Caleb Crain - Necessary Errors

“Welcome,” said Kaspar, now in English. He seemed to have collected himself enough to place Jacob.

“Melinda asked me to bring you this,” Jacob said, holding out the casserole.

“Ah, she is too good.” He indicated the card table: “Please.”

“Shouldn’t I put it in the refrigerator for you?”

“Didn’t you see my refrigerator?” He pointed. On the sill of the high window, Jacob now noticed a jar of pickled cabbage, a crumpled foil of butter, and a milk jug. “It is nicely cool. It does not freeze.” Proud of his resourcefulness, he chuckled faintly. He fit his stocking feet into a pair of sandals beside his cot and stood to clear a place for the casserole on his desk. “But I shall eat this soon. Would you like some?”

“No, I’m fine, thanks. You go ahead.”

“I shall wait. For now I have the pleasure of your company. Sit, sit.” He returned to the edge of his bed and gestured toward the only other seat in the room, an aluminum folding chair.

Though he had made the comparison in a moment of anger, Jacob had not been wrong in likening Kaspar’s face to an animal’s. There was no cunning in it, only an earnest attention, a kind of hunger. When he had imagined this visit, Jacob had foreseen the pleasure of atoning for his insult, which, because it had remained unspoken, Kaspar had never heard, but now that he was in Kaspar’s presence, he was reminded of the assumption of deeper involvement that Kaspar made, as a matter of natural right, when anyone was in conversation with him. Faced with the evidence of Kaspar’s illness and poverty, Jacob feared Kaspar’s familiarity not as an intrusion but because he sensed that he might later be forced, for reasons he couldn’t yet name, to disappoint it.

“Perhaps I should go,” Jacob said.

“As you like.”

“If you need to sleep.”

“I don’t think I need sleep any more today. Stay, tell me of yourself.”

Jacob took the chair. “I brought you something, too,” he added, remembering the currants.

— This is delightful, Kaspar said in appreciation, thrown momentarily back into Czech by his reading of the label. But he resumed in English. “I shall ask my landlady to make a roll for breakfast.”

“Do you really pay rent here?”

“I teach German to the porter. This is her workroom, and she has pity on me. I am a Prince Myshkin for her, as you say.”

“I never said you were Prince Myshkin.”

“She has a great respect for books and those who work with books, because she is Jewish.”

At the baldness of the assertion, Jacob took in a deep breath.

“Is it not true?” Kaspar asked.

“In America no one would say it like that.”

“But it is because the Jews have such a respect that I have a room. I must say it,” he insisted.

“Could you live in the , with Annie and Thom?”

“But I am well here! It is near to hospital. I have four blankets. And the porter cooks such nice dishes. She worries for me; she has no children.” A look of contentment came over his face. “I say to her that I have translated a page on the strength of her soup, and she is pleased. Will you have tea?” Kaspar took an electric pot from a shelf of hardware and filled it at the sink. With a tiny spoon, he measured out tea leaves. “This, too, is her gift.”

The porter’s generosity brought to mind Melinda’s, and for a few minutes the two men competed in praising her. Jacob wondered if there were anything romantic in Kaspar’s gratitude. It had the strength of a child’s dependence. But of course they all relied on Melinda so much, even those who relied on her merely to keep them in her mind.

“She is like a gardener,” Kaspar said.

“But maybe she thinks too little of herself,” Jacob suggested.

“Oh yes,” Kaspar at once agreed. “She has not altogether become herself.” He said this, too, as if it laid him under no obligation. “She has not yet found her fate.”

“Is her fate with Rafe?” Jacob asked.

The German seemed taken aback. “It is not for me to say.” An awkwardness hung in the air. “Perhaps I mean to say she has not found her ambition, rather than her fate,” he continued. “So it is with my writer, the one I am translating.”

Jacob nodded absently.

“I gave you his book,” Kaspar reminded him.

Jacob had forgotten. He apologized for not yet having started to read it.

Kaspar didn’t seem to have expected Jacob to. “My writer, too, was concerned rather with the fates of others,” he went on. “Il lui fallait cultiver les jardins d’autrui.” He spoke the French words as if with pebbles in his mouth, the way Germans do.

“What did he write?” Jacob asked.

“Poems, but I translate his letters.”

“To whom?”

“Do you know the surrealists?”

“I’ve heard of them.”

“You have heard of them as a joke,” Kaspar inferred. “That is the way. A joke that is not funny. They are of course failures, for they make believe to take the side of the machine against man. To take the side of chance.” He paused and shakily poured the tea. “And yet it is not so. They are not truly on that side. In truth they make a protest. They are saying that so little humanity is left to them, it is as if all were chance. But they never admit that it is a protest. It is to be such a game, which they have already lost but they are pretending that they cannot lose.”

“They mean to lose,” Jacob said, to see if he understood.

“They cannot win, rather. They take the side against the human, in a spite without malice.”

He was smiling and stroking one side of his beard meditatively. He looked so satisfied with the pleasure of talking that to Jacob it almost seemed indecent, and something in him wanted to object. “What did the Communists think of them?” Jacob asked.

“Ah, that is good,” sighed Kaspar, acknowledging the touch. “Some are taken in, in early years. And later, in revenge, they say that surrealism is despair. But it is not despair. It is a game that only a young man can play, a young man in health, in lust as we say in German, because of the animal in him, which has not yet given up.

“My writer is the friend of these men. He is a Czech in Paris, the foreign correspondent of Lidové noviny . Do you know it? The great newspaper. And he falls in love with them. That is to say, he falls in love with their animals — with the instinct of their art but not the idea of it. For he himself has no wish to be modern. He is a man of the nineteenth century. And so he understands their game and disbelieves in it, while yet loving it. And therefore he can say what it is.”

While Kaspar had been speaking, he had held his eyes on Jacob fixedly, and they had shone so excitedly that Jacob had once or twice wished he could look away. He hadn’t looked away; he had been afraid it wouldn’t have been polite to. But now, as if Kaspar had detected Jacob’s discomfort, Kaspar dropped his gaze and paused. He hunched forward, bobbing slightly, and said, “Yes, yes,” into the air in front of him, in the voice that he must have used when alone, when talking to himself. He seemed for a moment to forget Jacob’s presence. But then he cast Jacob a glance and resumed: “I translate his love letters, written from Prague to those he knew in Paris.”

“He was literally in love with them? He was gay?”

“If you like,” Kaspar replied, indifferently.

“Did they know before he wrote? What did they say when they found out?”