Франц Кафка - The Unhappiness of Being a Single Man - Essential Stories

At that moment, the seemingly indifferent man with the bamboo cane approached Karl and asked, not loudly, but in a voice distinct despite all the stoker’s yelling, “What’s your name?” At the same time, as if someone had been waiting for the man to speak, there was a knocking at the door. The steward looked to the captain, who nodded. The steward went to the door and opened it. Outside in an old military-style coat stood a man of middling build who, judging by his appearance, didn’t seem very well suited to working with machines, yet was in fact Schubal. If Karl hadn’t realized that from the way everyone looked at him, betraying a certain satisfaction that even the captain wasn’t above, he couldn’t have missed, to his shock, that the stoker tensed his arms and balled his fists as if these fists were the most important thing about him, for which he would have sacrificed whatever he had in life. All his strength, even what kept him on his feet, had gone there.

And so that was the enemy, free and fresh in his smart clothes, with a book of accounts under his arm, probably the stoker’s hours and pay, and he looked each of them in the eye in turn, not afraid to let them see that he was gauging their mood. All seven were already on his side, because although the captain had had certain reservations about him, or pretended to have them after feeling nettled by the stoker, Schubal now seemed above even the smallest criticism. You couldn’t be strict enough with a man like the stoker, and if Schubal had done anything wrong, it was that he’d failed to break the stoker’s wilfulness before he could dare present himself in front of the captain.

You might have assumed that a confrontation between the stoker and Schubal before this group of people would have the same effect as one before a higher court, and that even if Schubal was good at disguising his real character, he wouldn’t be able to keep it up till the end. A brief flash of malice would be enough of a demonstration for these men, and Karl wanted to make sure it happened. He’d been able to pick up a little about the acumen, weaknesses and temper of each of the men, and, seen from that perspective, the time he’d spent here had not been wasted. If only the stoker would make a better impression, but he seemed completely unable to stand up for himself. If you’d held Schubal within his reach, the stoker would presumably have managed to bash in his hated skull with his fists. But just to take a few steps over to Schubal would have been beyond him. Why hadn’t Karl predicted what was so easily predictable, namely that Schubal would eventually have to appear, either under his own impetus or called in by the captain. Why hadn’t Karl and the stoker worked out a precise plan of attack on the way here rather than walking in hopelessly unprepared simply because the door was in front of them? Was the stoker even still capable of speech, of saying yes and no when required to in the impending cross-examination, which, at this rate, they would be lucky even to get to? He was standing there with his legs apart, his knees unsteady, his head lifted slightly, with the air going in and out of his mouth as if he had no lungs left to absorb it.

Karl, meanwhile, felt stronger and more lucid than he perhaps ever had back home. If his parents could only see him now, in a foreign country, championing a just cause in front of distinguished persons, and although he hadn’t won yet, he was ready to make a final push. Would that change their opinion of him? Would they sit him down between them and praise him? Look him once, just once, in the eyes that gazed at them with such devotion? What dubious questions and what an inopportune moment to start asking them!

“I’ve come because I believe that the stoker is accusing me of some kind of dishonesty. A girl from the kitchens told me she’d seen him on his way here. Captain, gentlemen, I’m ready to disprove any allegation by referring to my records and, if necessary, with the testimony of impartial and independent witnesses, who are waiting outside the door.” Thus spoke Schubal. It was the clear speech of a mature man, and from the change in the expression of his listeners you might have thought this was the first time in a long time they’d heard a human voice. They certainly didn’t notice that even this fine speech was riddled with holes. Why was the first specific charge that occurred to him “dishonesty”? Perhaps the stoker’s allegations should have started there rather than with his national prejudices? A girl from the kitchen had seen the stoker on the way to the office and Schubal had understood at once what was going on? Wasn’t it guilt that sharpened his powers of understanding? And on top of that he’d immediately brought along a gang of witnesses, whom he had the nerve to call impartial and independent? It was a racket, one big racket! And these gentlemen were letting it go on and clearly even considered this the right way to behave? Why had Schubal let so much time pass between getting the message from the girl in the kitchens and showing himself here? Surely for no other reason than to let the stoker wear everybody out until it fogged their judgment, which Schubal had good reason to be afraid of. Hadn’t Schubal, who must have been standing outside the door for a long time already, only knocked when that gentleman had asked an unrelated question, which suggested that the stoker was finished?

It was all crystal clear and Schubal was giving himself away despite everything, but these gentlemen still needed it put to them even more straightforwardly. They needed to be shaken up. ‘Karl,’ he thought, ‘it’s time to act, before the witnesses come in and swamp the conversation.’

But right at that moment, the captain waved Schubal away, and he—since his affairs seemed to have been postponed for a little while—stepped aside and began a hushed conversation with the steward, who’d joined him at once, a conversation with no shortage of sidelong glances at the stoker and Karl, nor of emphatic hand gestures. Schubal looked to be preparing his next big speech.

“Didn’t you want to ask this young man something, Mr Jakob?” said the captain to the man with the bamboo cane over the general hush.

“Indeed,” he said, thanking the captain for this courtesy with a slight bow. And then he asked Karl again, “What’s your name?”

Karl, who believed it was in the interest of their cause to dispense with this interlude and his stubborn questioner as quickly as possible, answered curtly, breaking his habit of introducing himself by presenting his passport, which he would anyway first have had to find: “Karl Rossmann.”

“But,” said the man the captain had called Jakob, immediately taking a step back, smiling almost in disbelief. The captain, the chief purser, the ship’s officer, even the steward also appeared to be inexplicably astonished by Karl’s name. Only the men from the port authority and Schubal didn’t react.

“But,” Mr Jakob repeated, coming over to Karl on stiff legs, “that means I’m your Uncle Jakob and you’re my dear nephew. I suspected it from the very start!” he said to the captain, before putting his arms around Karl and kissing him, while Karl silently let it happen.

“What’s your name?” Karl asked after being released, speaking very politely but not feeling at all moved, and trying to predict what the consequences of this new development might be for the stoker. For the time being, there seemed no reason to believe that Schubal would be able to turn it to his advantage.

“Try to understand how lucky you are, young man,” said the captain, who thought that Karl’s question had wounded the dignity of Mr Jakob, who’d gone over to the window, evidently so that the others wouldn’t see the emotion on his face, which he was dabbing with a handkerchief. “The man who’s just told you he’s your uncle is Senator Edward Jakob. From now on, a glittering career awaits you, presumably quite in contrast with what you’d been expecting. Try to grasp that as well as you can right now, and get a hold of yourself!”