Marija Peričić - The Lost Pages

Sitting there next to Franz was a strange experience. I had to keep reminding myself that he was not Alexandr or Gustav, and I took care not to say anything which might give me away. Fortunately, he was not much disposed to talking, and after greeting me he had settled into silence behind a newspaper. He was acting towards me with neutral politeness, as though our last angry encounter had not occurred, which puzzled me. Perhaps he felt that he had triumphed over me with his publication of Die Verwandlung .

The thought of that book still smarted, but I sat and soothed the pain by gloating over my successful deception of Theodor. I imagined how much worse it would be for me now had Franz known about the scope of his success. Of course he knew that his book had been successfully published, and this was bad enough, but, if I continued to carefully manage the situation, hopefully this would be all that he would ever achieve. Franz was on his way out. I still had his cheque in my pocket.

I sat and looked out of the window, not making any conversation. I had put a notebook in my jacket pocket with the idea that I would take notes about the landscapes that we encountered on the journey. I took it out and sat with pen poised, ready to note down my impressions. I assumed that Theodor was expecting us to produce a travelogue illuminated with golden scraps of poetry, but I could find nothing to say about the unremarkable springtime hills and trees as they sped past, beautiful though they were, so my page remained blank.

I saw Franz take out his own notebook and begin to write. He sat over it for a long time, his head lowered with the effort of concentration, jotting down small amounts at a time, but very consistently. Soon he had filled several pages. My page was still an empty space. When he saw me watching him he slid his notebook back into his pocket and looked studiously out of the window. I wanted to ask him what he was writing, but I didn’t know how to without sounding jealous and peevish. I shuffled around in my seat and leafed through the empty pages of my own notebook. Franz gave a sudden laugh, turning to me and holding out his notebook. ‘Never mind, Max, it’s not my magnum opus.’

He snapped the book shut and stowed it in his pocket. I sat staring straight ahead. We both remained silent for the rest of the journey.

IT WAS EVENING WHEN WE ARRIVED AT KARLSBAD. WE WERE TO stay at the Hotel Kroh, which was close to the Kurhaus baths. The journey, and Franz’s presence, had exhausted me and I was looking forward to a few moments alone in my room. As we pulled into the long drive of the hotel I had tantalising glimpses of cool gardens and arched windows looking into dim rooms in which yellow lamps glowed. My body, tired and sore, vibrated with anticipation.

Franz had hurried to the hotel desk ahead of me, leaving me to struggle up the staircase in his wake. My body was frozen and rigid and my blood seemed to have stopped flowing. I had to stand there in the yard and make a spectacle of myself chafing each of my legs with my hands before I could even attempt the stairs. A porter in a dirty jacket appeared at my elbow and tried to help me, but I rudely ordered him away, ashamed.

Labouring up the stairs, I realised that my glimpse of the hotel’s opulence must have been a glimpse into the hotel’s past. At close range I could see it was a shabby place, past its prime and gently decomposing. The wide carpets were spotted and crusted with dirt, the brass fittings tarnished and every surface overlaid with a furred layer of dust. A strange smell pervaded the hall, of vinegar and the insides of old books.

By the time I reached the desk Franz had already received his key and was signing himself into the register. I stood to one side until he had finished and had turned to go, saying over his shoulder that he would meet me in the bar later.

The hotel clerk was an elderly man with a face as naked and pink as a baby’s. He searched and searched through his papers and ledgers, but my name did not appear anywhere. There was much fussing. Several other clerks were called for assistance and together they hunted through drawers and the wall of little pigeonholes as though they were conducting a burglary. Then they came back to me, shaking their heads. There was nothing under my name and the rooms of the hotel were completely full. The pink-faced clerk showed me the ledger; Franz’s name was the last one written on the list.

I had propped myself up on the desk with my forearms to take the weight off my cramping legs while they searched, and now I hung there like a shipwrecked man clinging to a piece of flotsam. My head ached and the fumes from the spring, strong even here inside the hotel, were making me nauseous. I could not face another carriage ride to a different hotel. I decided to ask Franz—to beg him if necessary, or pay him—to give me his room while he found accommodation elsewhere. Franz was sent for and I sank into a dusty sofa.

I remained sitting there while Franz came down and had an argument with the clerk. The clerk kept gesturing to me, his pink fingers delicately curled, but Franz never turned his head, although moment by moment the violence of his gestures increased. I closed my eyes.

Theodor, it transpired, had booked us into a shared room, which was the cause of Franz’s ire. Not only was it shared, but it was tiny: barely larger than the train compartment we had arrived in.

‘This is certainly going in my review,’ Franz hissed at me as we climbed the stairs together, as though it were my fault, or the hotel’s. I ignored him and lay down on my tiny bed, fully clothed.

When I woke up it was to the relief of an empty room. I went downstairs and found Franz in the dining room with notes and brochures spread out on the table all around him. It was still early and the dining room was almost empty. I sat down and he handed me a piece of paper covered with complicated ruled columns. He explained that it was a schedule that he had arranged for us, which would specify times for touring the town, writing the travelogue and doing our own writing.

Franz went to see about some food and left me to decipher his schedule. My head was still thick with sleep and I squinted at the rows of sharp numbers in Franz’s handwriting, unable to make sense of them. As I gradually woke up it occurred to me that the schedule, even the very idea that Franz would take it upon himself to write one for me, was totally outrageous. I whipped out my pen to make amendments.

‘Herr Kafka?’

I was still scowling when I looked up into the face of a youngish woman. She was standing bowed slightly towards me, inclining her body forward from her hips, waiting for a response. She reminded me of Uta, although this woman was younger, with her hair too tightly curled, too elaborately arranged, her dress too flounced and her lips too artificially pouted.

‘Yes,’ I said without thinking, while I continued to assess her attractiveness.

She cooed and with fluttering hands started to tell me how much she admired my work, while looking greedily down at the paper-covered table. Her eyes flashed her desire at me, which restored my temper. She was clearly angling for an invitation to sit with me. Despite her affectations, I discerned that her figure was most shapely and her fine-grained skin reflected the light with a pleasing sheen.

‘I mean no,’ I interrupted her monologue, remembering her question and my name. ‘Kafka has just gone out. I am Brod; Max Brod. Please, join me.’ I offered her the chair that Franz had just vacated.

‘Oh,’ she said. Her body sagged in disappointment. ‘Oh, no, I really can’t.’

Her eyes darted around the room as if she were hoping to catch a glimpse of Franz coming back. I too looked towards the frosted glass of the door and thought I could see the outline of Franz’s dark head appear at the other side. I was humiliated at having exposed my interest to her, and the possibility of Franz appearing and finding me with her there waiting to see him was too much. Rudely, I got up and pushed past her out of the room.