The Lost Pages

by Marija Pericic

  I arrived at Poříčer Strasse just before five o’clock and took up a position directly opposite the insurance office. I kept my eyes trained on the street door of the building, tensed and watching for Franz. Five o’clock came and a few workers left the building, but Franz was not among them. My eyes burned into the wood of the door. It was a heavy double door, painted green, of which the left wing swung back into the dark entrance hall. I stared intensely, willing the door to open and reveal Franz, but it did not obey me. The sun was setting and it grew cold as the buildings began casting their damp shadows. At half-past five a regular trickle of workers began to issue from the doors, and I crossed the street to be closer, but Franz still did not appear. By six o’clock the trickle had slowed and only the occasional person came through the door. Most of the lights in the building had been switched off. It was time to go.

  I was tired and hungry. With the last of my energy I made a rapid tour of the cafés I had visited the previous evening, again with no result. My last stop was at the Café Slavia, where I stopped for a beer and a quick meal. It seemed that there was nothing to do but wait and hope that if Franz did not appear at the dinner Theodor would understand that it had nothing to do with me. I was sitting beside the window that looks out at the National Theatre. The statues along the roof were all illuminated and my eyes could pick out every detail of their faces against the black of the night sky. Down on the theatre steps a small crowd stood laughing and calling to one another—actors, by the look of their clothes.

  I reflected on the irony of my plight. Now it seemed likely that my fervent wish of Franz and Theodor never meeting might come to pass, but the very thing I had desired for my own self-preservation would be the cause of my downfall. Looking into my beer, I considered the problem as I might a difficulty in a narrative plot. It was very simple: Theodor wanted to meet Franz, but Franz apparently did not want to meet Theodor. I did not want the two to meet, but if Theodor did not meet Franz, I would be sacrificed, thus I was forced to facilitate the meeting against my will. What Franz wanted, or why, did not remotely concern me. I finished my beer and ordered another. If only, I thought to myself, Franz really were dead, this whole situation could easily be resolved in my favour. This would be the ending that I would choose if this were a story and I the author. It was not even really necessary that he be dead; emigration would suffice, or serious illness.

  Theodor, I mused, had never met Franz and was relying on me to introduce him. He did not know who Franz was. If Franz really were dead or otherwise safely out of the way—and, as I had suggested to Theodor, we did not know for certain that he was not—I could simply present some other person to Theodor as Franz. No one would ever know the difference, provided that the ‘Franz’ I introduced was credible. Perhaps it was not even necessary that Franz be out of the way for my plan to be feasible: to the real Franz it would simply appear that Theodor had finally lost interest and given up.

  I was now on to my third beer and the potential benefits of this solution seemed limitless. It was perfect. I would regain Theodor’s favour by giving him what he was unable to get for himself; Theodor would get his precious contract signed; I would have time to find my feet again with Schopenhauer. The problem of Franz would be neatly solved without the need for any drama or confrontation. He would simply fade away as if he had never been. Granted, the book of stories would possibly go ahead, but I could certainly contend with one book. The more I thought about it, the better the idea seemed. The relief of having Franz out of the way was immense. I even began to feel grateful to him for being so evasive; what had been an irritating problem, a cocky affectation, began to seem like a rare gift from him to me.

  Somewhere along the line I had begun thinking of the whole enterprise as a fixed plan rather than a mere hypothetical possibility. The only question was, who could I use to play Franz? Obviously it would have to be someone unconnected with literary circles, preferably someone from outside Prague. Someone I could trust. I ran through my host of cousins and in-laws, a cohort of whom lived in Brünn. But what explanation could I possibly give them? And how could I arrange it all within twenty-four hours? It was impossible. I would have to look closer to home. I half-heartedly scanned the room for likely candidates. There was no one who really resembled Franz, but perhaps this was not a necessary requirement. I looked out of the window and my eye fell on the theatre opposite, still wreathed in its yellow glow. Of course: an actor. There could be nothing better than having a professional undertake the task.

  The group of actors who had been standing on the theatre steps had left; it was by now very late. I had also drunk rather more than I was accustomed to, so I resolved to consider the plan afresh the next day. I made my way home, feeling warm and sleepy, with my belly full of beer and the satisfaction of having conquered adversity.

  The next morning the idea had not lost its piquancy. I did not feel the slightest bit apprehensive; on the contrary, I felt a self-congratulatory thrill at my own inventiveness. I dressed, humming to myself, and went downstairs to eat a leisurely breakfast and read the Prager Tagblatt. I decided to take the morning off work to organise the matter. The dinner was that evening, but this did not worry me in the least. Surely the whole thing could be arranged in less than two hours. I turned my mind to the question of where to find an actor. There were of course the national and municipal theatres, but I thought that it might be more prudent to look at one of the smaller dramatic societies, where the actors were more likely to be unknown. As I drank another cup of coffee, I looked at the entertainment notices at the back of the newspaper and copied down the names and addresses of some of the smaller dramatic societies into my notebook.

  I decided to make my first call the Bohemian Company, a students’ acting group. They had a theatre close by, near the opera building. Outside in the street the day was bright and clear and I made my unhurried way through the morning crowds. The prospect of having solved the niggling problem of Franz had me smiling broadly as I walked along. The sun warmed my skin and I had the benign feeling of a man on holiday. The only thing that remained now was what to tell the actor who I would engage. The true story was out of the question, naturally. I considered my options. I could pose as a director, an eccentric director, and present the thing as a kind of audition. But word of that might get out and I needed to keep this as quiet as possible. Ideally I would tell as few people as possible, but approaching a theatre troupe meant that of course the whole group would come to hear of it. It would be much better simply to approach an actor individually. I ran through those of my acquaintances who acted, but of course those known to me might also be known to Theodor.

  Perhaps if I offered a large enough cash incentive, I could limit the amount of questions that would be asked. But how much should I offer? Too much and people would certainly start talking. Perhaps I could offer the amount equivalent to a day’s wage, or slightly more. Would eighty crowns do? I had my chequebook with me, but I decided it would be a good idea to have a sum of cash also at the ready. I stopped at the bank and withdrew two hundred crowns, which would certainly more than suffice.

  I found myself at the address that I had written in my notebook. It was a small corner building, damp and dirty and overshadowed by the opera. A rusted tin plate announced that the Bohemian Company had their rooms in the cellar. Suddenly all my good humour deserted me. What exactly should I say? The clock struck, making me jump. It was already ten. I felt conspicuous, hovering there in the doorway, so I went in. I would improvise.

  I went down the stone staircase and into the cellar. The underground room was very dark, with only one feeble lamp and a row of narrow windows high on the wall, just beneath the low ceiling. At first I thought that the room was empty, but after a moment my eyes adjusted and I could see a circle of people sitting on cushions on the floor, their heads all turned in my direction. We looked at each other for a stunned moment before a very tall young man got up to greet me. The rest of the troupe remained sitting on the
floor, where they murmured to each other in low voices.

  I decided that an indirect approach would be best. The young man came over with an outstretched hand, introduced himself as Jan, and asked what he could do for me. I had not thought of preparing an alias, but I gave my name as Schmidt. I tried for a bold and worldly demeanour and told Jan that I had some work to offer one of them.

  ‘What kind of work?’

  ‘Well, acting, of course.’

  The room had grown silent and I could see the rest of the Bohemian Company watching us from their corner.

  ‘Fine, but what kind of show do you have in mind? Our current focus is work in the style of Meiningen.’ Jan stretched himself a little taller as he spoke the name of his heroes.

  ‘Well, it isn’t so much a show as, ah, a single-night performance.’

  Jan frowned and waited for me to go on. I desperately searched for a way to explain my request. My eyes wandered from Jan’s face and stared out through the narrow strip of window through which the feet of passers-by were visible.

  ‘Ah, realism certainly is the style,’ I said after a moment. ‘Authentic realism.’

  I glanced at Jan. He was still frowning and his eyes had narrowed. He folded his arms across his chest. I decided to just tell him.

  ‘Look,’ I said, ‘there’s this man who I’m looking for and can’t find. I just want someone to play him for one night.’

  It was only after the words were out of my mouth that I realised how shameful they sounded. As I spoke, Jan had taken a step backwards, away from me.

  ‘At a dinner I mean,’ I went on. I could feel my cheeks reddening. ‘For a few hours only. At a public café. I can offer you eighty crowns.’

  Jan’s lips had curled in disgust. ‘Herr Schmidt,’ he spat out the spurious name, ‘we here are serious artists. Perhaps you would have more success at some other establishment. Good day.’

  He turned his back and stalked back to rest of his company. I tried to keep my head up as I slunk to the stairs and left the room. Out on the street I hurried from the scene with my head buried deep in my collar. I let the crowds carry me along, my only concern to put as much distance as possible between myself and the Bohemian Company.

  When I had walked enough to be out of breath, I looked at my watch. It was half-past eleven. I had thought that by this time I would have had the whole thing organised and I would be sitting comfortably at the desk in my office, drinking a cup of tea. My confidence began to falter and my heart started up a panicky rhythm: there were not more than seven or eight hours remaining until the dinner. I pictured how Theodor’s face would look—stony, one eyebrow cocked—if I dared to appear without Franz. I forced my mind away from this scenario.

  I realised that I was quite close to the insurance office and considered calling there again in case I could produce the real Franz at the dinner. I had somehow forgotten in the hours of that morning that there was in fact a real Franz. But by now my plan had taken root in my mind, and the idea of sitting alongside the real Franz while Theodor got what he wanted filled me with disgust. Besides, given that Franz seemed not to actually want to meet Theodor, by producing a substitute Franz I was actually doing the real Franz a favour. I decided to forgo another visit to the insurance office and instead I took out my notebook to look up the address of the other theatre group that I wanted to try: the Black Cat Ensemble in the Ziegengasse. I estimated that I could go there and still be back at the post office within an hour.

  As I walked, I considered the plan anew. Now I could see two possible problems. The first and most significant was if Franz had received Theodor’s and my messages and did appear at the dinner that night. But I considered his past behaviour and concluded that the chance of this was rather low. Besides, if I arrived at the café with the impostor Franz Kafka first, then should the real Kafka arrive later he would be the one to appear as the impostor if I labelled him as such. It would be his word against mine. I merely had to ensure that the imposter and I arrived at the café early. The second potential problem was that the person I presented as Franz might be known to Theodor. But this could be explained away if Franz Kafka was a pseudonymous creation. In fact, that might even help to explain Franz’s reluctance to meet with Theodor in the first place.

  There still remained the question of what to say when I arrived at the Black Cat theatre company. Clearly, I needed a different approach to the one I had used with the Bohemians. Perhaps saying that the evening was an audition was a better plan. Or I could say that I was playing a practical joke on a friend. Of course! This seemed like a winning idea to me: innocuous, amusing. It was perfect.

  Obviously I also needed to think of a more plausible name than Schmidt. Czerny? Cervenka? Karel Czerny. He sounded like a practical joker. I could surely pass as Karel Czerny. The name is Czerny, I mouthed to myself as I walked along.

  I soon arrived at my destination. This group had a little wooden sign with a painted image of a black cat, hissing, with an arched back and bared fangs. Its long tail was raised in a question mark that curled around the top of the sign. The cat’s green eyes bored into mine, daring me to go in. Karel Czerny. I went inside.

  Despite my preparation this time, my experience with the Black Cat Ensemble strongly resembled the one I had had at the Bohemian Company, and once again I found myself scurrying away down the street, shamefaced. There must have been something shifty in my countenance, for I am usually a highly credible liar, my body having schooled me in the arts of deception from a most tender age.

  Now I was at a loss. It was past midday. I let myself drift through the streets at random. My mind was numb and empty, and I concentrated only on negotiating the uneven stones of the street. What with my slow progress and keeping my eyes trained on the ground, now and then people cannoned into me. After one of these collisions I looked up directly into the eyes of Franz. He was walking towards me, still a few metres away. He seemed not to have seen me. I felt dizzy and a kind of violent mist rose up before my eyes. I felt the urge to kill him on the spot. I reached out for the wall to steady myself, but when I looked again I saw that it was not Franz after all, only a man so like him that he could have been Franz’s twin.

  I was still standing with my hand on the wall, and I remained there while the man walked past me, coming so close that I could smell his dusty odour of tobacco. I turned to watch his receding back. Without thinking, I began to follow him. The man walked quickly, deftly threading his way through the traffic, stepping sometimes onto the street to move around some slower walker. It was a strain to keep pace with him. My intractable feet slipped and twisted on the difficult stones, and I clutched, uncaring, onto anything near me to keep my balance: windows, walls, other people. My heart was hammering with exertion and the fear that I would lose him. The man was perfect. He was the one I wanted. But how to approach him? I would say that I had a proposition for him, a way to earn some money, I decided. I would invite him for a drink to discuss it. I would keep to my story of the practical joke.

  The man was slowing down and seeming to hesitate at a cross-street. I caught up with him and then I was standing beside him. The base of my throat throbbed with my laboured breathing. Now was the moment.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I said, touching the fabric of his suit lightly with my fingertips.

  He turned slowly towards me. I was standing very close to him and I inspected the side of his face. Even at such close range, every detail of his appearance was like Franz’s. I saw his eyes widen questioningly as he focused on my face, but very quickly this expression was overlaid with one that I quickly recognised as disgust. I saw his eyes flick down the length of my crooked body and he immediately took a step away from me, his features disfigured in a sneer. He shook his head slightly, a small flick to the right and the left, and then plunged across the street. He gave one glance back over his shoulder, probably to make certain that I was not following him, still with that look of revulsion.

  The old shame at my body crept over m
y skin and my scalp contracted with it. I could feel the sweat beading on my forehead and plastering my shirt to my back. My breath wheezed in and out. I reached up to remove my hat and noticed that it had been perched crookedly on my head. No doubt I would present a frightening prospect to a stranger in the street. I leaned back against the wall for a moment to rest, but I was too conscious of the glances of passers-by to gain any comfort, so I forced myself to shuffle onwards. Pain radiated up through my feet and stiffened my right side. I desperately needed to rest. I looked around and saw that I was on the Karlshofergasse, in an area of the city I rarely visited. There was a small pub on the corner. Normally I would not enter such a down-at-heel place, but my body was crying out in exhaustion, so I went inside.

  The walls were panelled with dark wood, which made the place into a well of gloomy damp, stinking of sour beer and unwashed flesh. There were few patrons at this hour and I found a table away from the others, close to the window. A pale serving girl in a dirty blouse came up immediately, and I ordered a beer. I sat looking out of the window, the glass of which was so encrusted with dirt that the street outside was distorted into a hazy landscape that resembled a grey ocean scene, with rolling dunes and striped waves. The girl came back with my beer, which was slopping down the sides of a grubby mug. I didn’t want to touch it, let alone bring it to my lips. I sat watching the bubbles slowly deflate. It was a huge relief just to be sitting down, and my tired body was beginning to relax. I let my head lean back against the wall and I closed my eyes.

  ‘Good day, sir.’

  My eyes snapped open. There was a man sitting opposite me at the small table. He was about the same age as me, handsome in a rugged way, dark and unshaven. He was wearing the light blue uniform of the mountain infantry, though it was hardly recognisable for its shabbiness. The limp collar was worn thin and marked with a greenish stain of sweat around the neck. His cap was ragged and pushed far back on his head to allow room for the rakish black curl that fell almost to one eye.