Sounds Similar, and Yet Different

David felt that he was blushing again. Now that they were looking at each other in silence like this and Gustav's eyes were so piercing, he felt that he had to explain why he had come here, and in such a way that it did not sound strange. After all, he can't admit that he was worried about him. And he won't admit for any reason in the world that he wanted to test his reaction to Meiden.

"You are from abroad and I thought to myself," he began, "that you should try Polish bread. I don't know if you've eaten it, but the one from the bakery in the gate is the best... Have you eaten anything at all since Mrs. Ursula left?" he asked suddenly accusingly.

Meiden opened his eyes wide. He looked as if he was trying to remember. Then he hung his head with resignation and shame.

"Well, you must be joking!" David was already really angry. He was angry to the point where all the previous emotions immediately drained out of him. "After all, you're a grown man!"

Yes, an adult human being, not a small child requiring constant supervision.

This was probably not a good argument for everyone, but the Norwegian sighed.

"You're right," he admitted. "Unfortunately, when I write, I kind of move into that world. No, I don't plunge completely into fantasy, I just write and can't stop, and when I stop, it's just to think about writing. I don't feel hungry, so I don't remember that I'm supposed to eat something. I'm all thoughts in the world I'm describing. It's so... No, I can't explain it."

David thought Meiden explained it quite well. The guy just got so immersed in his work that he forgot about everything else. A fucking workaholic. And where's the common sense in all this? If he destroys his body, he'll contract some vile disease and he'll only have a problem. David felt like shaking his head, but he had no right to lecture his boss on matters of his private and professional life. In fact, he had no right to instruct him in anything.

However, there was something beautiful in this dedication to his work, or rather vocation, which was writing, and David felt respect for this man. Admittedly, he himself did not read books, but his mother, an incorrigible romantic, would reach for some romance whenever she had the opportunity. He was physically similar to her, and they also shared some character traits, but his love of reading was not inherited. However, he appreciated and respected that there are people in the world who can make people happy with their talent and work.

However, he did not appreciate someone doing this at the expense of his own health. He just thought it was stupid. But he couldn't help thinking that some people were simply idiots. Apparently Meiden, though perhaps a genius, was one of them. Dawid sighed.

"Can you manage to walk to the kitchen? I'll make you some sandwiches," he offered. "You could probably use something warm and easily digestible, but here we need to act fast so you don't pass out from hunger."

"No worries. I'm better now."

"That's good," stated David, although looking at Meiden's face he wouldn't have said the man was feeling well. Only those eyes looked more aware of David's presence. He looked away to avoid seeing those blazing green jewels. "If you were to starve to death here, we'd have a problem."

"Huh, right..."

They moved to the kitchen. David surreptitiously glanced at Meiden's face and saw that it was again somber, almost hostile. Why? Maybe walking made him uncomfortable since he had been sitting at his desk for so long? But that gloom made that face particularly appealing. So did that long, lingering gaze of green eyes that seized him and held him for so long that he trembled.

Strange, piercing and unsettling there, inside him.

Gustav was indeed strange.

And again that name flowed into his brain on its own. He didn't know any Gustav, well, except maybe the one from "Maiden Vows," which they discussed in high school. And maybe from "Dziady." Was there a Gustav? He couldn't remember. This name was rather not used in Poland, it went out of fashion. In Scandinavia, maybe it was different. I think there was a King Gustav who fought against the Poles, but that one was probably a Swede. And a Norwegian? What would that name sound like in Norwegian? He tried to remember how Ursula said it, but she did it so quickly and suddenly that he didn't pay attention. Then she spoke in Polish. At least in front of him.

He shook off these thoughts and put the bread on the table. He didn't take it out of the net; the dusty countertop had to be wiped first. So he took a cloth and did a quick cleanup.

"You manage in the kitchen," the Norwegian noted.

"My mother works, and so does my father. I had to learn this and that. What, you Mr. Meiden can't do it? Everything was done by servants?"

"Why don't you call me by my first name?

"I thought we had already established that."

"Yes, but you don't say 'Mr. Gustav'."

Right, he reminded himself. I was supposed to address him that way. But it was still kind of weird.

"What does your name sound like in Norwegian?" he asked suddenly.

Meiden said. They were the same words, yet they sounded completely different. They were hard but pleasantly melodic in their own way, and David found them not at all bizarre. They suited the man, at once strong and irritable. He repeated after him, for the sake of trying. He said the name with difficulty, it was foreign to his lips, hard, but one could get used to it. He smiled satisfied with his success and took to making sandwiches. He immediately set the first two on a plate under the Norwegian's nose.

"You should have a housekeeper. Someone who will clean, wash, cook for you," stated the boy while setting the water.

"Felix suggested the same thing, but I don't like strangers," announced Meiden once again emphasizing his preference.

"Well then, why did you come to a foreign country?" David didn't understand something. "After all, everyone here is a stranger to you."

Gustav's jaws just chewing a sandwich stopped for a moment. His eyes darkened and his face tightened. He now looked darker than usual and David felt a distinct uneasiness. Had he hurt Meiden? Was his departure related to that man? Was Meiden running away from painful memories? David asked one simple question, and the aura around the Norwegian changed so much that it became almost scary! He will have to be careful what he says near this man, otherwise who knows how it could end.

"I couldn't write there," Meiden explained suddenly. David twitched until he heard his calm, quiet voice so incongruous with the expression on his face and his own suspicions. "For months. For a year and a half, actually. No words or images came to me. Nothing. A novelist to whom nothing comes is... I had to change my surroundings."

David sometimes heard in some movie about writers' creative blockade. Was it that? He had also heard that it was a myth and that you can always write and inspiration is not an issue here. But maybe it depended on the person? Maybe some were like craftsmen forging their craft and others like artists waiting for the muses to come? He didn't understand this and never really cared, but now he had a man in front of him for whom this was a real problem.

"And now you can?"

"Yes," there was firmness and pride in Meiden's voice. "I have finished my book."

David felt pleasant knowing that his village had been of use to someone. And his work. If Meiden felt comfortable enough to return to writing months later, it was also a credit to those who had made it beautiful.

"I'm happy," he said enthusiastically, with all the sincerity of his heart. "I don't know anything about writing, but if there is anything I could do to help you, please tell me."

The Norwegian looked at him thoughtfully, then slowly, as if with reluctance, looked away. David had no idea how to read this strange behavior.

He didn't know if he had inadvertently offended his employer with something, but he didn't have time to think about it because the kettle whistled and he had to brew the tea.

"Why only one cup?" the Norwegian asked. "Won't you keep me company?"

"It's too hot for tea."

"In that case, why are you making it for me?"

"Hey, I'm not the one who almost passed out from thirst and hunger. The only thing I know how to make hot is tea, and something warm is healthy for the stomach."

Gustav smiled pale. He did not seem angry for the fact that David, his employee, dared to yell at him. Rather, he was pleased, although incredibly tired.