Curt Leviant - Kafka's Son

“Go for it. I’m sure you’ll do well.”

“You know, this is the second time I’ve seen you one on one.”

“I thought you looked familiar,” Danny K was kind enough to say.

“When I was a kid, my beloved Uncle Monia used to take me to see your stage shows in New York. We’d see two of your shows with a film sandwiched in between. And years later, in the Mann Auditorium in Tel Aviv, at a concert by the Israel Philharmonic Orchestra. Just before the intermission, a man onstage announced in Hebrew and in English: We have a surprise guest from America with us tonight. I’m sitting in the balcony and I see someone I think I know, someone who looks so familiar, whizzing past me up the steps of the balcony, probably from row one, and the audience is susurrating, bubbling, whispering, then applause breaks out from the people sitting down in the orchestra as the man dashes to the front, applause mingled with laughter and happy sounds, and then the chant ‘Denny Denny Denny’ fills the air as you leap onstage, snatch the baton from the conductor, and the audience is now on its feet and applauding and still shouting, ‘Denny, Denny, Denny’ and you turn to the audience, raise your baton as a sign for silence, and say to them, ‘Shalom, Yidn. Sholom aleichem. Shalom al Yisrael,’ and then you begin to conduct the IPO.”

“Yes, I remember that. What a thrill! It was the Barber of Seville Overture . My specialty… But when did we meet?”

“On Broadway. I came to see you once after a matinee and gave you a copy of my first documentary, the one I did on Sholom Ale-ichem’s children.”

“Oh yes, of course. Forgive me for not contacting you and thanking you. Then I saw it at least one more time on Public Television. And it surely deserved all the praise it got.”

“Boy, am I glad I came tonight. I almost didn’t accept the invitation.”

“That would have been too bad. To whom would I have told my K story?”

My mind was racing. My idol sitting before me. If I didn’t make a move now, I would never have the opportunity. Should I engage him with more K talk? I wanted to ask him if — it was on the tip of my tongue to ask him if I could make a documentary about him. But it would be pretentious. And untrue. Poor Danny was fading. How would he look in a film that would obviously have to focus on him? One of my two K heroes. And here he was chatting with me, no longer the lonely, lost soul at a dinner party, trying to sail away on ships of his own creation, like that jailed Roman philosopher, or was it a poet, whose name escapes me at the moment, drawing ships on his prison wall that would take him to freedom.

“When you whizzed past me on the balcony at the Mann Auditorium, I didn’t know who it was. The man on stage said, We have a surprise for you. But in my skin I felt it was you. It was as if the corner of my eye had a vision that the rest of me couldn’t quite grasp. And then, when from downstairs comes the adoring cry, Denny, Denny, Denny, my joy was complete. I’m seeing my hero again. And the delight was all the greater because it came in a totally unexpected place. Who would have dreamt that you’d be in Israel, in Tel Aviv, in the Mann Auditorium, and in the balcony just rows away from me the very same night I was there?”

“Yes, I remember that evening. It was very special. And you describe it so nicely I wish I could have been there.”

Was he joking? There was no twinkle in his eye as he said this.

Then he burst into his merry laugh.

Again that feeling at the tip of my tongue. Go for it, like Danny said. So what if he’s old. It could add poignancy. As far as I know, no one has done a documentary on him. From a personal angle. With him reminiscing. With him showing photos, posters, memorabilia. Go for it. Now. He’s in the mood. He’ll agree. You’ll get access to stills, to clips from films from his private collection. Perhaps even precious outtakes. He’ll secure permissions for you.

Instead, I said:

“Do you know people used to tell me when I was in high school, and even the first year or two in college, that I looked like you?”

He examined my face. Would he agree or would he say, No way? He nodded slowly. Maybe out of politeness. Maybe so as not to contradict the fellow who sent him a rose, who snapped him out of his sleepwalker’s malaise.

“Yes, I can see that. You even have that Jewish bend in your nose like mine.”

Which led me to say, “I even learned some of your double talk, quick patter routines, was able to mouth, to lip-sync your Russian composers’ song.”

“How nice.” For a moment he looked distant; he seemed to remove himself and sail far away. Then he looked back at me and said: “Do you want to hear a sad joke?”

I didn’t want to hear a sad joke.

“Danny K is here,” he said softly, “and there is no laughter.”

“No no no. Not so, Danny. May I call you Danny? I’m dying to call you Danny. All my life I’ve been calling you Danny…”

He was smiling now and nodding. “Yes, of course.” But through the smile, behind the smile, behind the pallor, Danny K looked like a little boy humiliated in class, fallen, hurt, alone.

“You don’t understand,” I said. “Danny K is here and there’s joy.”

“Really?”

“Really. Really really. Wherever Danny is there is joy…joy is what laughter brings. Can I get you something? A glass of water, some juice, tea?”

“No, thanks, I’m fine. I was thinking back to my early days in Hollywood. Those Jewish moguls, the big shots, wanted me to get a nose job…imagine! They thought I looked too Jewish. Not enough Kaminsky became K, they wanted a mohel to circumcise my nose.”

And again he gave his famous high-pitched giggle.

I laughed with him.

“You see? Laughter and joy.”

“But I put my foot down,” he continued. “Refused flat out. Did you know that my hair was naturally dark? It was the Hollywood studio that made me reddish blond. To make me look more goyish. That was the compromise on their part, those anti-Semitic, self-hating heads of Hollywood studios, developed and run and owned by Jews. And that’s how we solved the Danny K Jewish problem.”

“Danny, we’re talking showbiz and we weren’t supposed to.”

“Such is the nature of the beast. It’s in our blood, pores, genes.”

I looked into Danny’s eyes, those beautiful blue eyes, a bit duller than years back, the laugh lines filled with cake makeup.

“Danny, I want to ask you another question.”

“ Sure.”

And before I had a chance to censor my gall the words were already out.

“Danny, would you be amenable to me making a documentary about you? A very personal one. I don’t think such a film has ever been made. You see, though I majored in literature, after seeing your films I decided I wanted to be a filmmaker.”

I felt I was on a precipice. Which way would it go? He could say no outright or say he was too busy now with other projects. He could say he’d think about it. He could say a hundred things that meant no.

Danny K looked at me, his eyes blank. For a moment I looked over at the fleet of ships Danny had created. My ship still had the red rose on it.

Danny nodded, once, twice, then many times slowly before saying a word.

“After all,” he said with an upbeat tone, “if you looked like me and imitated me, if I’m your hero, what more can a documentary subject want?”

What’s next? I wondered. Did he say yes? Should I give him my phone number, ask for his?

We both were standing now.

“And for my Prague film I’d like you to retell that ‘Metamorphosis’ film project story. It would make a marvelous addition to the film.”

“Excellent. I want you to call me. Will you call me?”