CHAPTER 1 – The Stamp – Sept 16, 6:40 AM – Tom

I woke up at a quarter past six and the first thing I did was stare at the ceiling.

I didn't remember when I fell asleep. If I even fell asleep. The ceiling was the same as always — a darker stain in the corner where it once leaked, the yellow light of the streetlamp through the curtain, and outside that wet Prague noise that stays after the rain when the night no longer wants to be a night and the day hasn't yet decided to come.

Cars. Water in the gutter. Someone downstairs dragged something across the pavement.

I lay on my back.

Then my hand automatically slid under the blanket and touched my left wrist.

It was there.

Or almost.

Blurred, half-washed away by the rain, but still recognizable. A dark stamp from a porn theater. A mark. Proof. As if someone had written on my skin: you were there, man.

You were there.

I didn't move. My stomach was clenched, my mouth dry, and my nose full of tobacco smoke, even though there was no smoke in the room. The sound of that couch buzzed in my head. Faux leather or imitation leather, that nasty scraping noise when someone leans against it. The red light. The doorway cutout. Viktor's face.

Enough.

I stood up.

Our bathroom isn't big. A laundry basket, a mirrored cabinet, a sink, soap that never sits straight, and a shower with a plastic curtain featuring little blue fish. Romi says she likes the fish. I think she's just used to them. The ceiling light works via a motion sensor, so when you don't move for a bit, it goes out. Romi claims it saves electricity. I claim it makes me look like an idiot in the bathroom every minute, waving at an invisible bus.

I closed the door and turned on the cold water.

I shoved my wrist under the stream and began to scrub.

The soap smelled like lavender, lilac, or something like that. Those scents meant to remind you of gardens we've never been in. I lathered my hand, ran my thumb over my wrist, then grabbed a towel, and then started scrubbing the mark itself. The skin turned red.

The stamp was smudging.

Not disappearing. Smudging.

Or maybe it was disappearing, and it was no use to me because the image in my head couldn't be washed off with water. It was sitting somewhere behind my sternum, right where you feel the annoyance.

I was standing over the sink, watching the water drain down.

Nice bump.

Milan said it in a way that wasn't mean or nice. Just operational. Like a guy who sees a hundred men every evening, a hundred wrists, a hundred reasons to kid himself. As if there were a category of people who come for the first time, and it was called a nice bump.

I turned off the tap.

The wrist was red. The stamp was gone. Or I stopped seeing it.

From the next room came a voice:

"Tomík?"

Romi didn't speak loudly. Never. That would take too much energy. She spoke quietly and I still heard her through the wall because I was tuned to her voice like a dog to a whistle.

"I'm coming," I said.

I threw a towel over my shoulder and went to her.

Romi's adjustable bed stood by the window. Curtains drawn, behind them wet glass and gray Prague. The Indian restaurant across the street wasn't lit up yet. Romi was lying on her side, covered up to her shoulders, hair scattered across the pillow. In that gloom she looked a bit like someone from an old photograph. Someone who once must have been terribly strong, and then illness came and that strength moved out of her body somewhere else. Into her voice. Into how she never said a thing like a complaint.

"Do you want to sit up?" I asked.

"No. Just a drink."

She pointed at the empty mug.

I walked to the kitchen, poured some water, and came back. I helped her sit up a little. She drank slowly, with both hands, because one hand sometimes wasn't even enough for a mug.

„Were you sleeping?“ she asked.

“Yeah.”

She looked at me. That maternal look that knows and yet doesn't push.

„Do you have practice?“

„At ten.“

„And then?“

„I don't know. Maybe Dlážděnka.“

She nodded. „Give me my meds before you go. Monday's box.“

Monday's box was by the bed. A small plastic box with compartments, prepared on Sunday night. One of those things I did automatically.

I took out three pills and handed them to her.

She swallowed them without making a face. She always did that. As if pills were just another thing that didn't need commenting on.

„You've got something on your mind,“ she said.

„I've got nothing.“

„You're stiff as a board.“

„I haven't woken up yet.“

She looked at me again. I was staring out the window at the wet RanGoli sign across the street.

„Fine,“ she said. „Go make yourself some coffee.“

I went to make myself some coffee.

Instant. Romi drinks regular ground coffee, Turkish style, but in the morning I need something that tastes like gasoline. Gasoline kicks a person into gear. Coffee sometimes only pretends to do that.

I sat down at the kitchen table and stared into my mug.

Viktor's look in the smoking room.

The door. The red light. That guy, his back, his shoulders. No. I didn't even want to think about it. But Viktor's face. That couldn't be cut away. Shock. Maybe shame. Maybe something else. That split second when someone is caught in the act of something that was supposed to remain invisible.

And what were you doing there, my friend?

That was it.

That was me scrubbing myself in the bathroom. Not him. Myself.

Because Viktor was in the smoking room with some strange guy. Yeah. It was disgusting and it was too much and I didn't want to see it. Except I was there too. I was standing at the cash register, got my hand stamped, walked past Milan, went upstairs…

I was there.

Viktor saw me.

And I can't pretend I showed up there by accident.

I took a drink and burned my lip.

“Fuck,” I hissed.

The phone lay on the table face down. I’d had this system since last year, when I found out I was staring at my phone every five minutes even though there’s never anything on it. Face down and turn it over once an hour.

I lasted about ten minutes.

I turned it over.

A message from Veronika from last night.

Do you know where the English book list is? I can't find it on the portal.

I was looking at it.

Veronika messaged me at nine in the evening with a question about school, and at that moment I was standing at the cash register of an adult cinema paying for a ticket.

I wrote:

On the main course page, Materials tab.

Read immediately.

Dots.

Thanks. Where were you tonight? You weren't responding.

The dots stopped.

I sat at the table, stared at that line, and in my head played the sound of imitation leather, Milan's nice bump and Viktor's look.

I wrote:

I went to sleep early.

Sent.

Read.

Ah. Ok. Good night then.

She wrote that yesterday. This morning, nothing.

I turned my phone face down and went to wash the mug.

At a quarter past seven Romi called again. She needed help to the toilet. This was the exact procedure: walker to the bed, sit her up, support her back, accompany her, wait outside, then back. I did it like a machine. Not because I wasn't mentally there. Quite the opposite. With Romi, you have to be present all the time.

I was sitting on the floor in the hallway, with my back against the wall.

Silence behind the door, water, silence again.

On my wrist, there was only irritated skin left.

Except I could still smell the tobacco. Not tobacco as such. More like the smell of that place. Leather, perfume, beer, smoke, sweat, something subterranean. You couldn't put a name to it, and that's precisely why it lingered in my nose.

I closed my eyes.

Viktor's expression. Shock. And then that fraction of something else. As if he had caught me. Not me him. Him me.

I won't let him get away with it.

That sentence came on its own. Harsh, stupid, solid. I don't know what exactly it meant. Whether I want to knock him down, pull him up, cut him off, draw him in, smash that smile of his, or force him to look at me again. I don't know. But I knew this wouldn't turn into something you simply brush past.

From behind the door came:

“Done.”

I stood up.

By eight I'd made her tea, cracked the window open, and told her what awaited me today. Practice. Maybe Dlážděnka. Maybe school. Romi didn't want this information out of control. She wanted to hear the rhythm of the world outside. When someone lies by the window and knows the day mostly by the curtain, they need to know where the others are moving.

"Don't forget to eat before practice," she said.

"I'm not eating before synchronized jumps."

"Something small."

“All right.”

I stood by the window. Down below, someone was walking a small white dog that looked distinctly displeased about pissing.

„Are you okay?“ asked Romi.

„I'm fine, Mom.“

„You came home late.“

„I went for a walk.“

„V dešti.“

“I like walking in the rain.”

Silence.

“All right.”

Romi knew when to stop. That was one of her gifts. Or experiences. She knew when a person was hanging by the end of a rope and another question wouldn't untie them, only tangle them further.

I packed my bag. Swimsuit, towel, cap, goggles, a dry T-shirt, a bar from the fridge, phone in the side pocket.

The phone vibrated.

Grindr.

New profile nearby.

I looked at the notification. My profile only has a torso. Faceless. Nameless. BlondJock.

I didn't open the notification.

I shoved the phone into my bag.

Romi was dozing. I quietly closed the apartment door and went downstairs.

It was wet outside. The Indian restaurant across the street was starting to open. The sign RanGoli was reflected upside down in the puddles.

The tram arrived in four minutes.

I sat down by the window. The streets slid past behind the glass. People in jackets, wet sidewalks, yellow leaves. Autumn hadn't fully kicked in yet, it was more slowly creeping into the city.

I thought about Viktor.

Not because I wanted to. Precisely because I didn't want to.

I thought about his look. That second when we both knew. He saw me. I saw him. And we both knew that the other knew.

That's what you can't just brush past. Not just what he did. That's a problem, sure, but a different one. What's worse is that he saw me in the doorway. That he could understand why I was there.

You know what, Viktor, you aren't the only one who was surprised.

Bromlil was in the locker room before practice, staring at the paper with the sets. His habit. Arrive early, write down the sets, hang the paper on the locker, and act like someone's actually reading it.

Tony was there too. Naturally.

Tony was always in the locker room before me. Either he got up absurdly early, or he slept right in the pool, I can't explain it otherwise. He was sitting on the bench, pulling his cap over his ear, and staring at his phone.

“Hey,” he said.

“Bye.”

“How was it?”

A short pause.

"Normally," I said.

Tony nodded. He accepted it. Tony was almost too good at accepting things. It was nice and depressing at the same time.

I started changing.

"Did Bromlil say synchronous?" I asked.

"Yeah. Together, I guess."

„I hope so.“

Tony smiled. "Me too."

I don't know if he meant anything by it or was just being polite. With Tony, I never know where the line is. He does simple things and makes them complicated that way.

We walked over to the pool.

Podolí in the morning in September isn't July. No sun and the light mess of summer. The indoor fifty-meter pool, chlorine, Bromlil's whistle, and a water surface so loud in its silence that a person loses their head in it.

I jumped into the water.

The water accepted me without any crap. No questions, no stamp, no judgment. Just cold, pressure, pull, kick, inhale, turn. The body knew what to do. And that was good. The head shut up for a moment.

The synchros showed up in the second half of practice. Bromlil put me with Tony.

„Three-meter. From the baseline. I want a clean approach and takeoff.“

We stood side by side on the board. I was looking down, Tony straight ahead. That was maybe the whole difference between us.

"Ready?" he said.

“Yeah.”

„Pause three.“

„I know how it goes.“

„I know you know.“

Bromlil blew his whistle.

Approach. Take-off. Pause. Air. Rotation. Water entry almost simultaneous.

„Better,“ said Bromlil. „Záhorský, wait for Leung at the peak. Leung, good. Again.“

We did it six times, seven times, eight times. Every jump a little bit better. Or at least we thought so. After the eighth, he let me go.

I swam and my head was silent. The kind where your head finally stops chattering and lets your body exist.

The showers were full of guys, a lot of steam, and also their usual talk. I showered quickly, finishing with cold water as always. Then towel, t-shirt, hair.

I stood by the mirror and dried my hair. In the mirror, I saw a normal face. Fatigue. Chlorine. Red circles from the goggles.

Normal.

Except only the outside was normal.

Tony came over to the adjacent sink and was drying his hair too. We were each looking at ourselves, but standing right next to each other. Such an ordinary post-practice morning. And yet there was something extra in it.

"Do you ever go to SAPA?" Tony asked.

"Not today."

"Maybe next week? Viktor wants to see a tattoo artist. I've got a friend there. I told him I'd bring him. You can come too."

Silence.

Viktor.

The name dropped between us like a wet towel on the floor.

"I've never been to a tattoo artist," I said.

"You don't have to get anything. Just have a look."

"We'll see."

Tony nodded. "Good today. The sync was really better."

„You are better.“

„We are better. That is the point of the sync.“

He smiled, grabbed his bag, and left.

I stayed by the sink.

Viktor wants a tattoo. Tony is taking him to SAPA. Tony invites me too.

I'm not going to let him off easy, I thought to myself in the morning. But what does that even mean? That I won't go there? That I will? That I'll stand behind Viktor's back in the tattoo studio and watch someone stick a needle into his skin? That I'll be thinking about the smoking room?

I tossed my towel into the bag and went home.

Romi was having a good day. I could tell the moment I opened the door. The air in the flat was different. She was sitting on the adjustable bed, her hair tied in a ponytail. So she had energy. The ponytail was good news.

„How was it?“ she asked from behind her book.

„Okay. In sync with Tony. It went fine.“

„Tony is capable.“

“Yeah.”

I started making soup in the kitchen. There was plenty of vegetables in the fridge, from Dlážěnka of course. Romi almost always finished her soup, so I made soup even though she never said it was her favorite.

„Tomíku,“ ozvala se.

„Hmm?“

“Are you glad you're swimming?”

I turned around.

„Yeah. Why?“

“You've been better since training.”

„That's training for you.“

She nodded and went back to her book.

She was right. Since the training, I had been better. The smoking area was in the back instead of the front. Viktor's gaze quieter. Not gone. But quieter.

The water in the pot started to boil.

After lunch, Romi went to take a nap. I sat down at the desk and opened my laptop. I was supposed to be doing an analysis for school. Sports marketing. Five lines from last week and an unfinished sentence.

I closed the laptop.

I turned my phone over.

Grindr. Seven notifications.

I stared at the number.

I didn't open it. But I didn't delete it either.

I turned the phone face down.

It was raining outside. The restaurant across the street had a light in the window. A waiter was wiping down tables.

I thought about Viktor.

Specifically about that look. How the whole morning, the whole workout, during lunch and conversations with my mom, it just kept coming back. The shock on his face. Or was I the one in shock? Probably.

Then I left. I just left. Out into the rain, like an idiot. And in the morning I had a stamp on my wrist and now I'm sitting at the table, phone face down, laptop closed, Romi is sleeping and the world is pretending to go on normally.

The world doesn't stop because Tom Záhorský went to a porn cinema at night and saw Viktor Polesný in the smoking room with another guy.

But I'm going to have to stop.

Not now.

But I'll have to.

In the evening, Veronika texted me at a quarter past seven.

You ok?

I looked at two words.

I wrote: Yeah. Why?

You were acting weird this morning. In the messages.

Then: Nothing. Just asking.

Then: I had Chinese today. It was crazy. I was thinking about you.

This was Veronika. A sentence that says more than it actually says. That's what always annoyed me about her and at the same time I admired it

I wrote: How was that Chinese place?

Delicious. Spicy. A bit too greasy. I was thinking you never used to go there with me.

I couldn't stand the smell.

I know. But sometimes I think you could try things you hate.

I looked at it for a long time.

For instance, I wrote.

I didn't know if she meant Chinese. If she suspected something. If she just happened to strike right where I didn't have skin like armor.

Romi ate well. That was a good sign too. After dinner I helped her back to bed, adjusted her pillow, got her water and morning pills ready, and covered her legs.

"Night," I said.

"Goodnight, Tommy."

She raised her hand and briefly touched my wrist. The red one. From the scrubbing. From the stamp.

I don't know if she noticed.

I turned off the light and went to my room.

I lay in the dark.

My phone showed twenty minutes past ten. It wasn't raining outside anymore, but everything was wet and trams could be heard from the street.

I closed my eyes.

He was right there.

Doorway cut. Red light. Smell of tobacco. Sofa. Viktor.

I was drawn to him.

It was in my head, I left it standing there. Just like that.

He drew me in a way I don't understand and don't want to understand. He pissed me off. Was he promiscuous? Yeah. Was he in a porn cinema with some stranger? Yeah. Was it a disgusting picture? Yeah. And I was standing there in the doorway, watching. Then I walked out into the rain and in the morning there was a stamp left on my wrist.

And now I'm lying here and I was drawn to him.

Right.

I opened my eyes.

Ceiling. A stain near the corner. Yellow lamp light.

Nedaruju ti to, Viktore.

I don't know what it means yet. But I know I'm not saying it out of contempt. That's the worst part. I'm saying it from a place I can't name. Hurt? Anger? A bond? I don't know. I just know we both saw something you can't take back.

At exactly two forty-five I woke up.

I don't know why. No dream. No sound. I just opened my eyes and my phone showed 2:45.

The apartment breathed quietly. Romi behind the wall breathed regularly. Prague outside was deep and wet.

My wrist was clean.

But I knew.

I got up and went to the bathroom. The sensor light flashed, went out, then flashed again as I moved. I stood by the sink, turned on the cold water and let it run for a moment.

I won't let him get away with it.

What does that mean? That I'll remember him? Yeah. That I'll think about the red light and his gaze? Yeah. That it won't wash off even after a hundred showers? Yeah.

Or it means something worse. That now I know something about him. And even worse—something about myself.

I was at a porn cinema.

I was there because of Viktor, even though I told myself otherwise.

I saw him there.

And I didn't leave because it appalled me. I left because it hit me harder than I expected, and suddenly I had nowhere to stand.

I turned off the tap.

One drop. A second. Then silence.

I stood in the bathroom at 2:45 and knew the first clear thing of that day: in the morning, I'll walk out of the flat. I'll go to practice or to school or to Dlážděnka or anywhere. And Viktor's gaze will go with me.

I went back to bed.

Romi was breathing through the wall. Prague outside was breathing too. The Indian restaurant across the street had its lights off.

I closed my eyes.

This time, I fell asleep.