Krzysztof Nietzsche-Przybysz sank tentatively into a chair that was a little low. Across the table sat Mr. Davis. Krysztof’s fairly new acquaintance glanced over his menu, before putting it down.
This evening, after work, Krzysztoff Nietzsche-Prybysz had come with an ardent desire to confide in Mr. Davis something that he felt was not just necessary but timely.
“Peter, do you mind if I confide in you something that has been on my mind for a while? It plagues me, actually.”
“Are you okay? Plague’s a big word. Perhaps, is it a Polish expression?”
Krysztof shrugged before closing his eyes.
“Mr. Peter, I need to tell you a bit of a story. Maybe I need a little help.”
“Oh.”
Mr. Davis’ eyes narrowed a little. There was a flicker of a frown. “I’m sorry to hear that. But tell me anyway. What’s the matter?”
Talking, as if to himself, Krzysrof launched into his confession: “Well, you see, I have had a problem. I had a problem when I was in London. My name. My name, Peter, started to become … It started to cause issues.”
Mr. Davis glanced at his menu.
“Issues?”
“It started when people kept, you know, getting it wrong. Misspelling it. I know the English found my name a challenge. Some acquaintances laughed when I wrote it out for them. Some officials created problems for me. You know. It’s German-Polish. My parents. They were refugees from the war. They met in England. In London, actually.”
Krisztof paused. Mr. Davis looked up.
“Double-barrelled. Like a shot gun. Your parents. It’s quite an English thing.”
“Yes. Yes, I believe so. But the problem was not this. Not entirely. I mean to say that people couldn’t spell my names. My name.”
“No, of course.”
“Every time it kept changing. And, well, you see, the embarrassing thing was that I too began to forget how my name should be written.”
“Oh, that was unfortunate. Annoying, I’d imagine.”
Crzysztof nodded sadly. “Yes.”
“Annoying… but is that a ‘plague’, would you say?” Mr. Davis began to play with his menu. “I’m sure, now you’re out of England, you’ve become reacquainted with the correct spelling? Your passport. You could check your passport. I’m going to order. You fancy anything tonight?”
Krzystorph looked up distractedly.
“My passport?” Krzysztof shook his head ambivalently.
The truth was that Krzyszdorf had failed to reveal everything. In fact, he had decided not to divulge anything of importance at all. Consequently, when he later returned to his apartment on the tenth floor of Block B at the condominium, he felt all the turgidity of his burden lying heavily within.
In truth, things had got worse, since Krsztorf Neitzsche-Przybysz had left London and moved to Malaysia. Certainly Krzyszdoff could no longer spell his own name, but lately it had taken on a life of its own. Like a devil, this chimaera would change. It had become a sort of monicker. But it was worse than that…
A week after Khristoff had failed to declare all to Mr. Davis, they chanced to meet again at the condominium bar. Mr. Davis kindly offered to buy the first round.
“How are things? Ah, yes, your name. Did you sort out your little plague?”
Krzyztorf twitched and looked up from his beer.
“Peter. I need your advice. You’re a legal man. How do I change my name?”
Mr. Davis laughed openly.
“My dear boy, things can’t be so bad. Did you check your passport?”
Krzysztoph shook his head grimly.
“Believe me. It’s bad. I have to do something to stop this. How do I change my name?”
There was a long pause before Mr. Davis sighed.
“Well, it’s possible but very problematic. All your official papers, your bank account, everything would be turned upside down. Would you really want to go through all that trouble just because of a spelling problem? Are you okay? Krzysdorph?”
“You don’t understand. I have to do this. It’s driving me crazy. Maybe I am crazy. Seriously. I have to do this. I need your advice. I need your help.”
And so it was that, after six months, Cristoff Nietzsche-Przybyzs became John Rose. ‘Rose’ had been Mr. Davis’ suggestion for, at one moment of perhaps final exasperation, he had stomped out of the condominium bar spouting, more like an oath than endearment, Juliet’s words to Romeo: “A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”
For a few weeks, things seemed to have changed for the good. In spite of the upheaval and all the confusion, the endless appointments and visits to bureaux, courts and, even, the police station, Krzysztof-now-John, had begun to feel that it had all be worth while. He had, through great expense and effort, exorcised himself. That old name had had a stake driven through its black heart. In fact, John Rose decided to take a little celebratory holiday and he booked a hotel in Malacca for a long weekend. Why not? He felt like a new man. He was a new man!
On the Friday afternoon, John Rose left work early and drove out of Johor Bahru up the AH2 to Melaka. The afternoon was sunny enough, but clouds were gathering over the sea to the west. ‘Maybe there would be rain, but not on the journey,’ thought Jon Rose, a little confident in his new self.
After a couple of hours, Mr. Rose arrived at The Majestic. He parked, took out his weekend suitcase and made his way to the front of the hotel. As he mounted the shallow steps to the reception lobby, he patted his jacket pocket to check his passport. At the top, the doorman took his suitcase and smiled.
“This way, sir.”
‘What a great idea this has been,’ thought the novel John Rose. Relieved of his suitcase, he felt unburdened. It was good to get out of the city and away from the condominium. He stepped up to the reception desk with a new-found lightness.
“Good evening,” smiled the pretty receptionist. “Mr. Roze?”
Jonn Rose paused before nodding. He dipped his hand into his jacket and took out his passport.
“A lovely day. Maybe it will rain this evening?” he offered. But the girl had already turned away to make a copy of his passport. Perhaps she hadn’t heard him. No matter. He didn’t care, because he felt buoyant, and he even began to hum quietly to himself as he waited. He sensed the doorman close by in the lobby behind.
“There. All done. Your key and breakfast is from seven. Have a wonderful weekend with us, Mr. Roze. We hope you enjoy your stay. Haziq will show you upstairs.”
The weather broke in the night, after Mr. Rose had gone to bed. But he slept through the downpour and the little ripples of thunder, the distant flashes of the tropical storm somewhere across the Straits over Sumatra. A million miles away…
The rain persisted through to Sunday. It had been a little disappointing. In fact, Jon Roze decided to leave earlier than planned and after breakfast he packed his bag. No point in sitting around a hotel on his own. Maybe he’d meet up with Mr. Davis in the afternoon. He would certainly be at the condominium bar, being English and very much a man of habit. Besides, they had fallen out just a little over the difficulties of the last few months. It would be good to patch things up and maybe deepen their friendship a little – though the English were so reserved, unless spouting Shakespeare, and they were difficult, it was true.
“I’m checking out early. The rain.” John Prose, turned and pointed to the front doors that were open, in spite of the drizzle. A damp moth flickered through the entrance from the veranda.
The receptionist had changed. Not the pretty girl from Friday. A man, this time. But he smiled and was friendly enough. After a moment, the receptionist prepared the receipt and folded it neatly into a white envelope.
“All paid in advance. We hope you enjoyed your stay with us.” With that, the envelope was passed across the reception desk. Haziq, the doorman, approached from behind. The weekend bag was already being lifted and taken and the movement distracted Don Rosé just a little but not before he managed to glance at his receipt.
The blood drained from his face at what he saw written in black ink on the white paper.
“Mr. Nose? Mr. Nose?”
“Is everything all right?” The receptionist turned back to him from the key press.
“All right? No. There’s been a mistake. This is a mistake. I’m Mr. Rose. I’m definitely Mr. Roze. I changed my name to Mr. Rohs. Is this some sort of joke?”
