Curt Leviant - Kafka's Son

Where was I now, with that tight, ever-tightening hug of hers? Had I become skin and bone of Katya?

“I love those words,” Katya whispered into my ear. “I just love the music of them.”

“Have you forgiven me for ruining that film scene of yours?”

“Oh that! Of course. I’m finished with that…. It wasn’t for me. I want to teach literature. Now I want to ask you a question. Please tell me. Will you go back to America?”

“Do you want me to stay here?”

“In Jewish fashion, you answer a question with another question.”

“Do I really?”

Again she laughed.

I held her close and asked, “Am I too old for you?”

“Nepa nepa nepa. Nepa tara glos,” she said, holding my face lovingly as if I were a newborn.

I didn’t ask her where she learned that phrase.

“And you are nepa nepa nepa tara pilus for me…. And don’t forget, the difference between Dora and K was much greater than the age difference between you and me.”

I thought she said, “Aye,” assenting in the older English form of Yes. But then I realized she was just attempting to correct my grammar.

Finally, Michele called. He apologized.

“What happened? Do you have them? Where are they? They’re not in the restaurant. I went there. Pavel said he didn’t have them, didn’t see them. He got very huffy right away.”

“Easy! Easy! I know. I didn’t bring them there.”

“But you said you would. Do you have them?”

“I know, but I changed my mind. I said I’m leaving the videos. I didn’t say I left them. I decided not to trust anyone with them. Given what you just told me about Pavel’s reaction, it’s lucky I changed my mind. I thought the best thing was to hand them to you in person. And then, sorry, I was called away.”

“But do you have them?” I said with a hysterical shriek in my voice. “You still didn’t answer me. You don’t know how depressed I am. Do you have them? Do you?”

My heart stopped—

“I have them. I have them. Don’t fear.”

— then pumped rapidly.

“How did they come out?”

When I first took Michele and Johnny to the restaurant, I thought of asking them not to look at the video. But I knew it was an unrealistic request. That alone would prompt, tempt them to view it. Now I was glad I hadn’t said that. So I said:

“How did it come out? Good?”

“I don’t know.”

“You didn’t review it?”

“No. You didn’t ask me to and I didn’t think I should. I mean, it’s your film.”

“When can I get them?”

“I live in the outskirts of town in a friend’s house. You want to meet me tomorrow?”

“No,” I said rather harshly. “I’ve waited for days. Make it today.”

“Okay, how about later this afternoon, around 4 p.m.? By the Schweik statue on Parizska Street.”

“Fine. See you there.”

I arrived first, turning this way and that. Minutes dragged on. Then a car door opened and Michele came bounding out, holding a paper bag. He apologized again and again. His words went in one ear, out the other. I looked at the bag. Now I had the videos in my hand. But a suspicion rolled over me. He had taken the originals and substituted others; soon I would hear from Stacek, offering the videos for an exorbitant sum of money. Or maybe Michele would use the videos. He had overheard my exchanges with K, discovered who he was. But I knew I was fantasizing. I knew it.

I thanked Luongo and we parted amicably. I went back to my room, put one video into the VCR. I’m not going to drag it out, make a Job-like excursus into mourning. Again my battered heart. What an organ! Able to take so much stress without complaint.

I run the tape. I see myself sitting at the table absolutely clearly, in full color. But the chair where K sits is empty.

No. Michele would not have done that. Could not have.

And so it went for another hour or so.

Again, there I was, seemingly animated, talking to someone unseen.

Although I had told Michele and Johnny not to focus in on me, it was good they did, for at least it was proof they were filming.

Did K’s plate, you ask, have less and less food on it as the film progressed?

Yes.

K’s disappearance from the video wasn’t Michele’s or Johnny’s doing. Another force, a hex, was playing here.

I was disappointed, distraught, but not surprised. Once I saw what happened with the audio cassette I had a feeling that the videos would fail. But then I looked, as eventually I always did, on the plus side. I had a few lines uttered by K on the audio, and the unretouched video of K’s plate slowly emptying of food was captured on the film. You’ll make good use of both, I told myself. This is not the end of the world. Had this happened to me three weeks ago I would have thought it was the end of the world. But not now.

When viewing the videos I had planned to feel happy, secure, confident, delirious.

The rules say three strikes — one audio, two videos — and you’re out.

But I also told myself, I won’t let it happen.

In my gloom, my pessimism, I had tied my fate with the K video to Katya. If one went wrong, so would the other.

But I vowed, No. I would override the earlier message of my darkly prophetic soul.

For the new ballgame I changed the rules.

No more three strikes and you’re out. It could be four, five, six or more.

I will not lose her.

Katya would be mine.

I felt her lips kissing me, felt it so powerfully a shiver of pleasure ran through me. I thought of how success and failure can intertwine in one day. In my dream triage I had given up Katya for the K video. Now I didn’t have the video but had her. Would — must — keep her. Real life had blessed me more than I could imagine.

Losing the tapes was not the end of the world.

Knowing lovely Katya was its beginning.

1. At the end of the road

2. “Yes.”

3. “You don’t go by Amschl…”

4. “What’s your favorite piece…?”

5. Katya close

6. I unpacked

7. The pile of pages

I was at the end of the road (not the end of my rope). Any other filmmaker who had had such a golden opportunity for the film of a lifetime and lost it would have jumped off a bridge. Me, I jumped off a curb. Setbacks make me grumble for a while but I always bounce back. The truth is there was no more I could do. Could I appeal to K? Hardly. On this he was adamant. One way or another, he sent his uncompromising message to me via the audio and the film. But he did say he would let me photograph his room. My world-stunning documentary did not happen — but it was not totally dead.

I took my camera and the pages of notes I’d taken since meeting Jiri in New York and came to K.

I rang; he, not Eva, opened the door. In his room he embraced me. I felt like a lover reconciling with his beloved after a quarrel while knowing his other mistress waits for him in her apartment.

First, without saying a word he gave me two photos of Jiri: one as a younger man, in his office as director of the Jewish Museum; another, a more recent picture.

“And here’s a letter for you.”

The envelope, postmarked Brno, was addressed to Amschl c/o K.

My heart leaped; joy was a tiny boat racing in my bloodstream.

As I tore open Katya’s envelope, I glanced at K. He was amused at my excitement.

“I miss you,” she wrote. “I can’t wait until next Wednesday. But I want to share an idea I had now. You told me that you still didn’t get the video you were promised. I hope you did, but if not, how about this? When I was making that little film with Michele Luongo, one of the technicians mentioned seeing a documentary about a documentary. So I thought that maybe your film could be about the film you are making. Maybe at least part of it — with the title: A Film of a Failed Film.”