Curt Leviant - Kafka's Son

But I knew very well I was fooling myself. I know, you know, we know, what my decision would be.

* Which is exactly the phrase in Hebrew, in rabbinic literature: genevat ha-da’at.

We stood in front of her house.

I looked at Katya. She looked at me. Neither of us spoke. But— always a good sign — we did not feel ill at ease in this silence. We were getting to be comfortable with each other and silence sans discomfort is one of the markers.

“I was worried before about Mr. Klein, but I see he has the stamina of a young man…. Do you know who he is?” I said quickly, hoping to trigger an answer from her before she had a chance to think.

“If he lives with my grandmother,” said the clever girl, “how shouldn’t I know who he is?”

“But who is he?”

“I’ll tell you.” She tapped her forefinger playfully on my chest.

I waited. It would be fascinating to have what I knew confirmed. Otherwise, I was living in a dreamworld. On an island. If only one person knows something it’s as if no one knows it.

“He’s a wonderful old man.”

“Very funny. I don’t mean that. I mean: Who is he? Really. What is the essence of his is-ness? What’s his real name?”

Now Katya stopped, mute. Now she understood the import of my question. Now she understood something she hadn’t understood before. Now she realized that I must know something that few others, maybe no one else, knew. Now she didn’t say a word.

After a pause, Katya asked lamely:

“Do you know his fake name?”

“No. Or rather, yes. Maybe it’s Mr. Klein.”

“Did he tell you anything about himself?”

I noticed how carefully she worded that question. As if framed by a trained diplomat. Or a clever lawyer. For she could have asked, but didn’t: Did he tell you who he was? But a question like that would have tipped her hand, given more answer in question than an answer itself.

My reply too rode on a tightrope, scrupulously balanced.

“Yes. He introduced himself to me.”

“How? Why?”

“I was sent to him,” was my response, “through two intermediaries. You may know them or have heard of them: Jiri and Yossi. It took a while but Mr. Klein finally introduced himself. Which, by the way, amazingly, I haven’t yet done to you. You still don’t know my name and you haven’t even asked me once. Do you realize we’ve met so many times and have now spent a couple of hours together,” finally, finally, I thought, “and we still haven’t introduced ourselves?”

“My name is Katya Langbrot. And I know your name, for Michele Luongo told me.” And she gave a proud little smile. So there, it seemed to say.

“Do you know what my name for you was before I knew your name?”

“What?”

“Girl in the blue beret.”

We shook hands — hers was a European woman’s handshake, firm, hardy, tough even — with exaggerated formality, as if we were spontaneously satirizing one of mankind’s oldest conventions. It took a while for me to let go of her hand.

“If you know who the old man is, tell me,” Katya said.

“I don’t know if I should.”

“Aha, so you don’t know after all. So why do you keep coming to visit him?”

“Because I like and have always liked old European Jewish men — and young, pretty women.”

She smiled a smile that bridged shy and assured.

“Do you know who he is?” I asked.

“Yes,” Katya said. “Of course.”

“Then tell me.”

“I’m not at liberty without his express permission.”

“I have an idea,” I said. “Since we both know but are afraid to say it, suspecting the other doesn’t really know, why don’t we both write it down on a piece of paper and exchange notes?”

“Fine,” she said.

She took a piece of paper from her pocketbook, gave half to me. She turned her back; I did the same. We exchanged, in ceremonious fashion, almost with little bows, the folded notes.

“Let’s open them,” Katya said.

We did.

Both papers were blank.

We burst out laughing.

“Looks like someone doesn’t trust someone else around here.”

“Not me,” she said, to another round of laughter. Then added:

“Yes.” K’s yes. A familiar yes.

“This is no good,” I said.

Katya agreed.

“Why don’t we count to three,” she suggested, “and then say his name?”

“Okay. But by now it’s obvious we both know it and are not revealing any secrets.”

“Okay,” she said. “One…two…as soon as I say three, we blurt out his name…three!”

We both opened our mouths as if to draw a deep breath and held back, not even exhaling. I watched the blank O of her lips; she regarded mine, a faint, knowing smile in her long, cat-green eyes.

I shook my head. “This is too frustrating. We need a United Nations intermediary. Someone neutral. With big ears. To this third party we will both whisper the old man’s name and he’ll write it down and show it to us.”

“But then we may have to share a confidence with a stranger that must be kept top secret.”

“Right,” I said without enthusiasm.

I didn’t want this to continue. I was beginning to feel that that special aura between us, that bond I wanted to wrap around us, was becoming frayed. I sensed we were contending. A chill was spreading. I felt it on my skin. A chill different from the one I felt when the lions were at me, but nevertheless a chill.

We still hadn’t budged. I looked past her up the sloping street where a grove of trees stood, a miniature wood, a little park where cool breezes blew and from which high vantage point one could see the winding Charles River below. And Katya looked past me down the curving street, with its private two- and three-story houses, not far from the Metro stop. In our immobile state, from far away we must have looked like sculptures.

“You’re right,” I said. “Here’s my last offer. How about this? I promise to write the name the old man gave me on a piece of paper. Do you?”

“I do. Do you really really promise?” Katya asked. “I don’t want to be disappointed in you.”

“I really really do. And do you promise too?”

“I do. I do. I do.”

We exchanged vows — and pieces of paper. And, like in the legend of the Septuagint translation of the Bible from Hebrew to Greek where the translations of all seventy translators matched word for word, here too the names on the paper were exactly the same.

Smiling, laughing, celebrating, happy as if we were long-lost relatives finally meeting for the first time, finally trusting each other, we spontaneously embraced, I pressed my face to hers, smelled her skin, her hair, her beret.

“So he confided in you…I’m impressed. He doesn’t do that with anyone. And who are you that you are so privileged to know this astounding secret?”

“I’m the son of Danny K, the other K’s favorite showman and, if I remember correctly, your favorite too.”

“No. You’re Danny K’s son? You’re not. I can’t believe it.”

“Neither can I.” As I laughed I watched Katya’s eyes crinkling with laughter too. “I know,” I added. “I’m really honored and privileged. Maybe I’m special.” Then I smiled to modify the boast.

“I’m sure he thinks that.”

“But now he’s angry with me.”

“Just remember the dark chocolate…do you like dark chocolate?”

“It’s my favorite. And you?”

“I love it. I could eat it all day…. So, remember the dark chocolate. And the fact that he confided in you.”

I appreciated her attempt to make me feel better. And if you let me, I thought, you won’t ever have to carry signs on your back again.