Out in the street she took my arm. I let my fingers brush the back of her hand as it nestled in the crook of my elbow, and it was so soft and yielding that when I brushed my fingers over it they seemed to pass through the skin.
Walking with Anja was a completely difference experience to walking alone. Over the years I had become used to people looking at me wherever I went and I had learned to ignore their rigid faces and round eyes. With Anja beside me I was surprised to find that people looked at us even more, but with a completely different gaze. At first it was as though my happiness had transformed either myself or the world, and I was met by only smiling faces, but then I slowly realised that the eyes that would usually be hooked by my outlandish form now slid past me, without taking me in, to light instead on Anja. Women, especially older ones, smiled at her with a kind of nostalgia, men’s eyes snapped over to her apparently of their own volition, and children looked with upturned faces as though they were watching a fireworks display. I walked like a ghost beside her, invisible but happy, seeing my joy reflected in the faces of those we passed.
We went to the Laurenziberg and wandered for a long time through the gardens that covered the eastern slopes. I was aware of the beauty of the gardens and the views of Prague without really seeing them. But the sky I took notice of. I can still recall precisely how it looked that day as we stood and gazed down on the city. It ranged over us in a broad sweep, the blue deep and full directly over our heads but stretched thin and pale at the horizon. There were some insignificant clouds, like wreaths of smoke, and Prague too was nestled in a hazy smudge of dust and sun, shot through with flecks of white as light glinted from the windowpanes and the surface of the river. Faint sounds of the city drifted up to us, the shouts of children and the whistle of a distant train. Looking back now, this afternoon seemed to have been suspended in a golden mist, held out of time like a leaf in amber.
We wandered to a seat and sat together. Anja looked around at the view, and exclaimed at the sun and the colour of the leaves and grass. I could only see these things in relation to her: how the sun gilded the skin of her face with a layer of iridescence, or how the greenery saturated the colour of her hair and eyes.
And Anja talked, or chattered rather, telling me tales about her parents and friends, her teachers at the university. She began on a long and complicated story about a Herr Liška, a lawyer that Herr Železný was acquainted with through his work. It seemed that Herr Železný thought this Liška would be a good match for her; it appeared that he was to her what Uta was to me.
I was relieved to be able to explain to her about Uta in such a natural way. From our very first meeting I had been worried that Anja would come to hear about Uta, perhaps even from Uta herself, and form the idea that I was romantically involved with her. Now I was able to explain the truth of my feelings for Uta. I even managed to be kind about the poor girl; sitting there on a bench with Anja, I could afford to be generous.
‘Oh, Max,’ Anja said, ‘it’s so good to have you to talk to.’
To hear her speak my name was the most exquisite pleasure. She took my hand in hers and I thought that I might die.
Only when it was getting dark did we make our way back to the Old Town, and only after I returned Anja to her door did I become aware of the tiredness of my body. I gave in to the aching and took the tram home, instead of walking.*
It was not until I had reached my house that Liška occurred to me again, and now he appeared in a more sinister light. I knew that Uta’s advances had no effect on me, even with echoing chorus provided by my family, however the eligible Herr Liška’s powers of attraction were unknown to me. I sat in my study a long time that evening, writing the day’s experiences in my diary and then, later in the night, brooding over Herr Liška. I tortured myself with images of wealthy, muscular, straight-backed men with faces like stone carvings and voices like booming drums. I tried to reassure myself that Anja would not spend her afternoons with me if she did not wish to; she was perfectly free to take Herr Liška to the Laurenziberg instead of me. Still my doubts raged. I enumerated my strengths to myself, counting them on my fingers and then even going so far as to write them down in my diary.† It occurred to me then that she must have shared her story about him to awaken my jealousy and spur me to pursue her. Tired and relieved, I seized on this explanation and went to bed.
Anja and I began to see each other frequently, and when I look back at this period it is at a succession of days of savage happiness, each bleeding into the other, an unfamiliar world full of burning light and painful beauty bursting out at me from every object in space. I soon became obsessed with her. I was like a collector with a mania for finding new things and cataloguing them; facts about her, minute alterations in her appearance, her moods shifting from day to day, how her skin looked against fabrics of different colours, her eyes in different lights, how she would look in the snow, or swimming in a lake, or ill with a fever.
My thoughts were full of her, and even when I was away from her I would see the world through her eyes, or look forward to the time I would next see her, or remember the last time that I did. Time changed its function, lost its objectivity, and was reduced to a measure of her proximity. I was like the addict who can think only of the drug, anxious and unseeing of the world before he imbibes it, but afterwards imbued with light, floating in the beauty of the world.
On most days I would collect Anja from the university after work and walk home with her, or meet her during the day if I could get away from the office. She would call on me, collecting me from my home or my workplace. Her appearance in my life did much to raise my status. I noticed that my father beheld me with a new respect, as did my colleagues at the post office. On Anja’s first visit to my workplace, it was Kröner, the head clerk, who greeted her in the central hall of the post office building, the part that was open to the public. He escorted her upstairs to my office and showed her inside. I was gratified by the look that he flashed at me when he opened the door and held it wide for her to walk through. Before this day he had never greeted me if I happened to pass him in the street, but now he would give me a slow nod and a quizzical stare, as if I kept some secret that he would have liked to know. At the post office he began to ask my advice on work matters and invite me to have lunch with him. Stephanie too changed her behaviour towards me. She became much friendlier, almost sisterly, and would loudly proclaim Anja’s loveliness whenever she had been in the office to visit me.
The kinds of things Anja and I would do together on our outings were quite ordinary; visits to parks and museums, attending concerts and theatrical performances, sitting in coffee houses and talking. Anja recounted all kinds of stories to me, speaking without reservation or calculation. She related stories of her childhood, told me of problems with her university subjects, and described the friends she had made among her fellow students.
When taking leave of her, usually at her front door, I would delay and delay the final moment of separation. I would stare at her face and use the whole of my concentration to try to fix it in my mind like a photograph. She would be smiling at me, perhaps she would blink, perhaps some strands of her hair would blow in the breeze, but the image of her would become like an object that I could carry away with me, to take out when I was alone and immerse myself in. I would leave Anja’s house already looking at the latest portrait I had taken, remembering the hours we had spent, not seeing the streets I passed along, sated and happy.
She occasionally mentioned Liška, but as week followed week the terror he had at first inspired faded into the background. After all, I was the one who was with her every day, and the way she spoke of him made it clear that the two knew each other only slightly. But as my worries about Liška dissipated, I found that their place was taken by worries about Franz. Before long I could not rid myself of the image of Franz’s face as he gazed at her that evening of the reading in the botanical gardens. The expression of his face that night spoke of a mastery and a longing with which
I could never compete. His face began to appear to me at all times of the day, disturbing my hours of work and sleep. I obsessively replayed his conversation with Anja that evening, trying hopelessly to gauge their level of closeness. I would occasionally mention Franz in a casual way in my conversations with Anja, my eyes fixed sharply on her to detect the smallest sign of affection, but I could never discover anything. Many times I resolved to ask her how well she knew him, but I could never bring myself to do so, partly out of an unwillingness to have my worst fears proven, and partly out of a fear of exposing my own insecurity.
__________________
* These facing pages are stained with the imprint of a pressed flower. The flower has not been retained.
† This diary has not been recovered among the Kafka papers.
7.
DURING THIS TIME I NEGLECTED EVERYTHING BUT ANJA; MY friends, my writing, all of these fell into the background. I gave Schopenhauer not a single thought, and when Theodor wrote to reprimand me for missing a deadline, I just laughed and threw his letter into the fire. Theodor also sent other letters. He was clearly having great difficulty pinning Franz down, a situation which, I admit, gave me great pleasure. He had still never even met Franz. Though he scheduled appointment after appointment, Franz failed to attend. Theodor’s tenacity in this matter surprised me. I would have expected him to give up in the face of such rejection. At any other time I would have been prostrated with jealousy by Theodor’s pursuit of Franz, but Anja had made me feel so serene that the whole situation seemed only amusing. As the weeks passed, my frenzied determination to destroy Franz had faded and been replaced with a calm assurance that the problem he presented would resolve itself without any intervention on my part.
Another thing that failed to perturb me at that time was Theodor’s misapprehension of my relationship with Franz. Theodor appeared to be under the impression that Franz and I were particular friends, and that I had some great influence over him. I never replied to Theodor’s letters; not out of ill will, but only because with Anja in my life I hardly had time to give them a thought. In light of this I was not greatly surprised to receive a visit from Theodor at the post office one morning. To my relief, he seemed to have completely forgotten about Schopenhauer and my deadline. Instead, almost as soon as he had sat down, he asked me about Franz, talking as if the two of us were intimates. But I had not heard from Franz since the long-ago evening of the reading, and I told Theodor as much.
‘He’s probably left Prague for a holiday,’ I said. ‘Or perhaps he’s ill.’ Really, I did not care. I wondered whether Theodor would start pressing me about Schopenhauer.
‘No, no. That’s not it.’ Theodor shook his head. ‘I’ve sent messages to his work. I know he’s there; they just refuse to let me in.’
He sounded so much like a jilted lover that I almost felt sorry for him.
‘I’d like to invite you to dinner,’ Theodor said. ‘And Franz, of course. Actually, the dinner is for Franz. Your role would be to persuade him to attend.’
This was a ludicrous suggestion.
‘But I haven’t seen the man for weeks,’ I protested. ‘He could be dead for all we know.’
Theodor looked stricken at this suggestion.
‘I’m relying on you,’ he said.
A dinner with Theodor and Franz was the last thing I wanted.
‘I think you will find that, if you see to it that he is there, I might be inclined to extend the deadline on Schopenhauer—the one that you have repeatedly missed.’
The sly fox. Of course I had to agree.
I tried to contact Franz, but, predictably, I could not reach him. I did not feel particularly worried. I could only do so much after all. I put a note in my calendar to remind myself of the dinner, and then forgot all about it.
The following week, I came home from work one day, my head full of thoughts of Anja as usual, and found another letter from Theodor. I knew without opening it what it would contain: a reminder about the dinner, now only a few days away, along with some insults about my own laziness perhaps. I absent-mindedly put the letter in my pocket, where it remained until the next evening, when it tumbled out as I was looking for a handkerchief. I tore the envelope open and gave its contents a desultory glance.* The letter began as I had expected, with a reminder about the dinner followed by another reminder that the deadline for my book was long past. But what came next made my eyes widen in surprise. Theodor then threatened to drop my Schopenhauer book if I did not produce Franz at the dinner.
At first I thought that it must be a joke, but the signature at the bottom was without a doubt Theodor’s. I read the letter again with shaking hands. Theodor must have lost his mind. All the serenity of the past weeks melted away in an instant. Without my writing, what was left to me? I had Anja, it was true, but how long could I expect to keep her with nothing to recommend myself? I would be no one, my broken body the only notable thing about me. I grew numb inside when I saw how easily Theodor would cast me aside in favour of Franz.
The dinner was still two days away, but it was already past nine o’clock in the evening. I knew that it was probably too late to call on Franz, but I put on my hat anyway and went in search of him. I had only a vague idea of his address, but there were one or two places where I thought it might be possible to find him. First I went to the Europa café, which was crowded and smoky, but Franz was not there. Next I tried the beer cellar at the Gemeindehaus where we had drunk together those long weeks ago. Franz was not there either. I looked in at the Café Slavia and at the Arco, but no Franz. I knew he worked at the Workers’ Accident and Insurance Institute in the Old Town, but of course that would be closed at this hour. I toyed with the idea of going there and leaving a note for him to find the next day, but in the end my tiredness won out. In the morning, I told myself, and went home to bed.
I had expected to have a sleepless night of worry, but instead I slipped off immediately into a quiet, dreamless darkness. I became conscious again because of a persistent warmth on my face. It was the sun, burning through the window; I had neglected to draw the curtain the night before. I was lying awkwardly splayed across the bed, and had a raging thirst and a throbbing head, as though I had spent the previous night drinking. I rolled out of bed, and when I looked at my watch I saw that I had overslept, something that had never happened before. It was past ten o’clock. I cursed Elsa, who invariably woke me if I had not emerged by eight.
I pulled on my clothes hastily and hurried out of the house. I had planned to stop at Franz’s workplace on my way to the post office. Franz worked in Poříčer Strasse, and to pass by there would add perhaps twenty minutes to my journey, not counting the time I would spend talking to him. I was already so late that I supposed another half an hour would be of no consequence. Luck, however, was not on my side that morning, for almost the first person I encountered in the street was my boss, Herr Jelen. When I saw him I froze in shock, wondering whether I should try to explain myself. I decided it would be more prudent to remain silent to make it appear that everything was in order.
I had little to do directly with Jelen, but Kröner and Stephanie lived in awe of him, and a mere glimpse of him walking past the office was enough to send them scurrying about their tasks twice as quickly as was usual. Jelen was a very large man, with every part of his body seeming to have been scaled up. Each one of his thighs was the size of a small man’s torso, and his pink fingers were surmounted by monstrous nails like coins. His head was at least double the size of mine and his meaty neck seemed to strain under the weight of it. I had always privately thought that his large stature was the chief reason for his effectiveness as a leader. Proximity to his bulk produced a visceral subservience in the most intractable of workers.
He looked mildly surprised to see me out at that hour, but did not question me, and instead fell into step beside me and remarked politely on the weather. He was clearly on his way to the post office, but the way to Poříčer Strasse lay in a different direct
ion. Up ahead I could see the Königshofergasse, which I would need to take to get to Poříčer Strasse. Could I risk simply taking leave of him? I wildly thought up different excuses I might make for parting ways, but Jelen’s great mass was looming over me, blocking out the sun and seeming to pull me gravitationally in his wake; at the crucial moment my courage failed me and the necessary street sailed past without me turning into it. I glanced down it longingly. The early afternoons in the office were often quiet in any case, I reassured myself. Surely I could escape for an hour unnoticed then.
What was left of the morning passed quickly, and in my lunch hour I slipped out of the building and took the tram to Poříčer Strasse.
My journey, however, was in vain. Just as Theodor had said, the head clerk at the insurance office refused to confirm whether Franz was there, let alone allow me in. Frustrated, I stood outside the street door for a while, watching the crowds in case I might spot Franz coming back from his lunch hour, but I had no luck. I hastily scribbled a note and left it with the silent head clerk with a request that he pass it on to Franz, and then I made my way back to the post office.
Back in my office, I could not concentrate on my work. I pulled my chair to the window and sat looking out, brooding over the situation. Life on the street continued, indifferent to my plight. I watched the people hurrying along the footpath, each of them absorbed in their own joys, their own sorrows. The dinner was the following evening. Although I was fairly certain that Theodor’s letter was not a joke, I was not at all certain about his state of mind or how serious his threat was. It was true that his patience with me had been waning of late, and that I had violated our agreement. But I had always believed that he and I enjoyed a special relationship that went beyond the terms of a mere contract; we had, at any rate, before Franz came on the scene. Franz had destroyed all that. Now it seemed that I was nothing more to Theodor than a means to secure Franz, like a piece of bait for a prize fish. I resolved to slip out of the office early that evening and return to Poříčer Strasse to try to ambush Franz as he left his office at the end of the day.
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