Curt Leviant - Kafka's Son

“Because in our society first and last names are always different. Yours are too, I’m sure, though I won’t ask because it’s personal information. I have two different names because I’m not Chinese, where you have people named Chin Chin, Ling Ling, and Ping Pong.”

“I mean your family name and your so-called brother’s family… are different.”

“Oh. That’s because we come from two different mothers and two different fathers. But because both of us were twins we’re actually half-brothers on either side.”

“If he’s really your half-brother, why aren’t you here watching over him?”

“Am I my half-brother’s keeper?”

He didn’t answer me.

“All right. Let’s try it this way. If you had a patient named Jiri Weisz-Krupka…”

“It’s Krupka-Weisz, but I can neither confirm nor deny that.”

“Okay. But if you did have a patient by that name, how would he be doing?”

“If I had a patient by that name — and mind you, this is all sup-positionally speaking — he wouldn’t be doing.”

“Which means he’s been discharged.”

“That would be a gross exaggeration.”

“Then how is he doing?”

He remained silent. I tried another approach.

“All right, if he hasn’t been discharged and he’s not here, then should I assume…?”

“You certainly should… He took an alternative route out.”

“Then he’s…” I couldn’t bring myself to say it.

“Logical conclusions,” said the man stiffly, “are the sole responsibility of the interlocutor. At the risk of losing my job, we cannot, dare not, give out personal information about Dr. Jiri Krupka-Weisz, God rest his soul.”

“When did he die?”

“Who said he died?” the man shrieked.

“You did.”

“I did not. I could lose my job.”

“But you just…”

“And what’s more, now I know you’re not his brother. Dr. Krupka-Weisz spoke with an accent. You don’t. And what’s even more more, he doesn’t even have a brother. I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.”

“You’re driving me crazy,” I burst out.

“Just a moment, please, and I’ll connect you.”

The phone buzzed.

“Psychiatric counseling, how may we help you?”

I drove to the shul, parked, and tried to retrace the way to Jiri’s house. After several wrong turns I found it. At the apartment house entrance hallway I looked for Krupka-Weisz on the bell list. Not under Krupka, not under Weisz. I rang the super and spoke my question into the intercom.

“Mr. Weisz-Krupka? No longer live here.”

“Not Weisz-Krupka. Krupka-Weisz.”

“He gone too. Both of them.”

“The wife too? I wanted to speak to his wife.”

“He dead, you know. Shame.”

“But is his wife still here? I must see her.”

“What you say? Speak into microphone.”

“Where’s the lady?”

“What lady?”

“His wife.”

“Wha choo talking mabout? He got no wife.”

“No wife? Impossible. What about lady?”

“Lady he with no wife.”

“Then where is she?”

“Who?”

“The lady who no wife.”

“No lady here, I said,” he said.

“She move?”

“Who?”

“The lady. The wife.”

“All four move. Weisz-Krupka. Krupka-Weisz. Wife. Lady.”

“Where?”

“Where what?”

“Don’t you understand English?”

“No. If I understand English, I be outside where you is and you be here inside listening to me asking question that Eisenstein hisself can’t answer.”

“Okay, me talk slow. Where lady move?”

“There never no lady here.”

“Impossible. I saw her. You say she move. Her name be Betty.”

“You seeing things, mister. Need glasses.”

“I’m wearing glasses.”

“Then take off glasses. No lady here.”

“No lady here? Ever? Named Betty?”

“No. She move. Jump into moving van with other four. Weisz-Krupka. Krupka-Weisz. Lady. Wife. And Betty. Crowded plenty. Boy. Tight. All five. Almost each other’s laps on. Need stretch limo.”

“Then where she go?”

“Who?”

“She.”

“Oh, she? She gone too.”

“Gone?”

“How gone?” I probed. “Where gone?”

“Gone gone.”

“Gone gone?”

“Gone gone. With others. Hitch ride. On roof.”

“Apartment empty?”

“Rented. One two three. Hard to get apartment here. Big Apple. Big waiting line. Sorry. Much regrets. You like your name on list? I put.”

“No. Me no want apartment. Me want speak to lady.”

“Wha choo talking mabout, mister? I tell you no lady ever be here. She move. With three girlfriends. All going. Going. Gone. No lady. No wife. No Betty. No she. No here.”

No intercom.

NOTE:

Beginnings #8, 10, and 9—in that order — have been deleted from this text. Deleted but not purged. Readers curious about the above-referenced beginnings may send a self-addressed, stamped envelope to the publisher and request the three deleted beginnings to

Kafka’s Son .

About a month before my planned six-week trip to Prague for my film project, a delicious surprise awaited me. One of those memorable moments in life that you never even dreamt would occur. That morning, while shaving, I looked in the mirror and fantasized: If I were to fly to Venice for a brief getaway from my work in Prague (very nice, I reprimanded myself, you haven’t even started filming and you’re already planning a vacation), and be invited to one of those masked balls that people give in Venice, who should I go as — K or Danny K? Just then a call came from a documentary film buddy inviting me three days hence to a dinner party. His wife couldn’t make it, he said, and he thought I might enjoy the evening with some other filmmakers, about eight or ten people in all. I can still see my face, full of soap, as I hesitated. Colleagues would ask me the usual question in the arts world, What are you working on? and I didn’t want to discuss a project that hadn’t even begun. But my friend said a producer would come and a distributor too. These get-togethers, he added, always yield some contacts. You never know. Holding the phone with one hand, wiping the soap off with the other, I said yes. Thank God I didn’t refuse, for I would have kicked myself after finding out who was there and whom I had missed by stupidly staying at home.

Guess who sat opposite me at that dinner? He was brought as a surprise guest by a successful producer I won’t name. He came late, after all of us were already seated. He wore a wide, dark brown Australian slouch hat and — it was quite chilly that night — a long suede coat. A white-capped maid helped him out of the coat and took his hat.

One would have expected cries of “Danny, Danny,” when he entered. Instead, a stunned silence hummed in the room. He was pale to his ears, the pallor enhanced by his dark blue cashmere turtleneck sweater that covered the loose skin on his neck. I began applauding and all the other guests joined me. Danny gave a little smile; he raised his hand a bit and waved. The hostess led him and his friend to the two empty seats opposite me.

Why the stunned silence? I’ll tell in a moment. I looked at my hero, unable to believe my eyes. Danny K and me, the erstwhile pretend Danny K, in the same room. Finally. As if fated. He was only in his early seventies but looked like an old man. Old and, unfortunately, seemingly out of it. He still had a full head of hair, but at the roots white was edging into the familiar reddish blond color. But what was worse, and I felt so bad for him, shocked, even embarrassed, was that he was heavily made up. Which everyone noticed, of course, and it took their breath away. Had he just come from a performance and hadn’t had time to remove the makeup? Hardly likely, for I would have known of a Danny K appearance in New York. Was the cake makeup a cover for a skin eruption, an ailing face? Who knows? Except for his lips, the flesh-colored stuff” was all over his face, chin, cheeks, around his nose, and especially heavy at the corners of his eyes. But still the pallor showed through. It reminded me of the last scene of Thomas Mann’s Death in Venice , where the ailing, aging Aschenbach is persuaded by a barber to restore to his face “what was naturally his.”