Amerika: The Missing Person: A New Translation, Based on the Restored Text

by Franz Kafka

  On being dropped off by his uncle’s towering automobile at the riding school, the English teacher would already be waiting for him, whereas Mak always came late. But he didn’t have to worry about getting there late, for the lively riding began only after he arrived. When he entered, didn’t the horses rear up from their half-sleep; didn’t the whip crack more loudly through the hall; and didn’t a number of individuals, spectators, grooms, riding students, or whoever they might be suddenly appear on the surrounding gallery? Karl, however, used the time before Mak’s arrival to practice at least a few riding exercises, elementary though they were. A tall man, who could almost reach the withers of the biggest horses without raising his arm, gave Karl riding lessons that always only lasted barely a quarter of an hour. Karl met with only modest success and was able to learn English cries of distress, which he shouted out breathlessly to his English teacher, who always leaned against the same doorpost, often greatly in need of sleep. But once Mak arrived, almost all of his dissatisfaction with riding disappeared. The tall man was dismissed, and soon all one could hear in the still half-dark hall were the galloping horses’ hooves, and all one could see was the raised arm with which Mak gave orders to Karl. After engaging in such pleasure for half an hour, which passed by as if in one’s sleep, they stopped; in a great rush Mak said goodbye, tapped Karl on the cheek if he was especially satisfied with his riding, and in his haste disappeared without even waiting to accompany Karl through the door. Karl then took the teacher along in the automobile, and they drove to their English lesson, mostly via detours, since they would have lost too much time going through the bustle of the main street, which led directly from Uncle’s house to the riding school. In any case the English teacher soon ceased to accompany him, since Karl, who reproached himself for unnecessarily dragging that weary man out to the riding school, asked his uncle to relieve the teacher of this duty, especially since it was so easy to communicate with Mak in English. After some reflection his uncle also granted this request.

  It took a relatively long time for his uncle to decide to permit Karl even a quick look at his business, even though Karl had often requested one. It was a kind of consignment and shipping business, the likes of which—so far as Karl could recall—could perhaps not be found in Europe. The business involved intermediary trading, which rather than, say, conveying goods from producers to consumers or perhaps to merchants, handled the distribution of all goods and components and their transport to and fro between the large manufacturing cartels. So it was a business that not only encompassed the purchase, storage, transport and sale of goods on a massive scale but also had to maintain the most precise and uninterrupted telephone and telegraph connections with its clients. The telegraph hall was no smaller, in fact even larger, than the telegraph office in his native city, which Karl had once walked through arm in arm with a fellow pupil who was known there. Wherever one looked in the telephone room, the doors of the telephone cells were constantly opening and closing, and the ringing was stupefying. His uncle opened the nearest door, and in the spark ling electric light one could see an employee, oblivious to all the noise coming from the door, with his head tucked into a steel band that pressed the earpieces up against his ears. His right arm lay on a small table as if it were a heavy burden, and only the fingers holding a pencil twitched at a rapid and inhumanly regular pace. He spoke into the mouthpiece sparingly, and often one could even see that he wanted to object to something the speaker had said, but before he could do so, he heard further utterances that compelled him to lower his eyes and write. Besides, there was no need for him to speak, as Karl’s uncle explained in a low voice, for the same reports transcribed by this man were also transcribed by two other employees, then compared with one another, so that all errors could be eliminated insofar as possible. Just as the uncle and Karl were stepping out of the doorway, a trainee slipped in and emerged again holding a sheet of paper that already had writing on it. There was constant movement; people ran back and forth in the hall. No one said hello, such greetings having been dispensed with; each person followed in the steps of the person before him, either looking at the floor, which he wanted to cross as quickly as possible, or glancing at the papers in his hands and probably managing to catch only isolated words or numbers from the papers fluttering in his hand, as he ran along.

  “You’ve really accomplished a great deal,” said Karl to his uncle during one of these tours through the business, which would take several days in their entirety even if one merely wanted to have a quick look at each department.

  “And I set all of this up thirty years ago by myself, I’d like you to know. Back then I had a small concern in the harbor district, and if five cases were unloaded on any given day, that was a lot, and I went home feeling all puffed up. Today I have the third-largest warehouse in the harbor, and the old shop serves as the dining room and tool shed for my sixty-fifth company of porters.”

  “Well, that’s almost miraculous,” said Karl.

  “Everything happens that quickly here,” his uncle said, breaking off the conversation.

  One day his uncle arrived just before dinner, which Karl had expected to eat alone as usual, and asked that he put on a black suit right away and accompany him to dinner, at which two business friends would join them. As Karl was changing next door, his uncle sat down at his desk, leafed through an English lesson that Karl had just finished, slapped his hand down on the table, and cried: “Truly excellent!” Though Karl undoubtedly did a better job dressing after hearing this praise, he was already quite confident about his English.

  In his uncle’s dining room, which he remembered from his first evening, two tall stout gentlemen rose to greet him, one called Green, the other Pollunder, as became evident over dinner. His uncle hardly ever said anything about any of his acquaintances, leaving it up to Karl to discover through his own observations whatever might be considered important or intriguing. After the dinner—in the course of which the conversation was restricted to confidential business matters, which meant that Karl received a good lesson in how to use business terms, they had let him focus quietly on his meal, as if he were a child whose most important task was to eat his fill—Mr. Green leaned over to Karl and, making an unmistakable effort to speak the clearest possible English, asked a few general questions about Karl’s first impressions of America. Occasionally glancing at his uncle, and amid dead silence on all sides, Karl answered at length and, by way of thanking them, sought to make a pleasant impression by using turns of phrase with a certain New York flavor. Upon hearing one such expression, all three gentlemen burst out laughing, and Karl began to fear that he had made a vulgar mistake, but not at all, for as Mr. Pollunder explained to him, he had said something that was actually quite felicitous. Moreover, this Mr. Pollunder seemed to have taken a special liking to Karl, and as his uncle and Mr. Green resumed their business conversation, Mr. Pollunder made Karl pull his chair up close and asked him many different questions, first about his name, his background, and the voyage, until finally, so as to let Karl take another rest, he began to talk rapidly, amid considerable laughter and coughing, about himself and his daughter, with whom he lived on a small country estate near New York, though he could only spend his nights there, for he was a banker whose profession kept him in New York all day. And Karl was most cordially invited to visit his country estate; a freshly minted American like Karl would surely feel the need now and then to recuperate from New York. Karl immediately asked his uncle for permission to accept the invitation, and his uncle granted it with seeming pleasure, although he failed to mention a specific date or even to consider one, as Karl and Mr. Pollunder had expected.

  The following day, however, Karl was summoned to one of his uncle’s offices—in this building alone his uncle had ten different offices—where he found his uncle and Mr. Pollunder sunk in their armchairs, scarcely exchanging a word. “Mr. Pollunder,” said his uncle, whom one could scarcely discern in the twilight of the room. “As agreed yesterday, Mr. Po
llunder has come to take you to his country estate.” “I didn’t know it was supposed to be today,” Karl answered, “otherwise I would be ready to leave.” “If you’re not ready to leave, it might be better if we postpone the visit for a while,” said his uncle. “Why would he need to get ready!” cried Mr. Pollunder. “A young man is always ready.” “It’s not for his sake,” said his uncle, turning to his guest, “he would have to go up to his room, though, and that would keep you waiting.” “I’ve plenty of time,” said Mr. Pollunder, “I predicted a certain delay and closed up early today.” “Well,” said his uncle, “don’t you see what trouble your visit is causing?” “I’m sorry,” said Karl, “but I shall be back in a moment,” and he began to run off. “Don’t rush,” said Mr. Pollunder, “you’re not causing me any trouble; on the contrary, I’m extremely pleased you’re coming.” “You’ll miss your riding lesson tomorrow, have you canceled it yet?” “No,” said Karl; that visit, which he had eagerly anticipated, was becoming a burden. “Well, I didn’t know—” “But you still want to go?” insisted his uncle. Friendly old Mr. Pollunder came to his aid. “On our way there we shall stop by the riding school and sort this out.” “Well, that’s all fine and good,” said his uncle. “But Mak will be expecting you.” “He won’t be expecting me,” said Karl, “but he’ll go out there all right.” “So,” said his uncle, as though Karl’s answer had not provided the slightest justification. Again it was Mr. Pollunder who made the decisive comment: “But Klara”—she was the daughter of Mr. Pollunder—“expects him this evening, and surely she has priority over Mak?” “Of course,” said his uncle, “so run along to your room,” and as if involuntarily, he slapped the armrest of his chair several times. Karl had already reached the door when his uncle brought him to a standstill with another question: “But you’ll be back tomorrow morning for your English lesson?” “What!” cried Mr. Pollunder from his armchair, turning around in astonishment so far as his girth permitted. “Couldn’t he at least stay all day tomorrow? And then I’d bring him back the following day, early in the morning.” “That’s absolutely impossible,” retorted his uncle. “I cannot allow his studies to be disrupted in that fashion. Later, once he has settled into a reasonably stable career, I shall happily allow him to accept your kind invitation, even for a longer stay, for it truly is an honor.” The way he contradicts himself! Karl thought. Mr. Pollunder had become dejected. “But for only one evening and one night, it’s hardly worthwhile.” “That’s also what I think,” said his uncle. “One simply has to accept what one can get,” said Mr. Pollunder, who now laughed again. “Then I shall wait,” he called out to Karl, who hurried off since his uncle remained silent. On returning to the office a few minutes later, now ready for the journey, he encountered only Mr. Pollunder; his uncle had already gone off. Mr. Pollunder gladly shook both of Karl’s hands as if seeking the strongest possible reassurance that Karl would indeed come. Quite hot from rushing about, Karl in turn even shook Mr. Pollunder’s hand; he was pleased that he could go on the excursion. “Wasn’t my uncle annoyed that I’m going?” “Oh no! He didn’t really mean it that seriously. It’s just that he cares deeply about your education.” “Did he himself say he wasn’t serious about those previous comments?” “Oh yes,” said Mr. Pollunder, dragging out the words and thereby proving that he could not lie. “It’s rather odd that he was so reluctant to let me visit you even though you are his friend.” Mr. Pollunder could not explain this either, although he failed to admit as much, and as they drove through the warm evening in Mr. Pollunder’s automobile, both reflected on this matter at length although they immediately began talking about other matters.

  They sat close together, and Mr. Pollunder held Karl’s hand while he spoke. Karl wanted to hear a great deal about Miss Klara, as if he were impatient with the long drive and could with the help of those stories get there earlier than in reality. Although Karl had never driven through the streets of New York in the evening and one could hear a great din racing across the sidewalk and the roadway, constantly changing directions as in a tornado, as if the noise were not caused by human beings but were a foreign element, Karl, seeking to catch everything that Mr. Pollunder said, had eyes only for Mr. Pollunder’s dark waistcoat and the gold chain slung diagonally across it. Leaving behind the streets, where in a great and unconcealed fear of arriving late theatergoers rushed toward the theaters on foot and in vehicles driven at the greatest possible speed, they passed through transitional neighborhoods into suburbs, where mounted policemen repeatedly diverted their automobile into narrow side streets, for the wide thoroughfares were occupied by demonstrations of striking steelworkers, and only the most essential traffic was allowed to drive through the intersections. Whenever the automobile emerged from the dark, hollowly echoing side streets and crossed one of these main streets, which resembled entire city squares and stretched out on both sides in endless vistas, the pavements seemed inundated with a mass of people moving forward only one tiny step at a time and singing songs that sounded even more uniform than if only one person were singing. But here and there on the cleared roadway, one could see a policeman on a motionless horse, or people with flags, or inscribed banners strung across the street, or a labor leader surrounded by co-workers and assistants, or an electric streetcar wagon that had not hurried away quickly enough and now stood dark and empty, with its driver and conductor still sitting on the platform. Small bands of curious bystanders stood at some remove from the actual demonstrators and remained there despite their evident confusion as to what was happening. But Karl leaned happily on the arm that Mr. Pollunder had put around him; he found great solace in assuming that he would be soon taken in as a welcome guest at a brightly lit country house surrounded by walls and guarded by dogs, and even if he was becoming drowsy and could not quite understand what Mr. Pollunder said anymore, or at least could do so only intermittently, he pulled himself together now and then and wiped his eyes so as to assure himself again that Mr. Pollunder had not noticed his drowsiness, for that is something he wanted to avoid at all costs.

  III

  A COUNTRY HOUSE OUTSIDE NEW YORK

  ______________

  We’ve arrived,” said Mr. Pollunder, precisely during one of “Karl’s absent moments. The automobile stood before a country house that was built in the style of country houses favored by rich people in the vicinity of New York and therefore taller and more substantial than strictly necessary in a country house designed for a single family. Since only the lower part was illuminated, it was impossible to gauge the height of the house. In front were rustling chestnut trees through which—the gate was already open—a short path led to the front steps. Karl thought he could tell from his weariness, as he descended from the automobile, that the journey had indeed taken quite a while. In the darkness under the row of chestnut trees he could hear a girl’s voice nearby say: “Mr. Jakob has come at last.” “The name is Rossmann,” said Karl, taking a hand extended by a girl whose silhouette he could now distinguish. “It’s only Jakob’s nephew,” Mr. Pollunder explained, “and his name is Karl Rossmann.” “We’re just as pleased to have him here,” said the girl, who set little store by names. Nevertheless, as he walked toward the house flanked by Mr. Pollunder and the girl, Karl asked: “You’re Miss Klara?” “Yes,” she said; weak light from the house fell on her face, which she had inclined toward him, “only I didn’t want to introduce myself out in the dark.” Was she waiting at the gate for us? thought Karl, awakening slowly as he walked ahead. “By the way, we’ve another guest tonight,” said Klara. “Why, that’s impossible!” cried Mr. Pollunder irritably. “Mr. Green,” said Klara. “When did he come?” asked Karl, as if overcome by a sudden premonition. “A moment ago. Didn’t you hear his automobile ahead of yours?” Karl looked up at Pollunder so as to discern how he was assessing the matter, but the latter had his hands in his trouser pockets and merely stamped his feet more vigorously as he walked on. “It makes no sense to live so close to New York—we’re alway
s getting disturbed. We shall have to move out even farther. Even if it should take me half the night to drive home.” They halted on the steps. “But it’s been so long since Mr. Green last came to visit,” said Klara, who, though obviously in complete agreement with her father, sought to distract his attention and calm him down. “But why must he come today,” said Pollunder, whose words now rolled furiously over his bulging lower lip, a loose heavy wad of flesh that could easily be set in motion. “Good question!” said Klara. “Perhaps he’ll leave soon,” observed Karl, marveling at his rapport with these people, who had seemed such complete strangers only the day before. “Unfortunately not,” said Klara, “there’s some important business he needs to discuss with Papa, and it’ll probably go on quite a while, for he has jokingly warned me that if I really want to be a good hostess, I’ll have to stay up listening to them till dawn.” “That too, on top of everything else. So he’s even going to spend the night here,” exclaimed Pollunder, as if this were the worst thing that could have happened. “What I’d really like,” he said, becoming more amiable as a new idea took hold, “what I’d really like to do, Mr. Rossmann, is put you in my automobile and take you back to your uncle. This evening got off to a bad start, and who knows when your uncle will let us have you again? But if I take you back to him today, then he cannot refuse next time.” And he was already reaching for Karl’s hand in order to carry out his intentions. However, Karl did not move, and Klara asked that he be allowed to stay, for then at least she and Karl would not be disturbed by Mr. Green, and finally Pollunder too realized that even his own resolve was not unshakable. Besides—and this was perhaps most decisive—one could suddenly hear Mr. Green call down from the top steps to the garden: “What’s keeping you?” “Come,” said Pollunder, turning toward the steps. In his wake came Karl and Klara, who now examined each other in the light. “Her lips are so red,” Karl said to himself, thinking of Mr. Pollunder’s lips and of the beautiful change they had undergone in his daughter. “After supper,” she said, “if it’s all right with you, we shall go straight to my rooms so at least the two of us will be rid of Mr. Green, even if Papa must still deal with him. And then could you be so kind as to play the piano for me, since Papa told me how you excel at that; unfortunately I’m quite incapable of playing a thing and, for all my great love of music, never even touch my piano.” Karl greatly approved of Klara’s proposal even though he would have gladly drawn Mr. Pollunder along with them. But watching Green’s enormous form unfold little by little as they climbed the stairs—he had already become accustomed to Mr. Pollunder’s bulk—he lost all hope that he would somehow succeed that evening in enticing Mr. Pollunder away from this man.