Curt Leviant - Kafka's Son

“I tried,” I said softly.

He gazed at the card and gave me a puzzled look. “But this is my old veezeet kart. No wonder you couldn’t find my house.”

What is one supposed to do with this Alice in Wonderland topsyturvy behavior?

“So how could I possibly find you if I don’t have your current address? This is the address you gave me.”

Suddenly, he slapped his head. He looked at me with contrite eyes. “Oh my God! Please, please forgive me.” He sounded like he would soon fall down on his knees and plead for pardon. “Forgive me. I gave you an old veezeet kart. I am so apologetic to you I am nearing to cry. I was wondering why you didn’t come next day to visit me.”

“I went to your old address and the house manager said you moved out more than a year ago and he didn’t know where you’d moved to.”

“That is true. I did not give my new residence and since I didn’t hear from you, I thought maybe you went back to America. Until—”

“Until you saw me in the Metro. You did see me, right?”

Karoly Graf clapped both my shoulders.

“I did see you. And what a pleasant coincidence. Something that happens only in cinema. But now, at this moment in time, I must state I have a cartilege to pick with you.”

“Why?”

“Why? I tell you why. And you tell me why you ran away?”

“What?”

“I said, why you ran away?”

“When? Where?”

“That day I tried to catch up to you. Near the Old Town Square. But you flew like a wind.”

“Was that you?”

“I think it was me, yes.”

“Shouting ‘American’?”

“Yes. Why you ran away?”

“I thought it was someone else who is after me, chasing me.”

“I finally see you close by and not in Metro going in opposite direction and you run away from me. I thought you ran into the K Museum but receptionist said you’re not there.”

“Never mind,” I said. “Main thing is you found me and I found you. Now the question is — how did you do it? I looked and looked for you, tried all kinds of municipal registries, but you were not listed anywhere.”

“And to myself I thought, how do I find a visitor? Then I remembered I met you at the K Museum. So I went to see Dr. Hruska if he saw you. He said he has not seen you in a long time and, misfortunately, has misplaced phone number you gave him.”

“And then?”

“And then I thought of going to synagogue because you said you were interested in Prague, in golem, in K.”

“How smart! How clever! How right!”

Graf smiled. “You see, I very much wanted to see you.”

“Wonderful. Brilliant. Now tell me what you tried to signal me during those few seconds we saw each other on the Metro.”

“I lifted up one finger,” said Graf.

“Yes, I remember that.” Should I tell him I first thought it was a pen top? No, that would only confuse him. “But a raised forefinger can have so many interpretations. I thought it meant we should meet on the first floor of the K Museum. I went the next day but you weren’t there.”

“And Dr. Hruska didn’t tell you I was looking for you.”

“He was away on a trip to Holland, I was told.”

Graf nodded. “I know a gesture can have many interpretations. But how could I invent speed language that would tell you what I wanted to say? With lifting one finger I wanted to tell you: one station. I’ll go one station and wait for you. Did you see me making a gesture with my thumb, indicating out, that I would get out first station?”

“That I didn’t see.”

“I got out at next station and waited. It was a small chance, I know, but I did it.”

“Why didn’t you leave your address with Dr. Hruska and ask him to give it to me when I come?”

“I don’t think he likes me. So it’s very hard for me to bother him.”

“May I video you while you talk?”

“Yes. Of course. Please.”

As I took the camera out of my bag and set up the tripod I asked him:

“Did you see my gestures to you?”

“Yes. You put fist to one eye and made little circles with your hand.”

“Right. How did you interpret that?”

“By covering your eye, you say you didn’t want to see me. And circles around your ear, why everyone knows that — it’s the sign I am crazy.”

I burst out laughing. “Oh no. No no no. My fist to my eye plus the right fist circling around my ear meant I wanted to make a movie of you. One hand was the lens, the other the old-fashioned reel camera. It’s a common sign for moviemaking.”

Graf laughed too. “What a mix-up!” He looked closely at my camera. “Very nice…. What’s that?”

“A ring.”

“And you keep such a nice ring hanging from your camera strap?”

“Always. For good luck. My mother gave it to me years ago.”

Graf shook his head. “I saw rings on fingers, rings on noses, but never rings on camera straps.”

“It helps me film better, which I’d like to begin with you now. Ready?”

“I am ready.”

“Okay, let’s begin. I’ll ask you to tell me what you said when we first met. We will have a normal conversation…. Try to forget the camera. Just look at me. Okay, I’m pressing the start button. Go!”

Without hesitation, Graf said, “I have the honor of informing you that I am the son of K.”

“This is Karoly Graf,” I said, “citizen of Prague, who has a fascinating story to tell. Please repeat what you just said.”

“I have the honor of informing you that I am the son of K.”

“How do you know that?”

Graf looked at me. “Am I supposed to prove to you? Last time you also didn’t believe me.”

Should I shut down the video, I quickly thought, and explain to him, like I had explained to the shamesh? No. I’ll record the natural flow of his remarks; I’ll let him speak unimpeded. Then I wondered if his giving me the wrong address card was a direct result of me not believing him. No, I went through this already. He gave me his card first and then, later, I asked for proof.

“Well, as I told you, I’m from the Show Me State.”

“And where is exact location of this Shawmee State?”

Perfect, I thought. He’s recreating our first conversation, which I would have loved to film but of course could not.

“It’s just an American expression. It means: I’d like to have proof. Show me. In other words, show me something to prove your claim to the world.”

“Do you have to prove to others you are your father’s son?” Graf’s voice trembled as it did last time.

That’s an interesting question he’s throwing at me. Fact is, when you get down to it, I am not my father’s son, at least not the son of the man who is generally acknowledged to be my father. But I gave Karoly Graf the same answer I had some time ago.

“No, I do not. But then again, I don’t go around saying I’m K’s son. Or Danny K’s son, even though people have told me I look like him.”

“You also look like the young K.”

“I’ve heard that too, but not from the same people who tell me I look like Danny K. But we’re getting sidetracked…. You see, if you make a radical claim you have to prove it.”

“Prove it! Prove it!” Graf exploded. Good, I thought. We need a little drama, lots of excitement. He began pacing back and forth. I stood back, filming him.

“By the way,” I said, “do you know a Yossi?”

He wheeled. Faced me.

“Yossi? Which Yossi?”

“The Yossi in the Altneushul. A friend of the shamesh.”

“No. Why do you ask?”

“Because a friend of his quoted Yossi saying, ‘Where is exact location of Shawmee State?’”

“So?”

“So, what do you mean, so?” I told Graf.

“So what it has to do with me?”