Curt Leviant - Kafka's Son

I had a plan. At first it was like an invisible seed, a nanoscopic thread. But like undersoil growth, little by little, in the tiniest of increments, it grew. Of course, I had been vaguely aware of the plan all along; it danced somewhere in the behind-the-curtains recesses of my mind. Then leaped out. Video him. Sew a small video camera inside my baseball cap, like something out of a Future Science comic strip from years ago, or maybe what CIA operatives use today — but decided against it. Tricking K in his own home wasn’t right.

But despite his impassioned plea, I decided to go ahead. To bow to the pressure of history. If I am a burglar, a bandit, a cheat, I thought, I would also be considered burglar, bandit, and cheat if I cheated posterity of this amazing turn in history. And I would be remiss to historical truth — another ethical flaw — if I did not let the world know what I knew.

I loved K. I loved him very much. But I would have to hurt him. And even though Katya had supported me, I would not tell her what I planned to do.

Everyone and everything I needed was out there, waiting for me to film. K and me, Michele Luongo, the vegetarian restaurant, all pieces in a scattered jigsaw puzzle. But the final picture, solid, neat, colorful, was in my head. Needed were a few moves to pick up the pieces and put them in place.

K waited 110, almost 111 years, for me. How much more could he wait? How much more could I wait? My time in Prague was not infinite. I knew what I had to do.

First, I visited K. When I entered, Eva thought the box of Godiva chocolates I held was for her and began thanking me, effusively too (had Katya spoken to her, told her all?). I felt my face flushing as I told her it was for Mr. Klein.

“If you like chocolate, I’ll bring you a box next time.”

“Oh, I love chocolate. Dark. We all do. It’s one of the secrets for a long, healthy life.”

“I’m sure Mr. Klein will share with you.”

Eva laughed. “Oh, I don’t know about that.” Then, shifting gears, added, “But perhaps he will.”

I knocked on K’s door. I handed him the chocolates.

“Mmm, Godiva!” he exclaimed.

I marveled that this late-nineteenth-century man knew about Godiva.

“Yes. For you. With my renewed apologies.”

“All right, my boy. I don’t like anger. I prefer love and affection. But I don’t like to be disappointed in someone either.”

I looked K in the eye. “Who does?” I said mechanically, but in my mind other words were flashing, repeating: I found her. I found Katya. Right here. Coming out of this house.

I put my hands on K’s shoulders. “Let’s celebrate our reconciliation. Here’s an idea. We have never gone out together. I’d like to take you to a nice vegetarian restaurant.”

For some reason K looked at his watch. “Not today.”

“Not today,” I repeated enthusiastically, glad he had agreed in principle, and gladder he didn’t say, Fine, let’s go now. “I’ll make a reservation to be sure we have a nice private table. I’ll call you when I arrange it.”

As I left I heard him say something in Czech to Eva. Since I understood the word “chokolat,” I assumed he was asking her to come and taste.

I didn’t wait until I got back to the hotel. I began dialing as soon as I stood outside. I called Michele Luongo, praying I wouldn’t have to leave a message. Luckily, he picked up on the first ring. I told him I wanted his help. He would be paid, of course. At first, he refused to accept money, but I said I won’t continue unless he takes a fee. But he would have to get another cameraman as a backup. In case something went wrong. They would do only video, no sound. I would handle the audio.

I thought it was rather clever to separate the two and thereby preserve my secret and K’s as well.

Then I went to the restaurant and spoke to the owner, Pavel, a big, fleshy man, not the sort you’d expect to run a vegetarian restaurant. The physical layout there was perfect. The dining area was on the ground floor. Steps led up to a half balcony to accommodate overflow crowds or a private party. I offered Pavel money to erect a wooden partition with a little hole by the overhang side of the balcony, behind which a photographer would stand with a video camera.

The jigsaw puzzle was taking shape. I hadn’t been so busy in years. Sailing with energy. My feet touched the ground as I moved, but I felt — like Reb Nachman of Bratslav in the novel The Man Who Thought He Was Messiah —I was levitating. So many people to see, so many things to arrange. Soon all the pieces would be locked in place. The cost was high but miniscule compared to the return.

I met Michele and his colleague at the restaurant to show them where they would stand.

“Day after tomorrow, I’m going to interview a friend of mine, a shy, elderly man, about his wartime experiences…. You met him. So don’t be surprised when you see him. It’s the old man I jokingly said was my grandfather and you said was more likely my father. I’ll be here at 1 p.m., when it’s less crowded. But you guys should come forty, forty-five minutes earlier to set up. You see that partition on the balcony? Michele, that’s where you’ll be. There’s a little hole in the wood for the camera lens. And you, excuse me, what’s your name?”

“Johnny.”

“Johnny, see the cashier? There will be a long black curtain hanging there next to him, with a little slit. From behind it you’ll also secretly video our table.”

“How long will you talk to him?” Michele asked.

“About an hour, maybe more. I won’t rush it. And when we finish, we’ll both get up and leave — without talking to you. Michele, I will call you later that day.”

“Fine. And throughout the meal, you want us to just keep filming.”

“Right, I’ll have the old man facing you. You can focus on close ups of the old man, keeping me out of the film. Johnny, you can zoom in on hand movements, facial expressions. You’ll have a lateral view of him. Afterwards, I’ll edit and mix…. Oh yeah, I almost forgot. There will be an International Herald Tribune on the table. I’ll fold it to reveal the date. Make sure you zoom in on it, so that the date of the paper is perfectly visible.”

Don’t think that my heart wasn’t palpitating with fear. Don’t think that a sour feeling of guilt, gall rising in my throat, didn’t wash over me like an unwanted ablution. But, on the other hand, I didn’t hesitate for one moment. Understand the conflicting feelings within me. Tricking the old man, betraying him again, luring him, stealing him — yes, to all of these. But overriding all this was truth, responsibility to history, devotion to literature, the journalistic, the artistic, imperative. K’s story, his existence, had to be told. Believe me, it wasn’t vanity or opportunism, not riches nor overweening ambition that made me want to film him. I merely wanted this miracle to be preserved forever.

Can you imagine meeting the legendary K, long thought dead, and not recording this historic moment, not preserving this golden slice of time for posterity? That would be a crime. Filming him wasn’t a crime. Doing nothing was the crime. Like chucking the only extant photograph of Columbus as he set sail, or the one video of George Washington taking his oath of office. We owe a debt to history, don’t we? Each of us is a little thread of history, making up the grand tapestry that is the story of the civilized world. Take out, or omit, a thread, and history begins to unravel.

I called for K in a taxi. The driver, a typical Prague cabbie, sped ahead quickly and furiously. I had to shout, Slow down! At times he seemed to round corners on two wheels. I put my hand out in front of K’s chest to protect him from sudden stops. During the twelve-minute odyssey a wild thought came to me. It showed how agitated, hyper, I was. I should have been in heaven, calm in Paradise, after sealing my relationship with Katya. But I wasn’t. I didn’t consciously put her out of my mind; she just slipped further back while I was planning the K video. A startling inner voice, maybe like the ones madmen hear, was sounding a question akin to the dumb one grownups ask a child: Who do you like better, your father or your mother? But that question was no match to the one that flew into my head: If you had to choose only one, would it be Katya or the film?