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

by Franz Kafka

  Karl noticed the baby carriage on the steps below; just then the married couple came down, the woman holding the child in her arms. “Have you been admitted,” asked the man, who was much more animated now, as was the woman, who looked at him over her shoulder, laughing. When Karl answered that he had just been admitted and was heading toward the presentation, the man said, “Then I’d like to congratulate you. We’ve been admitted too; it seems a good outfit; of course, one can’t get the hang of everything right away, but it’s like that everywhere.” They said goodbye, and Karl climbed up on the stand. He walked slowly, since the rather small space on top seemed crowded and he did not wish to intrude. He even stopped for a moment and looked out over the large racetrack, which extended on all sides up to the distant woods. All of a sudden he was overcome by a desire to see a horse race; he hadn’t yet had a chance to do so here in America. As a small child in Europe he had once been taken to a race, but all he could recall was his mother pulling him along through a crowd that would not step aside. So he had never actually seen a race. Behind him a mechanism began to whir; he turned around and saw the following banner being hoisted on a device employed to announce the winners of the races: “Merchant Kalla with his wife and child.” So it was from here that the names of those who’d been taken on were relayed to the offices.

  Just then several gentlemen ran down the steps, talking animatedly, pencils and notebooks in hand; Karl squeezed up against the balcony in order to let them pass, and since there was some free space on top now he went up the steps. In a corner of the platform, which was enclosed by wooden railings—the whole thing looked like the flat roof of a narrow tower—sat a gentleman whose arms were stretched along the railings and who wore, slung across his chest, a white silk sash with the words: “Leader of the Theater of Oklahama’s Tenth Recruiting Troupe.” On a little table beside him stood a telephone, which certainly was used at the races and now was employed to apprize the leader of all necessary details about the individual applicants even before they were introduced; for at first he did not ask Karl any questions, and merely said to a gentleman who was reclining beside him, legs crossed, hand on his chin: “Negro, a European middle school student.” As if he had thereby disposed of Karl, who gave a deep bow, he looked down the steps to see if there was anyone else coming. Since no one came, he listened from time to time to the other gentleman’s conversation with Karl, but for the most part he gazed out over the racetrack, tapping his fingers on the railing. Those delicate but strong, powerful, and rapidly moving fingers sometimes drew Karl’s attention, even though the other gentleman had already become sufficiently demanding.

  “You were unemployed?” the gentleman asked first. Like almost all of the other questions that he asked, this one was very simple, completely straightforward, and he made no attempt to verify Karl’s answers through further questioning; yet by opening his eyes wide, leaning forward, and observing the effect of his questions, which he occasionally repeated with his head sunk into his chest, he was able to lend them a special significance that eluded one’s understanding but the mere intimation of which was enough to make one cautious and diffident. Frequently Karl felt an urge to withdraw the answer he had just given and to substitute another that might meet with greater approval, but he always held back, for he knew what a bad impression that sort of dithering would inevitably make and, moreover, what an unpredictable effect his answers would have. Besides, it certainly did seem as if the decision to admit him had already been taken; this awareness buoyed him up.

  To the question whether he had been unemployed he simply responded, “Yes.” “Where were you employed last?” the gentleman insisted. Karl was about to answer when the gentle man raised his index finger and repeated: “Employed last!” Karl had understood the question correctly the first time; brushing off that last remark with an involuntary movement of his head, he answered: “In an office.” This was certainly true, but if the gentleman had gone on to ask what kind of office it was, he would have had to lie. But rather than doing so, the gentleman asked a question that could easily be answered truthfully: “Were you satisfied there?” “No,” Karl cried, almost cutting him off. Karl noticed through a side glance that the leader was smiling slightly; Karl regretted having answered so heedlessly, but it had simply been too tempting to shout “No,” for throughout his last period in service his sole wish had been that some unknown employer would walk in and ask that very question. Besides, that answer could also put him at a disadvantage since the gentleman could now ask why he hadn’t been satisfied. But instead the gentleman merely asked: “For what kind of job do you think you are suited?” This question could be a trap, for why did he ask, since Karl had already been taken on as an actor; he could not bring himself to explain that he did not feel especially suited to the theatrical profession, though he realized full well he was not. He therefore evaded the question and, at the risk of appearing defiant, said: “I saw the poster in the city and signed up because it stated that you could make use of everybody.” “That we already know,” the gentleman said, falling silent and thereby underscoring his insistence on obtaining an answer to his previous question. “I’ve been taken on as an actor,” said Karl, in a hesitant voice so that the gentleman might understand the difficult situation the last question had created for him. “Well,” said Karl—and all his hopes of having found a position began to fade—“I don’t know if I’m suited to acting. But I’ll certainly try very hard to carry out each and every assignment.” The gentleman turned to the manager, and both nodded; Karl appeared to have given the right answer; summoning his courage again, he straightened up and waited for the next question: “What did you want to study first?” In an effort to come up with a more precise formulation—this gentleman was always adamant about formulating everything precisely—he added: “In Europe, I mean.” As he spoke, he removed his hand from his chin and waved it about feebly as if wishing to signal the remoteness of Europe and the insignificance of any plans that might have been made there. Karl said: “I wanted to become an engineer.” It wasn’t easy to say so, for he was acutely aware of his track record in America and realized how ridiculous it was to dredge up that old memory of having once wanted to become an engineer—would he have ever really become one, even in Europe?—but since that was the only answer he could come up with, it was the one he gave. But the gentleman took this seriously, as seriously as he took everything else. “Well,” he said, “you probably can’t become an engineer right away, but the most appropriate course for you right now would be to take on some simple work as a technician.” “Certainly,” said Karl, who was quite satisfied; if he accepted this offer, it would of course mean that he’d be taken out of the actors’ group and put in with the technicians, but he believed that being in such a position would really allow him to prove his worth. Besides, he kept repeating to himself, what mattered was not so much the kind of work he did as finding a lasting foothold somewhere. “But are you strong enough for the more strenuous kind of work?” the gentleman asked. “Oh yes,” said Karl. Whereupon the gentleman asked Karl to come closer and felt his arm. “He’s a strong lad,” he said, taking Karl’s arm and drawing him toward the leader. Smiling, the leader nodded, held out his hand to Karl, and without standing up, said: “Then we’re all set. Everything will be checked again in Oklahama. Bring honor to our recruiting troupe!” Karl bowed in farewell; he wanted to say goodbye to the other gentleman, but as if his work were already completed, the latter was already walking up and down the platform with his head raised. As Karl descended the stairs, a sign was hoisted on the signboard near the steps: “Negro, technician.” Since everything was falling into place so easily, Karl would have had few regrets if his real name had appeared on the signboard. Everything had been so carefully arranged, for already awaiting him at the foot of the steps was a servant who fastened a band around his arm. And when Karl lifted his arm to see the words written on the band, he saw that the inscription was completely accurate: “technician.”r />
  No matter where they might take him, Karl first wanted to tell Fanny how well everything had gone. But much to his regret, he heard from the servant that the angels, and the devils too, were already heading toward the recruiting troupe’s next destination in order to announce the arrival of the troupe for the following day. “That’s a pity,” said Karl—this was his first disappointment in this outfit—“I knew one of the angels.” “You’ll get to see her in Oklahama,” the servant said, “but come on, you are the last.” He led Karl along the rear of the platform where the angels had stood and now there were only empty pedestals. Karl’s assumption that more job-seekers would come once the music from the angels had ceased turned out to be mistaken, for there were no longer any adults lined up before the stand, only a few children fighting over a long white feather, which had probably fallen from an angel’s wing. A boy held it up in the air while the other children tried to pull down his head with one hand while stretching out the other so as to seize the feather.

  Karl pointed to the children, but the servant, who did not even glance at them, said: “Hurry up; it took them quite a while to decide to admit you. They must have had some doubts?” “I don’t know,” said Karl, taken aback; but he did not believe it was true. Even in the most clear-cut of situations, there is always someone who insists on causing grief for his fellow man. But at the pleasant sight of the large spectators’ stand that they had just reached, Karl soon forgot the servant’s remark. On this stand there was even a very long bench covered with a white cloth; all those who had been admitted sat on the next bench, with their backs to the racetrack, and were now being served a meal. Everyone was cheerful and excited, and just as Karl, the last to arrive, sat down on the bench without being noticed, a number of them stood up and raised their glasses, while one gave a little speech toasting the leader of the Tenth Recruiting Troupe, whom he called “the father of all jobseekers.” Somebody pointed out that one could actually see the leader from where they sat, and the judges’ stand with its two platforms was indeed not that far off. All now raised their glasses in that direction; Karl too took the glass in front of him, but however loudly they shouted and however much they tried to draw attention to themselves, there was no sign that anyone on the judges’ platform had noticed their round of applause or might soon do so. The leader was still leaning against the corner, and beside him stood the other gentleman, stroking his chin.

  A little disappointed, everyone sat down again; now and then one of them would turn around to glance at the judges’ platform, but before long everyone was completely absorbed by the lavish meal; large fowl such as Karl had never seen before, with numerous forks stuck into the crisply roasted meat, were carried around; the servants kept on pouring wine—hunched over one’s place, one scarcely noticed the stream of red wine dropping into one’s glass—and anyone who did not wish to take part in the general conversation could look at the pictures of the Theater of Oklahama, which were stacked at one end of the table and were supposed to be passed around. But the others showed little interest in the pictures, and consequently only a single picture reached Karl, who was last. If this one was any indication, all of the others must have been worth seeing too. It showed the box reserved for the President of the United States. At first glance one might easily have believed that it was not simply a box but the actual stage, so forcefully did the balustrade sweep out into open space. The entire balustrade was gilded. Hanging side by side between its small pillars, which looked as though they had been cut out with the finest scissors, were medallions of former presidents, one of whom had a remarkably straight nose, thick curved lips, and eyes that looked straight down from beneath his arched brows. Rays of light streamed around the box, from all sides and also from above; the section of the box in the foreground was bathed in a white yet soft light, whereas its deeper recesses, behind red velvet draped in folds of varying shades all along the perimeter of the box and held in check by cords, seemed like a dark red-shimmering void. So grandiose did everything look that one could scarcely imagine people in this box. Though Karl did not neglect his food, he gazed often at the reproduction, which he had placed beside his plate.

  Moreover, he certainly would have dearly liked to see at least one of the other pictures, but he did not wish to fetch it himself since a servant had placed his hand on the pictures—which no doubt had to be kept in order—and therefore merely sought to look out over the table to ascertain whether another picture might not be heading his way. Whereupon to his astonishment he noticed that among the faces bent lowest over the food—at first he could not believe it—was a familiar one: Giacomo. He ran up to him at once. “Giacomo,” he cried. Shy as always whenever anything took him by surprise, Giacomo first rose from his meal, turned around in the narrow space between the benches, wiped his mouth with his hand, and only then revealed how pleased he was to see Karl; he said Karl should sit down beside him, or he would come over to Karl’s seat, and then they would tell each other everything and always stay together. Karl did not want to disturb the others and said that they should keep their own seats for now; the meal would be over soon and then they would, of course, stick together always. Nevertheless Karl remained beside Giacomo, simply to gaze at him. What memories of bygone days! Where was the head cook? What was Therese doing? As for Giacomo, he looked virtually unchanged; the head cook’s prediction that he would have become a big-boned American within six months had not come to pass; he was still delicate as ever, his cheeks were still just as sunken, except that now they were bulging, for he had placed an excessively large piece of meat in his mouth and was slowly sucking out the superfluous bones and throwing them onto his plate. As Karl saw from Giacomo’s armband, he had been admitted not as an actor but as an elevator boy; the Theater of Oklahama did seem able to find a use for everyone.

  Lost in contemplation of Giacomo, Karl remained away from his seat too long, and just as he was about to go back, the personnel manager came, climbed onto one of the higher benches, clapped his hands, and gave a brief speech; most people rose, prompting those who were still seated and could not tear themselves away from their food to do likewise. “Well,” he said—Karl had already tiptoed quickly back to his seat—“I do hope you were satisfied with our welcome dinner. People generally do praise the food served by our recruiting troupe. Unfortunately I must break up this gathering, though, since the train meant to take you to Oklahama will be leaving in five minutes. It’s a long trip, but as you’ll see, you’ll be well taken care of. And now I should like to introduce you to the gentleman who will be in charge of your transportation and whose orders you should follow.” A small, thin gentleman climbed onto the bench beside the personnel manager, barely took the time to give a hasty bow, and stretching out his trembling hands, quickly began to show everyone how to assemble, get into line and start moving. But they did not comply right away, since the person in their group who had earlier on given the speech slammed his hand on the table and began to deliver a rather lengthy thank-you speech despite the recent announcement that the train was about to leave—and Karl became very uneasy. Completely ignoring the fact that he no longer had the ear of the personnel manager, who was giving various instructions to the transportation manager, the speaker embarked on a lengthy speech listing all of the courses that had been served, pronouncing judgment on each, and concluding with the cry: “Honorable gentlemen, this is certainly the way to win us over.” Everyone—except those he was addressing—laughed, although there was more truth than jest in what he said.

  The price they paid for this speech was that they now had to run to reach the station. Still, this wasn’t terribly difficult, for as Karl only now noticed, no one was carrying any luggage and indeed the only piece of luggage was the baby carriage that the father pushed along at the head of the troupe and that bounced up and down as if careening along of its own accord. What suspect types, without possessions, had found their way here, and yet they were being so well received and cared for! And they must have made q
uite an impression on the transportation manager. For he seized the handlebars of the baby carriage with one hand, raising the other up in the air so as to persuade the group to move forward; now he appeared behind the last line, driving them on; now he ran along the sides, keeping an eye on some of the slower ones in the middle, and tried to show them how to run by swinging his arms.

  When they arrived at the station, the train was ready. The people at the station pointed out the troupe to one another; one could hear cries such as, “They all belong to the Theater of Oklahama”; the theater seemed to be much better known than Karl had assumed, but then he had never taken much interest in the theater business. An entire carriage had been set aside for their troupe, and the transportation manager outdid the conductor in pressing everyone to get on. First he looked into every compartment, straightened out something here and there, and only then climbed on himself. By chance Karl obtained a window seat and drew Giacomo over beside him. They sat pressed together; each looked forward to the journey; never before had they been so carefree on a journey in America. When the train began to move, they waved out the window, and the fellows opposite, finding their behavior ridiculous, gave one another nudges.