by Alan Bennett
There is a shrill scream from Linda, off.
Kafka appears on the stage beside Brod.
Linda (off) Sydney! Sydney!
Brod You!
Kafka takes his hand as Linda enters.
Linda It’s that tortoise. I’d swilled it under the tap and put it on the draining board. Just then it popped its little head out … I don’t know what made me do it … I gave it a kiss.
Brod Kafka.
Sydney Kafka? Linda. I believe this is Kafka. It is. It is. Linda. This is Kafka.
Linda Sydney.
Kafka How are you?
Brod Good. Terrific. You?
Kafka Terrible.
They laugh.
Brod You haven’t changed.
Kafka (embracing him) Max, Max. Old friend.
Sydney (shyly) How do you do.
Kafka (taking Linda’s hand) How do you do.
Linda (panicking) Sydney.
Sydney Have I the pleasure of addressing Mr Kafka?
Kafka nods graciously and diffidently shakes hands.
I just don’t believe it. Kafka!
Kafka Max. Who is this man?
Sydney Linda. It’s him. It’s Kafka.
Linda Sydney. Kafka’s dead. They’re both dead.
Sydney I know. But it’s Kafka.
Linda Sydney.
Kafka Max. Kindly ask him not to keep saying my name. You remember I never liked my name. The persistent repetition of it is still deeply offensive.
Brod Sure, I remember. Listen, boys and girls. Kafka doesn’t like his name. Point taken. No more Kafka. (To Kafka) The husband’s very dull but the wife has possibilities.
Sydney I love you. You’re my hero.
Kafka Hero? Max, what is this?
Linda Excuse me. I hope I’m not out of order but two minutes ago you were a tortoise. Suddenly you’re a leading light in European literature.
Brod My dear Miss Marple. This is someone who wrote a story about a man waking up as a cockroach. So? Now it’s a two-way traffic.
Linda That was fiction. Wasn’t it, Sydney? This is nonfiction.
Kafka (to the audience) What is this about a leading figure in European literature?
Sydney Kafka at 27 Batcliffe Drive!
Kafka Max. Is this man deaf? He is still saying my name.
Brod Please. Please. This is the second time of asking. Drop Kafka’s name.
Sydney and Linda draw aside.
Kafka What is all this ‘leading figure in European literature’ stuff?
Brod Well?
Kafka I’m nobody. I brought out a few short stories and an unsuccessful novel – that was seventy years ago in Czechoslovakia. How am I a leading figure?
Brod Did I say modest? Move over Ε. Μ. Forster. A saint.
Kafka And Max. A beetle.
Brod Say again.
Kafka Not a cockroach. You said cockroach. It was a beetle.
Brod Will you listen to this man. I make him world famous and he quibbles over entomology.
Brod and Kafka draw aside.
Linda Call the police.
Sydney What for? Nobody’s committed a crime.
Linda Sydney. It’s a Tuesday afternoon. We’re expecting someone from the Health Authority and meanwhile you’re kicking around some thoughts about Kafka. A knock on the door and it’s a stranger with a dripping wet tortoise in his hand, who, lo and behold, turns out to be the world’s leading authority on Kafka. Notwithstanding this person seems to have died several years ago you engage him in conversation while I go and swill the tortoise. The next minute it’s gone, we’ve got Kafka in the lounge and these two are falling into one another’s arms.
Sydney Well?
Linda It just seems a bit too plausible to me.
Sydney So who are they?
Linda Burglars.
Sydney Don’t be absurd. How many burglars have heard of Franz Kafka?
Linda Sydney, they read all sorts in prison. They no sooner get them inside nowadays than they’re pestering them to read Proust. That’s all some of them go to prison for, the chance of a good read.
Sydney It would have to be a subtle burglar who got in disguised as a tortoise. It’s not logical.
Linda Criminals have no logic. A woman last week answers the door, the caller shoves a dishcloth in her mouth and steals the television set. You say he couldn’t be a tortoise, she’s now a vegetable, so don’t talk to me about logic. Call the police. Let them decide if he’s Kafka.
Sydney What with? Sniffer dogs trained in Modern Studies?
Linda Sydney, he’s dead. They’re both dead.
Sydney They’re alive to me. Franz Kafka is more present, more real to me than … than …
Linda I know. Than I am.
Sydney When do we ever talk, Linda?
Linda Sydney, we’re always talking.
Sydney Not about ideas, Linda. About candlewick bedspreads. The electricity bill. Your mother’s eczema. That’s what you talk about.
Linda I do not. Mother’s eczema cleared up last week. I told you, she got some new ointment. And I know I don’t talk about candlewick bedspreads because they went out years ago. That’s why we should get rid of ours. We want a continental quilt. (Pause.) We could afford one. The electric bill’s quite reasonable. All right. I’m not clever. Why do you think I want to learn? Only you won’t teach me. So I’m boring.
Sydney Linda …
Linda But if it’s a choice between boredom and burglary I’m calling the police.
She goes off with Sydney in hot pursuit.
Kafka I just think it’s odd her calling me a leading figure in European literature.
Brod It is odd. (Aside.) Wait till I tell him he’s world famous, the author of several major masterpieces.
Kafka He seemed to think I was somebody too.
Brod This is England. It doesn’t take much to be a celebrity here. (Aside.) He is going to be over the moon.
Kafka I published so little and you destroyed the rest.
Brod (aside) God job I didn’t.
Kafka You did, didn’t you?
Brod Of course. It was your last wish.
Kafka Dear, faithful Max.
Brod Though say I hadn’t burned it all. And say… it’s ridiculous of course … but say you turned out to be quite famous. You wouldn’t mind?
Kafka Mind? No. I wouldn’t mind. It’s just that I’d never forgive you.
Brod But I’m your best friend.
Kafka So, it’s worse. You’d have betrayed me. No. That would be it between us. Over. Finish. Still, what are we talking about? You burned them. I’m not famous. Everybody’s happy.
Brod Happy? I’m ruined.
Linda returns with Sydney in hot pursuit, Linda bent on confronting Kafka.
Sydney You know nothing about this.
Linda I just want to find out exactly who they are.
Sydney Linda.
Linda Can I ask you some questions?
Kafka Of course.
Sydney She means about your work.
Linda I mean about you.
Brod His work. She mustn’t ask him about his work. Oh, my God.
Kafka Feel free. Ask any questions you like.
Brod I’m sorry. Sorry. I don’t want any questions. Kafka does not want questions.
Kafka What about my work?
Brod What about his work? There is no work. I burnt all the work.
Kafka I don’t mind talking about my work.
Brod Exactly. Who are these people anyway? … You don’t?
Kafka Why should I? I worked in an insurance office.
Brod What am I talking about? Of course you did. Kafka worked in an insurance office. Tell us about it. It sounds fascinating.
Linda Sydney works in insurance too.
Brod Really? How boring.
Sydney I didn’t mean that work I meant your real work.
Brod What is this, some kind of interrogation? (Recovering himself.) I have to tell you, th
is is a shy man.
Kafka Max, I’m not. He always thought I was shy. I wasn’t. I even went to a nudist colony.
Linda That is brave.
Brod Not if you don’t take your trunks off.
Sydney Excuse my asking, but why didn’t you take your trunks off? Had you something to hide?
Kafka Yes. No.
Sydney I have this theory that biographies would benefit from a photograph of the subject naked.
Kafka Naked? What a terrible idea.
Brod Shocking. And who, pray, is talking about biography. No one. No one at all. In the meantime, old friend, let’s recall why you went to that nudist camp in the first place. You were delicate. You had a bad chest, remember. So why don’t you just step out into the garden and fill what’s left of your lungs with some fresh air.
Kafka Max. It is raining.
Brod Here is an umbrella.
Kafka Max!
But he goes, bundled out into the garden by Brod.
Linda I’m calling the police now, while he’s in the garden.
She exits.
Sydney (ready to go after her) Why? They can’t arrest him. He’s committed no crime.
Brod Calm down. He wrote the script for that one. (He sits down.) Cigar?
Sydney I don’t smoke.
Brod Neither do I. Look …
Sydney Sydney.
Brod Syd. There’s been a small misunderstanding. Nothing of importance. You recall how at one point in his life Kafka intimated I might consider burning his writings?
Sydney On his deathbed, yes.
Brod (furious again) It was not his deathbed. It was prior to his deathbed. He was around for years after that. (To the audience.) Blood and sand, why does everybody round here think they’re an authority on Kafka? He thinks he knows about Kafka. Kafka thinks he knows about Kafka. I’m the only one who really knows.
Sydney What is he doing in the garden?
Brod God knows. Giving the kiss of life to an ant, probably. Why wasn’t I a friend of Ernest Hemingway? Where are you going?
Sydney I’ve some questions I want to ask him …
Brod No, look …
Sydney Sydney.
Brod OK, Syd. I didn’t burn the papers …
Sydney (trying to go out into the garden again) That’s one of my questions. Does he mind?
Brod Syd. No! Of course he doesn’t mind. Why should he mind? Still if it’s all the same to you I’d rather you … deferred the question a while.
Sydney Why?
Brod Why? Yes, why? Because … because he doesn’t know.
Sydney He doesn’t know what?
Brod He doesn’t know I didn’t burn the papers.
Sydney He doesn’t know you didn’t burn the papers!
Brod So what? He is not going to mind.
Sydney No?
Brod No. Why should he?
Sydney Why should he? That’s right. As you say in your book, this is a saint.
Brod Sure, sure.
Sydney He’ll forgive you.
Brod Nothing to forgive.
Sydney In fact he’ll be pleased.
Brod Pleased? He’ll be ecstatic.
Sydney I would be. Can I be the one to tell him? I’d like that.
Brod No. Not yet.
Sydney When?
Brod When? Well, I think we’ve got to be very careful about this. Choose the moment. And while we’re on the subject, less of this ‘leading figure in European literature’ stuff.
Sydney Why?
Brod Because, dummy, if I had burnt his papers he wouldn’t be, would he?
Sydney No, I suppose he wouldn’t. What you’re saying is he doesn’t know he’s Kafka.
Brod He knows he’s Kafka. He doesn’t know he’s Kafka.
Sydney Mmm. It’s a tricky one.
Brod Why don’t we play a game? He thinks he has no reputation at all. Let’s pretend he has no reputation at all. Then come the right moment Max here will spill the beans and we can all have a big laugh.
Sydney Yes. A big laugh, yes. Ha ha.
Brod Where is the bathroom?
Sydney Follow me. Wouldn’t that be a lie?
Brod Listen, Syd. I am Max Brod. I was short-listed for the Nobel Prize. Don’t tell me about lies. Here he comes.
Sydney Wait. Let me get this right. The game is: I don’t know him, I’ve never heard of him.
Brod Right.
Sydney Though when you do get round to telling him, I’d like him to autograph his books.
Brod Weidenfeld and Nicolson! His books! We’ve got to get rid of his books.
Brod rushes to the bookcase and starts removing books as Kafka comes in.
Kafka Books?
Brod Yes. Well, no. You could call them books. They’re dirty books. Pornography. Smut.
Sydney looks hurt, and opens his mouth to protest but thinks better of it.
Kafka How despicable. His poor wife. I remember I once said ‘A book should be like an axe to break up the frozen seas within us.’
Brod joins in to finish the quotation.
Brod Well, these are some of the ones that failed the test.
Sydney is helping to shift the books outside also. Sydney often has to retrieve books right from under Kafka’s nose.
Kafka Excuse me. I – I thought I saw my name.
Sydney Your name? Sorry … (Winking at Brod.) What was your name again?
Kafka Kafka. Franz Kafka.
Sydney No, no. This is the Hollywood movie director. Frank Capra.
Kafka (wistfully, looking at the bookshelves) It’s like looking for one’s headstone in a cemetery.
Brod is carrying another pile of books out when Sydney bumps into him and the books go all over the floor.
What’s that?
Sydney What?
Kafka That one. It says Kafka’s Novels.
Sydney This? Kafka’s Novels? No. Tarzan’s Navel.
Brod (quickly taking it) Anthropology.
Kafka And that one. The Loneliness of Kafka.
Sydney The Loneliness of Kafka? No. The Loneliness of Raffia. As an adjunct to her nursing course my wife did occupational therapy. Hence this one: Raffia: The Debate Continues. The Agony of Raffia, the endless plaiting, the needle going in and out, suddenly the needle slips, ah! Few people realize the single-minded devotion that goes into the humble table mat.
By this time Sydney thinks he has gathered up all the fallen books. However, one has eluded him. Sydney and Brod are transfixed with horror as Kafka picks it up.
Kafka Proust.
They sigh with relief.
Sydney Great man. A genius.
Kafka You think?
Brod Listen. A bit more get up and go and you’d have run rings round him.
Kafka I was ill. I had a bad chest.
Sydney Proust had a worse chest than you.
Kafka How does he know about my chest?
Brod He doesn’t (Fool!) Anyway, what is this, the TB Olympics?
Kafka (reading Proust) ‘For a long time I used to go to bed early.’ For a long time I scarcely went to bed at all.
Sydney Yes, only Proust wrote a major novel. What did you do? Sorry, what is your name again?
Brod (aside) Don’t overdo it.
Sydney Then hurry.
Kafka (to Max) Who is this Proust?
Sydney Who is this Proust? Who is this Proust? Beg pardon. Only the greatest writer of the twentieth century.
Kafka (meaning ‘protect me against this terrible information’) Max.
Sydney (playing for time while Brod clears the books) Proust is a lifelong invalid and sufferer from asthma. Lesser men this would stop. Oui. Does it stop Proust? Non. He lives on a noisy street, the noisiest street in Paris. So, does he sit back and say ‘It’s too noisy. I can’t write here’ ‘Il y a beaucoup de bruit. Je ne peux pas écrire ici’? Not at all.
Brod Pas du tout.
Sydney Eh bien, what does he do?
Brod Qu’est-ce qu’il fait
?
Sydney Le voilà. He builds himself a cork-lined room … une chambre (looking to Brod for the translation) …
Brod (lamely) Cork-lined.
Sydney And in this room … (showing signs of weariness by now) dans cette chambre … il …
Kafka Oh shut up. Max. My room was noisy. It was next door to my parents. When I was trying to write I had to listen to them having sexual intercourse. I’m the one who needed the cork-lined room. And he’s the greatest writer of the twentieth century. Oh God.
Brod Listen. More than Proust ever wrote you burned. Or I burned …
Brod thinks he has cleared the books when Linda returns with a pile.
Linda Sydney. These don’t belong in the hall.
Brod Oh my God!
Linda What’s the matter with the bookcase?
Sydney Full. Chock-a-block.
Linda There’s tons of room.
Kafka (helping) Allow me.
Linda Thank you.
Sydney No. (Seizing the books.) I’m – I’m throwing them out.
Linda What for?
Sydney (nonplussed) What for?
Brod He’s – he’s selling them to me.
Linda (seizing the books back) The penny drops. I’ve heard about people like you. Insinuating yourself into people’s homes. Sydney. This is how mother lost her gatelegged table.
A book falls. Kafka stoops for it, but Brod is there first.
Brod Give me that.
Linda Look. He can’t wait to get his hands on them.
Sydney Linda, (seizing the books again) I just want them outside.
Linda Why?
Sydney (desperately to Brod) Why?
Brod I need to go to the toilet. Now.
Sydney Well, for God’s sake don’t do it over the goldfish or else we’ll be entertaining the Brontë sisters.
He rushes out after Brod carrying the books, leaving Kafka and Linda alone for the first time.
Kafka You think I’m a criminal?
Linda I think your friend is.
Kafka Perhaps you should think of me as a dream.
Linda I’ve rung the police.
Kafka The police also have dreams.
Linda They didn’t think you were from the Health Authority.
Kafka That’s not surprising. I never had much to do with either Health or Authority. The only authority I had came from sickness. TB.
Linda Sydney had TB. That’s how we met. They can cure it now.
Kafka I’m sure people find other things to die of.
Linda If they take that attitude they probably do.
Kafka You sound like a girl I used to know.