, using the drugs to keep him grounded, which he knew was rather ironic, and had found a way to life, with the movies keeping his attention, the drugs giving him sleep and taking away the nightmares. He was able to sleep now, and he felt comfortable leaving lights on in the house. No one was going to smash his windows, drag him from his home. And though he missed having people around him, family and friends, he didn’t dwell on those thoughts for long. No one deserved a man like him infecting their life. But maybe with Robert, it wouldn’t be unwelcome, but helpful.
“You’re lucky. You just don’t realize it.” Rupert said quietly, turning the glass in his hands, watching the liquid move around and around in circles. “It’s fairly common for soldiers to turn to drinking, or to other substances, upon their return from war.” Rupert said. “At least the alcohol is legal, and you can always get more of it. I find the way it makes me sick, though, is hard to handle. I’ve always had a weak stomach.” He said, setting his glass down and looking up at Robert, knowing that Robert was already guessing as to what he was on. “I am not a soldier, but I’ve picked up similar habits. However, I have not bought you enough drinks for me to feel comfortable divulging too much about that.” He said frankly, picking up his drink again. “Though I do enjoy speaking to you. I’m just… out of practice in the art of making friends.” He said, picking the words carefully, to gauge Roberts reaction.
"It’s all right," Robert said, offering a rueful smile. "I mean it… I mean, I’m… not exactly the best company myself. I’m angry, and I’m bitter, and… I can’t let go of things. I’m usually drunk and I’m always in pain, and all of those elements generally don’t lead up to friendliness, you know? I know that I’m a mess, but it’s like there’s nothing I can do about it. I’m just… stuck, like I’m in quicksand. The more I struggle, the further down I slide, and it’s enough to make a man go insane."
He lifted his glass to his lips, taking a small sip. “Hell, even if you don’t want to talk to me, it’s just kind of nice to have someone sitting nearby, acknowledging that I’m here. Silence is a hell of a lot better than the insults getting thrown my way all the time. The only person I even talk to anymore seems to be my brother, and he hates me and everything I stand for. He doesn’t give a damn about anything or anyone but himself. You can imagine how that works out.”
He chuckled a bit, the sound bitter at the end. “I don’t know… we’ve fought and bickered since we were kids, but… it’s so much worse now. We don’t have anyone left but each other, but we’d probably be better off alone… Sometimes I feel like I’d be better off dead.”
The swallow he took then slid heavily down his throat. He wasn’t one to admit that all that often, but remembering the strewn bodies of his comrades on the battlefield, remembering the good lives, the wives and children and families they had to go back to, it didn’t really seem fair that he had survived.
Rupert found it easier to keep quiet, and let Robert speak, spilling out his inner thoughts and secrets. Intimate details about his life, his relationship with his brother, that Rupert hadn’t asked for. How long must it have been, how much of a struggle to survive, without anyone to talk to? Did this brother truly torture Robert so much, treat him with such cruelty that Robert had no willpower to hold his tongue in the presence of an almost stranger? It almost made Rupert uncomfortable, especially as Rupert finished speaking on such a morbid note. But he didn’t protest to it. He knew that it was needed for Rupert. He needed that therapy of speaking to someone else, confiding in them entirely, even if it was a little uncomfortable for Rupert. He would deal, knowing that it was a small gesture that could go a long way. And even if Rupert wouldn’t reciprocate the experience, preferring to keep his thoughts to himself, he was glad to share the space with Robert, give him what he needed to make it through the night. Maybe sometime, in the future, Rupert would feel safe and confident enough to share his own thoughts and struggles. But for now, he was glad just to sit and listen, especially when it was getting harder to speak, the drugs affecting him.
“Sometimes I feel as though the pain keeps me grounded.” Rupert said quietly, in response, not even sure what he was saying. “But then, it feels easier to float away from it, find ways to take it away. It makes everything about the past feel less real. I can almost imagine that it never happened.” He said, his hands curled around the drink in front of him. He hadn’t touched it, and probably wasn’t going to. He needed to retain some measure of control, at least enough to make it back to his home.
“Your brother is probably ignorant of it all. Of how much of a burden it is, even after we’ve escaped.” Rupert said, trying to find a way to appease Robert, while still legitimizing his feelings. He had read about the techniques that therapists use, how they try to get to the core of the problems, usually issues that the patients didn’t even realize they had. The way they spoke to their patients, the kind words they used, when to soothe and when to irritate them, to get a response. Of course, Rupert was no therapist, had no training in that sort of business. He wasn’t even sure if he believed in it. It seemed so far fetched to the country, grounded boy who had simply wanted to heal the broken bones and the cuts that he could see on the surface. Dealing with the mind was a completely different matter. Still, if he could take some measure of advice from the articles he had read, in order to help Robert, then maybe it would be worth putting his faith into the field.
“He probably doesn’t know, and deep down, doesn’t want to know how much suffering his brother went through. He’s probably scared of it, and lashes out.” Rupert said, wondering, vaguely if he made any sense at all, and not caring if he was speaking nonsense. “But there is no chance of redemption for the dead, Rupert. Despite the pain, and the memories, it’s important to remember that we’re both lucky to survive.” Rupert said, though he felt that guilt too. He wondered which deaths Robert blamed on himself. He wondered if he had ever stared into the eyes of the person he was about to kill, had ever hear them pleading for mercy. Rupert heard those pleas every night, when he lay his head down. And he saw the tear-filled eyes every morning when he woke up.
"It’s insulting is what it is," Robert said and then instantly regretted it. His head sank towards his shoulders like a dog in trouble as guilt draped itself over him. This man was just looking for something nice to smile about in spite of it all, and Robert had immediately attempted to shit all over it.
"Sorry," he said, embarrassed as he clarified. "I didn’t mean for it to come out so harshly… Sometimes those happy endings can be nice, it’s true. Hope is… good… but when you’re barely hanging onto things, watching other people be hopeful and get their happy endings sort of feels like a kick in the teeth, you know? Like the whole world is experiencing things on a different plane than we are. I feel… ostracized. It’s like I’m just here to be the ugly reminder that the world isn’t as pretty a picture as the movies paint it to be. It’s easy to hate them… because you feel like Icarus who flew too close to the sun, and yet everyone soars around you without issue from the heat."
He stared down into his drink, his reflection distorted by the interruption of the ice. “It’s so easy to feel alone here, even surrounded by so many people. It’s easy to feel like you’re never going to catch up again, and no one’s offering a hand to help… I guess I’m sort of glad you bought me a drink to night though… You’re the only person who has eyes like me… you’re the only one who might even understand on some level… I guess that’s why I keep talking even though I know I should probably stop. I understand if you want me to leave you alone.”
Rupert was a little surprised at Robert’s strong reaction to his words. But then, he understood the feeling, the pent up rage and unexplainable anger. To be mad all the time, to be raging at the world around him, blaming everyone else, it must be a little easier for Robert, than for him to put any of the blame on himself. And to be angry, when no one had bothered to really listen to Robert? Rupert understood that too. He didn’t like the way people’s faces changed as they learned that he was a survivor, a refugee. Their muscles shifted, almost imperceptibly. But Rupert had seen it so many times that he was an old hand at reading the way the eyebrows moved, the way the lips tightened, turning into thin lines. Some looked disgusted, as though they had just caught scent of something rotted and putrid. Others looked sad, so incredibly sad, but it was never true sorrow. None of them could understand the aching sadness that Rupert experienced every night, as he lay himself down amongst his ghosts. They had become quite the bedfellows. No, the people only had pity for him. They could pretend it was empathy. “Oh, my grandmother died, my cousin, my best friend, my lover.” They thought they were being different than everyone else, that their grief was anything close to Rupert’s. He wanted to scream at them. He wanted to yell, to swing his fists at them, cause them pain, so they could feel a fraction of the pain he felt every single day, when he rose with the ghosts staring at him. When he walked and felt their steps echoing his.
But, of course, that was not Rupert’s way. Not now. He was too tired to feel that anger the same way. But Robert was young, younger than Rupert, and he still felt that red-hot rage. No wonder he drank so much, Rupert thought. He was trying to quench that fire inside him, put it out with glass after glass of alcohol. Too bad the drinks did little to put the fire out, instead only fueling it. At least that was what Rupert found, in his experience. That was why he preferred the pills.
Rupert listened to Robert, as he explained himself, glad to see that Robert’s hostility was simply a reaction to the way he was treated, not a personal attack on Rupert. It was no wonder that Robert was feeling so strongly about it. He was always on the defense. It was probably really hard for him to let go of that, even to speak to Rupert.
“It’s okay to feel like that.” Rupert said. “The anger, I mean. I feel it too.” He said. “And I know what it feels like to be alone.” Alone. And lonely. Despite the souls that followed him in his dreams, dogged his steps like a shadow, Rupert was so lonely. And even though the others claimed they wanted to help him, get him to talk, open up, they never wanted to actually hear what he was saying. That would be too much for them. Their tiny little world couldn’t handle the pain he was carrying, the stories he held behind his tongue. So even though they all claimed that Rupert was pushing them away, that he was the one doing the shoving and kicking out the door, Rupert wondered who put the door there in the first place. Who slammed it in his face, when the truth became too much to bear?
As Robert continued to speak, mentioning his eyes, Rupert nodded. He knew exactly what Robert meant. The faded, hollow eyes. So evident of past trauma, of being involved in the war, the slaughter of millions. It wasn’t hard for another survivor to figure out. “No, I’m fine talking with you.” Rupert said. “I apologize, though, if I’m not good conversation. I’m a little rusty at this, talking with someone else like this.” And he hadn’t been sober all day, Rupert thought. His speech probably sounded slurred, as though he had been drinking all day long, though that wasn’t the case. He didn’t like drinking, really. One or two glasses was fine, but Rupert didn’t like the room spinning, the floor moving of its own volition. He preferred the drugs, the simple way they affected him, without the dizziness and without the hangover the next day. Rupert wondered if Robert could tell, though, that Rupert was on many different kinds of pills, right at that moment, if Robert had any experience with that sort of coping method.
The trips back to his town were becoming routine for Rupert. The long train ride, the horse drawn carts, even the times he had to walk for miles was no longer much of a bother. He always felt so refreshed, the air clearing his mind of the smoke and fog of the city. It was relaxing, and he felt like he was getting all the exercise he had missed out on, travelling on buses and trolleys in the city. And there was always that feeling of coming home. He savored that, as he drew in the familiar smells, heard the sounds. He felt as though he could close his eyes, and his feet would find their way back to the little town, without any problem. He wouldn’t even mind how tired he got, or how sore his legs would be from walking. It was all worth it as he approached the town, knowing the smiles he would get, the greetings from his friends who were more like family than any of the ones in Paris.
And she would be there. With her shining face, her smile like sunlight after the dark city. People thought Paris was so bright, with it’s electric lights, but none of those people had seen Emilie smile. Rupert’s heart beat a little faster as he thought about her. It was funny, in all his years of studying, Rupert could diagnose someone easily, mend broken bones, stitch wounds back together. He even had a knack for treating diseases he was unfamiliar with, but he had never been able to explain the way he felt when he thought about Emilie, at least not in medical terms. Yet it felt like an allergic reaction, almost, whenever he saw her, or even thought about seeing her. Shortness of breath, flushed face, rapid heart rate, dilated pupils. If Rupert had been examining himself, he would ask about drug use, about the history of heart disease in the family.
But no, it’s was just love. At least that’s what Rupert believed, and he hoped that Emilie felt the same. If he judged by the way she had kissed him last time, a stolen moment between them when he had managed to escape from his mother and aunts, to meet her behind the barn. They had been meeting like this for weeks, whenever Emilie got the chance to get away from her chores, Rupert hiding from the attentions of his family. They usually spent hours simply talking, until they were forced to return to their responsibilities. But last time, Emilie had kissed Rupert. It was not his first kiss, but it was the best one he had had. The rest of the time Rupert was in town, Emilie had been dropping hints about how people were asking about her future, how Rupert’s mother, a strong figure in Emilie’s life, was pushing her to start thinking about marriage. Rupert knew he had to make a decision, and when he returned to Paris, to the cold faces, he knew it was an easy decision to make.
He wanted a life of sunshine and smiles. Coming home to a warm house, dinner on the table. No where to rush, no where to be in an hour. He wanted the country life, and he wanted a life with Emilie.
But how to ask her? The customs in the country were so different than those in the city, that Rupert never knew what to do next. And with Emilie being an orphan, it wasn’t as though she had a father or brother to talk to, about arranging a marriage. Rupert wasn’t sure what to do next. He had never courted a girl properly before. Had certainly kissed a few, at parties and social gatherings in the city, but they had never been someone he cared about, not like Emilie.
The more Rupert thought it about, though, the more he started doubting himself, maybe Emilie really didn’t want the same thing. She probably didn’t want to marry a man who was constantly moving around, leaving town every other week, someone who was Jewish. It was a fact about himself that Rupert viewed with quiet indifference. He certainly didn’t feel Jewish. Didn’t count himself among the many who went to services regularly, practiced the rituals and ceremonies. He had never felt connected to that part of his family, but that didn’t mean Emilie believed the same thing. Was his religion, as unpracticed as it was, a turn off for her? It was becoming an issue for many, as Rupert was starting to learn, through newspapers, radio news, and rumors. It was almost unbelievable to Rupert, to think that someone could be considered less because of their religion. His only belief was science, the way a body worked and moved, how it got sick and died. Miracles had nothing on modern medicine, and prayer was a way for the ignorant to make themselves feel better about disease.
Still, Rupert’s self doubts were starting to cloud his thoughts, and he wasn’t sure how to proceed. It didn’t help that, when he arrived home, Emilie was nowhere to be found, and his mother refused to give him an explanation. Usually Emilie was the first to greet him, offering to carry his belongings, though he always waved her offer away. And it wasn’t like his mother to be so tight lipped. Eventually, after being fed and offered seconds, Rupert finally learned that his aunt had received word that Rupert had been seen with another woman, in the streets of Paris.
Rupert was confused by this, having no idea what his mother was talking about, until he remembered the young medical student he had been working with. She was a dark haired woman, who was trying to get through school, despite being pushed away because of her gender, and because she was Jewish as well. Rupert had taken pity on her, and started to help her, eventually forming a friendship with the woman. But anything more? Rupert couldn’t imagine it, without wanting to grimace. The woman was far too young, barely a friend, and not the sort of woman Rupert found attractive. She was sharp and bright and in far too much of a rush. Perfect for Paris. But not right for him.
After hearing this ridiculous claim, Rupert learned that Emilie had been hiding in the barn, on the hay loft, waiting until he went to bed before she returned to the house. Rupert sighed. The women in this house could be far too dramatic for his taste.
Making his way out to the barn, Rupert got nervous again. How could Emilie ever suspect him of being with someone else, when he obviously loved her so? He would just have to make himself clearer, he supposed. Say it out loud, announce his intentions.
“Emilie?” Rupert called out, when he entered the barn.
A moment of silence, before she finally spoke. “I thought I told them not to tell you I was here.” She said.
“You know my mother.” Rupert responded, looking up at where her voice had come from. He heard a movement, and saw her swing her legs over the edge of the loft. She was looking down at him, not coming down just yet.
“I can’t imagine what you want from me.” She spat at him, crossing her arms across her chest.
“I know, but I just want you know the rumors weren’t-” Rupert began.
“Oh, come to pretend they’re not true? That you aren’t hiding some affair back in the city?” Emilie said.
“No, Emilie, I just wanted to tell you-”
“Tell me what, that the city is so much better than any dirty town, that the sins of the streets are much more fun than milking cows and shearing sheep. Fine, go back there. I don’t care.”
“Emilie, that’s not what I’m trying to say. I wanted to ask-”
“Ask me what? Because as far as I’m concerned you have no right to ask me anything. You dirty dog, just get out of this barn. Just leave me alo-”
“Emilie! Will you marry me?” Rupert yelped up at her, cutting her off.
“What!” Emilie jumped in surprise, sending herself forward off the loft. Luckily the barn was only a very small one, the loft nothing more than a low storage for supplies and tools. And Rupert moved quickly to catch the girl, the two of them landing in a heap on the dirt floor. Rupert groaned, his body pressed hard into the ground.
“Oh, Rupert, I’m so sorry.” Emilie said, shifting her weight so she wasn’t on him. “You just, you surprised me… I didn’t expect you to say that.”
“It’s, ouch, it’s alright.” Rupert said, slowly moving, testing out his muscles. “But… I mean do you have an answer?” He said, looking up at her.
“Oh, gosh, yes! Rupert of course I’ll marry you!” She said, leaning forward and kissing him gently, before sitting back. “I’m sorry. I just get so nervous, with you gone, not knowing who you’re with.”
Rupert brought his fingers up to Emilie’s face, brushing her cheek gently. “Emilie, believe me now, what I say is true, for the rest of my life. I will never love anyone the way I love you. You’re the only one.”
Robert was tempted to ask him what he meant by ‘get lost’, but he had a feeling he already knew the answer, at least in a small way. He didn’t know where Rupert had been on the battlefield, if he was a soldier or a medic or even just a bystander that was in the wrong place at the wrong time, but he was absolutely positive that he was suffering repercussions from it. When Robert looked at him, he could see the wait pushing down on his shoulders, see the strain in his eyes over carrying it. He wondered if that was what he himself looked like to others.
"I understand," Robert found himself saying, taking a swallow of his drink. "It’s not exactly easy for men like us to find good company, even in each other, I know, but… better someone who might understand rather than someone who absolutely wouldn’t. I don’t know if soldiers are more patient than regular folks, but you know… when they hear your stories, they don’t picture it like some sort of movie. They see it in their heads for what it is. Fucking Hollywood and all it’s stupid, fake glamour ruins it for those of us who saw it… all of it…"
He realized he was rambling nearly immediately, but he couldn’t stop himself right away. Normally he wouldn’t talk like that until he was drunk, and then it would be loud and slurred, but perhaps that was because no one had ever offered him an open ear before. Thomas sure as hell hadn’t, and even if he had, Robert doubted he would understand (or even attempt to try to understand, the bastard).Here in town, Robert didn’t know that many other people besides Thomas, and none of them had seen what Robert had seen.
No one but the man sitting across from him at this moment.
He took another swallow of his drink and then chewed on his bottom lip for a second or two. “I may have overstepped my boundaries just now. Most people don’t want to talk about… all that. Hell, I don’t like to talk about it either. No one wants to hear it, even if they see it glamorized in their heads. Everyone seems to just want to forget it even happened, and I don’t… I don’t know what to do with that information. I feel… angry, but… I want to forget it too. I want to forget every second… I guess that makes me a hypocrite.
"So," he said, pausing before adding, "What do you want to say? You got something you need to get off your chest?"
Rupert wondered, for a moment, if the two of them were going to sit there in silence, drinking their drinks, and avoiding each other’s eyes. Honestly, he wasn’t even sure if he was ready to have a conversation, with the chemicals rushing through his system, and the way the past still haunted him. If he started talking about it, opening up bit by bit, would it actually help to relieve the weight of the ghosts from his shoulders? Or would the words help the souls to consume him, swallow him whole until there was nothing left of him but an empty shell? He had heard the different opinions on the matter, studied them obsessively, knew that he was probably suffering from a varying different mental illnesses, anything from post traumatic stress disorder, to a long lasting case of shock. But Rupert hadn’t grown up studying the brain, as it was studied now. The leaps and bounds that had come in medicine and the knowledge that doctors had of the brain now, had occurred while he was a prisoner. Or maybe butcher was the better word.
Rupert was trying to keep up with it all now, and the sudden outburst of psychological maladies, diseases he had never heard off, or could have imagined existing. He knew that drugs were part of the solution in some cases, therapy in others, maybe even group sessions with other people who suffered from the same situation. In a way, Rupert had the drug part down. He knew which to take, to get him through the day, which would keep him up and in a falsely good mood, and which would fog his mind so much that he wouldn’t think about another thing for hours. As for therapy, Rupert would never be able to afford proper therapy, and so resorted to pouring over the medical journals, articles from doctors, writing about the different changes in modern medicine. Their words spoke to Rupert deeply, their voices, all impressive sounding and smart, echoed around his head. These were the men who were helping him to move forward. The ones who were truly doctors, not like that imposter. They worked for the betterment of humankind, and so Rupert was able to trust their words.
But the group therapy, the connection to other people, was missing for Rupert. Of course, for the past several years that had been of his own doing. He could barely speak, once he was freed from the camp. Even the soldiers who had found him had a hard time getting a word out of him, and it was only when he was assured he was alone and safe, would he speak to a kind looking woman, who had the same eyes as his mother. She was the only one who could coax enough of his story free, to understand what he had gone through, so that the lawyers could get him safely to the United States, and set up with enough money to live. Other than that woman, Rupert hadn’t spoken about his life in the camp. He was known by some to be a survivor of the war, of hashoah, the catastrophe, the Final Solution, whatever people wanted to call it. Sometimes he would get a call or letter from someone, a newspaper or radio station, inviting him to come and speak, be interviewed, but Rupert ignored them, knowing that wasn’t how he wanted his message to be sent to the world. He needed to be taken seriously, and he needed his voice to be heard, not twisted to fit the message of some newspaper.
But maybe if he started with someone who could understand, who might resonate with the same feelings as him, Rupert could begin the “healing process,” as it was called. Maybe he could even find a way to help Robert in return.
He listened carefully to Robert, noting the words he used, how he stressed certain sentences. Rupert knew he was giving away more than he was used to, by the way he spoke in broken sentences, chewing his lip in the process. It was interesting to watch him open up so quickly. Of course, it wasn’t all of Robert’s story, but it was more than he had given up to most, Rupert suspected.
So Robert had been a soldier. Rupert wondered where he had fought, how many he had killed, if he had seen the light die in their eyes, watched his friends die as well. Though Rupert was not a soldier, and never wanted to be, he had to admit to the fact that soldiers gave up so much. Their willpower, their freedom, in order to protect something they might not even believe in. They were forced to commit such heinous acts, and most despised it. Of course there were some who had found pleasure in inflicting the pain, going power hungry and mad along with it, but Rupert rather doubted that the haunted looking man across from him had gone that far. He looked too troubled to be that sort of man.
“You’re fine.” Rupert said in reply to Robert, after he had finished speaking. “I mean, I appreciate listening. And you didn’t assume anything.” He said. He was finding it hard to fit his mouth around the words, the drugs slowing him still. “Though I wasn’t a soldier. I never had that responsibility. I was simply a doctor.” Was. He /was/ a doctor. Rupert thought he didn’t deserve to hold another life in his hands, and wasn’t qualified to be a doctor anymore, even to bandage a small cut. “I simply had the misfortune of having a Jewish father.” He said, though he was finding it hard to continue. He hadn’t spoken to anyone in so long, it was hard to find a starting place, or where to stop.
“I think I know what you mean, though, the way the stories are twisted here. I think people do it to protect themselves. They know it was hell, so they clean it up, give it a romance, and stick a bow on top, to help themselves pretend it was never that bad. In a way it’s sort of pretty, how hopeful people can be in the face of such horror.” Rupert said.
Robert had frowned when he’d looked at the contents of his wallet when he sat down. He had paid off bills that morning, so there wasn’t much left over to drink on, but he figured it was better than nothing. He hadn’t had a drink in hours, and he was starting to get shaky, so he’d just drink what he could get and be on his way.
The bar wasn’t particularly bustling tonight, which he was grateful for. He didn’t do well in crowds, especially in crowds of obnoxious, drunken men who thought it might be a laugh to pick a fight with the cripple. He’d wobbled home with more than a few bruises from nights like that. He understood that he wasn’t the most likable of men, but sometimes he felt like there was a target on his back for hatred and ridicule.
Closing his eyes and sighing, he raised a finger off of the bar top and ordered whiskey, figuring that if he was only going to be able to have a couple of drinks, they might as well be good ones. He didn’t expect the person taking his order to inform him that the man in the booth had paid for his first two drinks.
Looking over his shoulder, he squinted at the dark corner of the bar until he made out the face of the man, recognizing him as a fellow bar patron he’d sat near on different occasions. Robert didn’t know him personally— that is to say, they had never spoken— but there were a few things Robert knew about him. He’d heard the bartender refer to him as Rupert, so that surely must have been his name… and then there were his eyes. Robert recognized those eyes without fail because they carried that same haunted look that he saw in his own reflection in the mornings. Dark, desolate, desperate… this Rupert fellow had been involved in the war, and he’d lost something to it. Something important.
Robert in general wasn’t very social, but it didn’t seem polite to just take the drinks and stay where he was. Getting to his feet, he mumbled to the bartender that he was moving to sit with a friend, even though he and Rupert weren’t friends, not really. It just seemed like an easier explanation. He didn’t have far to walk, so he just carried his cane rather than leaning on it, taking his whiskey in the other hand. He slid into the booth across from the other man, setting his cane on the table and taking a swallow of whiskey before saying, “Uh, thanks, for uh… this. Can I ask the occasion?”
Rupert waited, not bothered one way or the other. If Robert joined him, it’d be nice, for once, to have some company. Even if all they did was stare down into their glasses, seeing their memories, their pasts reflected in the liquid. That was better than Rupert being stuck alone with his thoughts once again. Still, if Robert decided to ignore the man, Rupert wouldn’t be very surprised. It was obvious that Robert had seen things in his past, he was haunted by death too. It hung about Robert, just as it hung on Rupert, as though it was some cloak made of invisible shadows. Maybe Robert didn’t want to face that in Rupert, didn’t want to see the mirrored reflection of his tragedies in Rupert’s eyes. The older man wouldn’t even blame Robert for avoiding him. On any other night, Rupert would do the same, not wanting to come face to face with another lost soul, another person to remind him of how lonely he was.
But the particular mix of drugs in Rupert’s system were making him feel the loneliness tonight. It was not just some emotional ache, but a physical one. The space between his ribs felt sore, a burning pain pressing against his bones and chest, up against his heart. It made him feel sick, as though he hadn’t eaten something all day, thought that was probably true as well. He sometimes forgot to eat, days at a time. It was almost fascinating, for Rupert to watch his body come undone, to see his bones sticking out more and more everyday. He wondered if he could name each one, still the function of each, what muscles they connected to. He doubted he’d miss a single name.
Rupert noticed a movement, and realized that Robert was standing up. He thought that the younger man might be leaving, for a moment, before he shuffled over, in his strange walk, to sit with Rupert. Rupert wondered, vaguely how he had come across his injury, that gave him that limp. He wondered if it was partly psychosomatic, how long ago Robert had been hurt. Had it been his spine, causing him to lose the ability completely, or was his muscle damaged? The analytical part of Rupert’s brain, the cool and unfeeling thoughts that Rupert didn’t mind, went around in circles, trying to figure out the different symptoms, what treatments Robert might have gone through.
But that wasn’t polite conversation. Rupert quelled those thoughts, which wasn’t hard, considering how sluggish the rest of his brain moved, and focused on the man as he sat in front of Robert. For a moment, it seemed as though Robert’s lips were moving without a single noise coming out. Rupert almost wanted to laugh at how strange it seemed, all the sound gone from the bar. But then it came back and Rupert processed Robert’s question. He frowned.
“No thanks needed.” He said first. How long had it been since he had had a full and polite conversation with someone? He couldn’t quite remember. “I didn’t think any occasion was needed, not for men like us.” He said, referring to the obvious fact that they had both experienced the war. It was easy to tell, written all over Rupert’s shuffling walk, the way he drank away his days at the bar. “And I think it’s about time I found myself someone to drink with. There’s only so many nights I can sit here alone, before I start to get lost.” He said, not explaining himself further.
I do try. At this point, the boat may have sailed on my merely “thinking” it, however.
But of course, Mr. Michaud. It is unfortunate that our grasp of foreign languages deserts us when we need it the most. [Or whenever it’s convenient.] Rather reminds me of that unfortunate moment in Rome when I was staring down the carbine of one of Il Duce’s men and trying to remember how Eyeties would say “This is an armoured ambulance. We come in peace.” They assumed I was a sheepherder trying to tell them how to cook the perfect steak tartar.
Me? I sleep with the windows closed and curtains drawn, two layers of fleece bedding, my pillow plumped helpfully into shape, and with my arms around my wife. Barefoot. Socks irritate me in bed. Or were you asking something else?
I rule no one, Mr. Michaud. I am nothing but a public servant, as beholden to my constituents as they are to me. I am not some nepotistic controller of human lives, romantic as it might be to tar all politicians with the same brush. I have fought for this country’s freedom, and I intend to do everything in my power to maintain it. I do enjoy lamb tangine with apricots, however. Very much, in fact.
I'm sorry, my English is too bad to understand half what you were saying. Care to demean yourself for the common man and speak like one of us, so that I can better hear you?
Ah. The new age, dark and brooding doer, not thinker, are you, Mr. Michaud? I do believe that sometimes, a distinct lack of introspection makes it easier to get a good night’s sleep.
On the one hand, I commend your opposition our city’s politics. The government would benefit from having critics as staunch as you. On the other hand, however, someone who doesn’t want to be in power would be distinctly unprepared if he is given power. A governor of that kind is far more likely to turn into a despot out of sheer incompetence.
My sleeping habits are not your business, I believe. I do wonder, though, how you manage to sleep, with the responsibility of thousands of hundreds of people weighing on your shoulders.
Do you really doubt the people you rule? Do you view them as sheep, following along your every command? It must be a small world for you.
Indeed, why look in the mirror when the window panes of the house are reflective as well? I didn’t think you considered your life shallow, Mr. Michaud, but you are in a better position to assess it than I.
What if that ambition was for your greater good this time? I, for one, consider it a travesty to step into public office and not uphold the promises on which I coasted into that office. And I believe my colleagues would say the same.
Absolutely, a one-stop ride, then. Then again, Hollywood apparently has its ways of sinking its hooks into you and dragging you down into its depths.
[If only there was something to be gained from greasing bleeding heart Reds.] I see enough of the stars on a daily basis, and yet I prefer the ones above our heads in the sky. Far too many of the people beyond those doors are on the shortlist for honorary mayor of this city.
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