Marija Peričić - The Lost Pages

Perhaps if I offered a large enough cash incentive, I could limit the amount of questions that would be asked. But how much should I offer? Too much and people would certainly start talking. Perhaps I could offer the amount equivalent to a day’s wage, or slightly more. Would eighty crowns do? I had my chequebook with me, but I decided it would be a good idea to have a sum of cash also at the ready. I stopped at the bank and withdrew two hundred crowns, which would certainly more than suffice.

I found myself at the address that I had written in my notebook. It was a small corner building, damp and dirty and overshadowed by the opera. A rusted tin plate announced that the Bohemian Company had their rooms in the cellar. Suddenly all my good humour deserted me. What exactly should I say? The clock struck, making me jump. It was already ten. I felt conspicuous, hovering there in the doorway, so I went in. I would improvise.

I went down the stone staircase and into the cellar. The underground room was very dark, with only one feeble lamp and a row of narrow windows high on the wall, just beneath the low ceiling. At first I thought that the room was empty, but after a moment my eyes adjusted and I could see a circle of people sitting on cushions on the floor, their heads all turned in my direction. We looked at each other for a stunned moment before a very tall young man got up to greet me. The rest of the troupe remained sitting on the floor, where they murmured to each other in low voices.

I decided that an indirect approach would be best. The young man came over with an outstretched hand, introduced himself as Jan, and asked what he could do for me. I had not thought of preparing an alias, but I gave my name as Schmidt. I tried for a bold and worldly demeanour and told Jan that I had some work to offer one of them.

‘What kind of work?’

‘Well, acting, of course.’

The room had grown silent and I could see the rest of the Bohemian Company watching us from their corner.

‘Fine, but what kind of show do you have in mind? Our current focus is work in the style of Meiningen.’ Jan stretched himself a little taller as he spoke the name of his heroes.

‘Well, it isn’t so much a show as, ah, a single-night performance.’

Jan frowned and waited for me to go on. I desperately searched for a way to explain my request. My eyes wandered from Jan’s face and stared out through the narrow strip of window through which the feet of passers-by were visible.

‘Ah, realism certainly is the style,’ I said after a moment. ‘Authentic realism.’

I glanced at Jan. He was still frowning and his eyes had narrowed. He folded his arms across his chest. I decided to just tell him.

‘Look,’ I said, ‘there’s this man who I’m looking for and can’t find. I just want someone to play him for one night.’

It was only after the words were out of my mouth that I realised how shameful they sounded. As I spoke, Jan had taken a step backwards, away from me.

‘At a dinner I mean,’ I went on. I could feel my cheeks reddening. ‘For a few hours only. At a public café. I can offer you eighty crowns.’

Jan’s lips had curled in disgust. ‘Herr Schmidt,’ he spat out the spurious name, ‘we here are serious artists. Perhaps you would have more success at some other establishment. Good day.’

He turned his back and stalked back to rest of his company. I tried to keep my head up as I slunk to the stairs and left the room. Out on the street I hurried from the scene with my head buried deep in my collar. I let the crowds carry me along, my only concern to put as much distance as possible between myself and the Bohemian Company.

When I had walked enough to be out of breath, I looked at my watch. It was half-past eleven. I had thought that by this time I would have had the whole thing organised and I would be sitting comfortably at the desk in my office, drinking a cup of tea. My confidence began to falter and my heart started up a panicky rhythm: there were not more than seven or eight hours remaining until the dinner. I pictured how Theodor’s face would look—stony, one eyebrow cocked—if I dared to appear without Franz. I forced my mind away from this scenario.

I realised that I was quite close to the insurance office and considered calling there again in case I could produce the real Franz at the dinner. I had somehow forgotten in the hours of that morning that there was in fact a real Franz. But by now my plan had taken root in my mind, and the idea of sitting alongside the real Franz while Theodor got what he wanted filled me with disgust. Besides, given that Franz seemed not to actually want to meet Theodor, by producing a substitute Franz I was actually doing the real Franz a favour. I decided to forgo another visit to the insurance office and instead I took out my notebook to look up the address of the other theatre group that I wanted to try: the Black Cat Ensemble in the Ziegengasse. I estimated that I could go there and still be back at the post office within an hour.

As I walked, I considered the plan anew. Now I could see two possible problems. The first and most significant was if Franz had received Theodor’s and my messages and did appear at the dinner that night. But I considered his past behaviour and concluded that the chance of this was rather low. Besides, if I arrived at the café with the impostor Franz Kafka first, then should the real Kafka arrive later he would be the one to appear as the impostor if I labelled him as such. It would be his word against mine. I merely had to ensure that the imposter and I arrived at the café early. The second potential problem was that the person I presented as Franz might be known to Theodor. But this could be explained away if Franz Kafka was a pseudonymous creation. In fact, that might even help to explain Franz’s reluctance to meet with Theodor in the first place.

There still remained the question of what to say when I arrived at the Black Cat theatre company. Clearly, I needed a different approach to the one I had used with the Bohemians. Perhaps saying that the evening was an audition was a better plan. Or I could say that I was playing a practical joke on a friend. Of course! This seemed like a winning idea to me: innocuous, amusing. It was perfect.

Obviously I also needed to think of a more plausible name than Schmidt. Czerny? Cervenka? Karel Czerny. He sounded like a practical joker. I could surely pass as Karel Czerny. The name is Czerny , I mouthed to myself as I walked along.

I soon arrived at my destination. This group had a little wooden sign with a painted image of a black cat, hissing, with an arched back and bared fangs. Its long tail was raised in a question mark that curled around the top of the sign. The cat’s green eyes bored into mine, daring me to go in. Karel Czerny . I went inside.

Despite my preparation this time, my experience with the Black Cat Ensemble strongly resembled the one I had had at the Bohemian Company, and once again I found myself scurrying away down the street, shamefaced. There must have been something shifty in my countenance, for I am usually a highly credible liar, my body having schooled me in the arts of deception from a most tender age.

Now I was at a loss. It was past midday. I let myself drift through the streets at random. My mind was numb and empty, and I concentrated only on negotiating the uneven stones of the street. What with my slow progress and keeping my eyes trained on the ground, now and then people cannoned into me. After one of these collisions I looked up directly into the eyes of Franz. He was walking towards me, still a few metres away. He seemed not to have seen me. I felt dizzy and a kind of violent mist rose up before my eyes. I felt the urge to kill him on the spot. I reached out for the wall to steady myself, but when I looked again I saw that it was not Franz after all, only a man so like him that he could have been Franz’s twin.