‘I knew it was you,’ said Theodor. ‘I knew you were Franz.’ His words made no sense, and for a confused moment I was thrown back to my first week in hospital, when I too had thought I was Franz. It occurred to me that this interview might be a kind of test devised by Pick.
‘No,’ I said firmly, as though Pick were listening, ‘I am Max. Max Brod.’
‘Yes, yes.’ Theodor waved a hand impatiently. ‘I know that. And I know too, or at least I think I understand, why you needed Franz. You had me fooled for a while, but after that party I smelled a rat. That fellow you hired—Gustav? Not a very good double, my friend. And then there was that matter of the cheque, that little test I arranged for you. You failed that test, Max. It was most unlike you to steal money from a fellow writer. So then I had Franz investigated, and everything kept leading back to you.’
‘Investigated?’
‘I hired a detective,’ he said. Detectives. Now I knew that the police were a certainty. I stood up, thinking they must be outside. I saw no point in delaying the inevitable. I rushed to the door leading back to the wards, but it was locked. The police would in any case be more likely be waiting in the entrance hall, I reasoned. I crossed the room and tried that door, but it too was locked.
‘Where are they?’ I asked, rattling at the handle. ‘Do you have the key, or do they?’
‘Who?’
‘The police. I’m ready to go now, if I am to go.’ I banged on the door with the flat of my hand. ‘You can come in now,’ I called through the door.
Theodor gave a little laugh. ‘Police? Of course there are no police. Over a couple of hundred crowns?’ He laughed again. He stood and came over to me, and pulled me away from the door and back to the sofa.
‘No, no. Not because of the money. Of course I’ll pay you that. You can ask my father; he will give it to you immediately. No, because of Franz. In Berlin.’ I did not know how to put that night into words. I tried to get up again, but Theodor took both of my hands in his, and kept me sitting.
‘Max …’ He stared into my eyes. ‘Listen to me. There is no Franz. You are Franz. It was you. You wrote those stories. You just became ill.’
‘I am Franz? No.’ I had recovered from that delusion! I had to show that I had learned my lesson.
‘Yes, Max. You are. You are Franz. It’s alright. I can understand it.’ Theodor sounded very certain, and as much as I tried to deny it to myself, something in what he said rang true.
‘You mean,’ I said slowly, ‘that I am Franz?’ I hardly dared to say it aloud. ‘But then that night in Berlin …’ The memory of it had come back in extreme detail, and I shrank from it.
‘In Berlin? Yes, I heard from Pick that you had some kind of fit at a house in Berlin. Someone brought you here.’
I crouched on the sofa in horror, waiting for him to go on, to speak of murder, of death. I was too afraid to ask him.
‘Was there nothing else in Berlin?’ I asked in a whisper. ‘At—at the scene of the crime?’
‘Crime? Well, yes, I believe you broke into the house where you were discovered, but clearly you were at that time a sick man in need of help.’
Could I have dreamed it? The more I thought of that night, the more it did seem like a dream. I could see my fury, and my pain in that room in Berlin, but perhaps that was the most sinister thing that the room contained. Theodor’s words had calmed the deep agitation that had been there all the time.
‘I see now,’ I said, and I did see. I knew that Theodor was right, that it was true. And I too had been right. I was Franz. Now the picture was clear to me. It shifted into focus and a new landscape opened out before me. I had needed Franz to hide behind, to speak for me. But I had allowed him to become too real, too strong.
‘So now I’m coming to you with a proposition,’ Theodor said. ‘And I don’t want to hurt you by saying this, but Franz—I mean to say, you as Franz—is a success of a kind never seen before. I mean a once-in-a-generation success. I never even dreamed I could be part of something like this. What I wish to ask is this: when you come out of here, which I trust will be soon, will you keep writing as Franz?’
‘But Franz is dead,’ I said. And this was also true.
‘He is only dead if you want him to be.’
‘I do want him to be.’
Although Theodor’s words had flattered me, it was true: I was relieved to be rid of Franz. He had exhausted me, burned me up. Without him now I felt light and clean. And yet there was some hesitation. Theodor’s words had awakened in me that old desire for fame, for adulation. Even as I sat and declared Franz dead, as I felt the lightness of his absence, I could feel that little flame flickering, and I could almost taste the success that waited for me, so very close. All that I had ever wanted. Almost all.
‘But what do we do about the problem of the body?’ I asked. ‘I mean, I was paying for Gustav by the hour; it costs a fortune. And someone will find out sooner or later.’
Theodor was silent with concentration.
‘That’s easy,’ he said after a long pause. ‘You wanted Franz dead? Fine, we agree that Franz is dead. Tuberculosis. He was sent to a sanatorium, but tragically it was too late. That leaves the coast clear for you to be appointed his literary executor.’
‘Does anyone else know about this?’ I asked. ‘About me, I mean?’
‘Only you and I, my friend.’
Already I could feel the strength of that hunger growing, filling me with a fierce energy. I was strong and tall, made of burnished steel, hard, shining.
‘I need some time to consider,’ I said, but I had already decided, and I think he knew it.
28.
*SOON AFTER THEODOR’S VISIT I WAS DISCHARGED. LEAVING THE asylum at last, my thoughts were fixed on Anja. I allowed myself the luxury of dreams. I pictured a life with her, the two of us in her house in the Martinsgasse or some other place—in the country, perhaps. I would work and write; there would be children; she would be a kind mother. I knew that these dreams were a dangerous game, sharp-edged, but, heedless, I gorged myself on them.
The same day that I was discharged I went to Anja’s house. I had made the journey so many times in my imagination that when it came to actually walking down the Martinsgasse it was like being in a dream. The curtains were still drawn over the windows, even though it was late morning, and for a moment I felt as if I had travelled back in time and was reliving one of my many fruitless visits of so long ago.
The place was full of memories. As I rang the bell I remembered the concierge, my old enemy, who had refused to open the door to me. Now I almost had a feeling of affection for him, but he did not appear, and instead the door was opened by a strange man who waved me through to the stairs indifferently.
Instead of feeling nervous, as I had expected to, I floated up the staircase, euphoric. But this soon faded. The house was darker than I remembered and an unnerving smell lingered in the air. I arrived at the door; the landing on this floor was even darker than the staircase, surely much darker than it used to be. I could hear muffled footsteps in the apartment. My eye was caught by a dark mass attached to the door and at first I could not decipher what it might be, its shape was so indistinct in the gloom. It looked like one of those large bulbous fungi that grow on the trunks of some forest trees. I reached out to touch it, feeling a wave of revulsion as my fingers approached it, expecting a sticky coolness, a spongy cobweb texture, but my fingers instead found the dark shape to be soft and dry; velvet. Specks of dust had stuck to my fingers when I pulled my hand away. I realised that it was the large velvet bow on a wreath, a funeral wreath. I felt a wave of angry jealousy, as for one mad second I thought that the house was in mourning for Franz, but then an even more terrible thing occurred to me: what if it was Anja? The ground wheeled away from me and I had to steady myself against the wall for a moment before I started hammering at the door. Almost immediately the door was opened and the housemaid stood before me, wearing a black armband.
The housema
id’s face was blank and she did not appear to recognise me. She turned immediately to usher me through to the living room, before flitting off.
‘Anja?’ My voice followed her down the corridor, but she seemed not to hear. I paced around the living room, frantic at the thought that I might have lost Anja. I strained my ears for the sound of her voice, and my heart raced until I thought I might choke with anxiety. I forced myself to sit down and slow my breaths. I looked around the room, trying to distract myself. The apartment was completely different to how I had remembered it. In my memory it had seemed so grand, but now it was close and crowded with furniture, dimly lit by a single lamp. This contraction of size was partly caused by the drawn curtains, and I now saw that the mirrors were also shrouded in dark fabric.
The sight of them instantly reminded me of my brother. He had died when I was very young, too young to remember his death at all, but those covered mirrors remain a strong image of my childhood. While Otto’s death had not troubled me, the thought of losing Anja almost struck me down. Flashes of my idle dreams of a life with her came to me like taunts, and I had to fight back my tears.
Then came the sound of footsteps approaching the door: a woman’s step, slightly clicking, fast and light. The door opened and I saw a pale hand, and I could not tell if it was hers, though I thought of all the times I had watched Anja’s hands fluttering and unfolding like white butterflies. Then came an arm, black-clad, and a shoulder, and then there was Anja, in the room.
Unthinking, I launched myself out of the chair towards her, my arms outspread, the tears unchecked, but tears now of relief. I folded her, little Anja, in my arms, and I thought I would die of pleasure from her warm, small body, the smell of her hair. I smiled while the tears still sprang forth. I held her tight and presently noticed a throbbing in her body: sobs. She pulled away then and covered her face with her hands.
I remembered myself, and that she had suffered a death—her mother’s, perhaps.
‘Little Anja,’ I said. ‘I’m so sorry.’
She could not speak at first, and only nodded.
‘Every time I come into this room,’ she said in a choked voice, ‘I expect him still to be here, sitting in his chair.’ She looked over at the plush armchair by the fire, where Herr Železný had sat at our first meeting. And it was true that an air of expectancy hung about the chair, like the throne of a king awaiting the heir. And that heir—I could not stop the thought—could be me. My mind filled again with dream pictures of a life with her. I was a different man now to the one she had known; stronger, and worthy at last of her affection. It was hard to keep from laughing with joy at the thought that she could still be mine, and keep my countenance suitable for a house of mourning.
The door opened again and a man entered the room. He looked at me with a wary face.
‘Tomáš,’ Anja said, ‘this is my great friend Herr Brod, of whom you have heard so many stories.’
The man nodded, glaring at me.
‘Max, this is Herr Liška.’
My face turned to stone. So this was the man. Liška. Tall, muscular, with a clever face, he was worse than my most paranoid imaginings. I strained to keep my expression under control, to look welcoming and pleasant.
He came towards me with his hand outstretched. We shook hands and I could see him sizing me up, taking my measure, while I tried to place him. Was he here to make a bid for Anja, like me? Or had he already done so? And if that were the case, had he won or lost? We seemed to circle each other like two dogs.
‘Brod,’ he said. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you.’
I did not say, And I of you, but only, ‘Yes.’
He began pacing the room, his eyes on me the whole time. I tried to glean his position from Anja’s attitude. She seemed to make no overtures towards him, but neither did she seem to spurn him.
‘But it is a great shame to meet at such a sad occasion,’ he said. He stopped in front of Herr Železný’s chair. ‘Poor Anja has been out of her mind with grief. It’s good for her to have her friends around her at such a time.’
Friends? Did he mean he himself?
Then Liška held out his arm, beckoning, and Anja crossed the room to his side. He enfolded her casually in one arm and lightly kissed the top of her hair, his eyes on me. Then he sat down in Herr Železný’s chair, leaned back magisterially and regarded me.
Anja went over to the window and pulled back the curtain a small way to look out. Liška and I locked eyes, and I remembered doing the same with Herr Železný on my first visit here, but this time I did not let my eyes fall. How I hated Liška at that moment. After a few seconds Liška rose, saying, ‘I’m sure you two have much to talk over. Anja, I must go out, but I’ll be back in an hour.’
He nodded to me and left.
My dreams were nothing but dead things now, yet my mind could not yet accept this. I floundered for words, but Anja broke in. ‘Max, tell me of yourself. You have been so unwell, I know. I hope you have made a full recovery.’
I cursed myself for not having prepared a cover story to account for the time I had spent in the asylum.
‘Yes, I was ill. Trouble with my leg, you know. It plagues me sometimes. But I am now fully recovered. Indeed, I am much stronger than ever before.’
I knew this was feeble.
Anja made a wry face and came over to where I stood. She took one of my hands. ‘Max,’ she said, ‘you know I was there. In Berlin.’
I could hardly make sense of her words.
‘Do you remember that night?’ she asked.
The details of the night in Berlin came back again and I could still feel the traces of their savagery pulsing through my body.
‘I have memories of it. But I could not say I remember what happened.’
‘Well,’ Anja said, ‘you broke into our apartment—we don’t know how you got in—and, well, you had a kind of fit.’
How shameful, I thought, for her to have witnessed this. I tried to pull my hand away from hers, but she held on.
‘It was Papa who found you. He could see you were in trouble, and he called the doctors. We were so afraid for you.’
‘So you knew where I was this whole time?’ I asked. ‘Why did you never visit me?’
‘But I did visit you. Only you didn’t know who I was. You were insensible—drugged, I suppose. And then, after I had seen you, well, I became a coward. I felt so ashamed for having been one of those who put you in that place. It wasn’t my intention! I thought it would pass in a day or two. And then when it took so long I thought you could never forgive me.’
‘Of course I forgive you! Anja, I love you. That’s what I came here to tell you. Forget Liška! I suppose you two are engaged.’
It was an effort for those words to pass my lips, and I had to avert my eyes from her nod of assent.
‘But I know I love you more than Liška does. I can give you everything you want. Everything! I will do anything for you. You are my queen.’
I turned my eyes back on her face, hoping, hoping against hope, though I knew all was lost. Her eyes were sad. She took up my other hand and held both of my hands together in both of hers. Her skin was as cool and soft as in my dreams.
‘Oh, Max, I love you, I do.’
And so I came to hear those words that I had longed for from the moment I first saw her so long ago. But to hear them like this—hollow, pregnant with rejection—was worse than not hearing them at all. I could hear her ‘but’ hanging in the air long before it reached my ears.
‘But, Max, my love for you is the love for a brother.’
I could not speak, and only nodded. I closed my eyes over the tears and heard her say, ‘I know this is not the love you want, and I’m sorry. But perhaps this love I can give you is a greater kind of love than the other.’
Was this true?
I turned from her and left the house without saying anything. There was nothing to say. I walked, I do not know where, with no objective other than to keep moving, to keep my mus
cles propelling my body forward with the same repetitive motion. The familiar buildings pressed in on me, I could feel them leaning over me, surrounding me. People passed by, someone called my name, and then the river was in front of me and I came to a stop. I looked along it, at the other bridges and the weight of all that water flowing quietly past, and my face there, quivering, on the moving surface.
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* This section of the manuscript is written on unlined letter paper. The pages were folded and found in the centre of the booklet containing the previous section.
Editor’s afterword
A NUMBER OF PHOTOGRAPHS AND PHOTOGRAPHIC NEGATIVES were also uncovered among the Kafka papers. These have been dated, and range from the years 1908 to 1924. Unfortunately, many of them have been severely damaged and are decayed beyond the point of restoration.
Many of the photographs will be immediately familiar to Kafka scholars and enthusiasts, but some hitherto unseen images were also uncovered. Most of the photographs include Kafka, but there are several individuals who are yet to be identified. One photograph, which has been dated to 1911, is proving particularly challenging. It has sustained some water damage, but the image is still discernible. In the photograph, Brod is easily recognisable, and he is pictured with a group of young men whose names are not noted. A note on the back of the photograph, in Brod’s handwriting, is the caption: ‘Self-portrait 1910.’
During the processing of the papers, the image was sent to various international Kafka scholars* to ascertain whether Kafka was present among the group. The response has caused some confusion, as various scholars have responded with conflicting identifications of Kafka. Professor Wilhelm Herrmann at Berlin’s Humboldt University and Professor Eric Goldbaum from Charles University in Prague have both independently identified all the men surrounding Brod in the photograph as Kafka. The matter has been referred to the forensics team for further investigation. The complete collection of images will be made available online.
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The Lost Pages Page 21