by Franz Kafka
Karl looked hard at Green, and he saw that shame at his unmasking was struggling in him with joy at the success of his project. Finally he pulled himself together and said in a tone as if he were cutting off Karl in mid-flow, though he had been silent for some time: ‘Not another word,’ and propelled Karl, who had taken up his suitcase and umbrella, through a little door which he had pushed open for him.
Karl stood in the open, astonished. A flight of stairs without a railing led downwards. He needed only to go down it, and then turn right on to the avenue which led to the road. In the bright moonlight it was impossible to go wrong. Down in the garden he heard the barking of dogs running around in the shadow of the trees. There was silence otherwise, so that one could hear the sound of their impacts on the grass as they leapt about.
Without being molested by these dogs, Karl emerged from the garden. He couldn’t say with any certainty in which direction New York lay, on the way here he had paid little attention to details which might have been useful to him now. Finally he told himself he didn’t necessarily have to go to New York where no one was expecting him, and one person definitely was not. So he chose a direction at random, and set off.
4
THE MARCH TO RAMSES
In the little inn that Karl reached after a short walk, which was actually the last little way-station for vehicular traffic to New York, and was thus rarely used for overnighting, Karl asked for the cheapest billet available, because he thought he had to start economizing right away. The landlord accordingly ushered him, like an employee, up the stairs, where a dishevelled old baggage, annoyed at having her sleep disturbed, received him and almost without listening to him, with incessant instructions to him to tread softly, led him to a room, and breathing one last ‘Ssh!’ at him, shut the door after him.
At first Karl wasn’t sure whether it was because the curtains were drawn, or the room had no windows, it was so dark; at last he noticed a small dormer window, he drew away the cloth veiling it, and a little light entered the room. It had two beds in it, but both were already occupied. Karl saw a couple of young fellows lying fast asleep in them. They struck him as untrustworthy, not least because for no obvious reason they were both sleeping in their clothes, one of them even in his boots.
Just when Karl pulled aside the curtain, one of the sleepers raised his arms and legs in the air a little, which looked so ridiculous that Karl, for all his worries, had to laugh silently to himself.
He soon saw that, apart from the lack of anywhere else to sleep, no sofa, no couch, he wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway, because he couldn’t expose his newly returned suitcase and the money he carried on him to any danger. Nor did he want to leave, because he didn’t think he could slip past the woman and the landlord and leave the building unnoticed. But surely he wouldn’t be at greater risk here than on the open road. There was, though, as far as he could tell in the half-light, a striking absence of any other luggage in the room. Perhaps the likeliest solution was that these two were house-servants, who would have to get up soon to look after the guests, and therefore slept in their clothes. In which case he wasn’t in particularly prestigious company, but at least he was safe. But so long as there was any doubt about it, he mustn’t go to sleep.
At the foot of one of the beds was a candle and matches, which Karl crept over and got. He felt no compunction about striking a light, because the landlord had given the room to him as much as to the two others, and they had already enjoyed half a night’s sleep, and had the inestimable advantage of being in beds anyway. He did, though, by moving and behaving cautiously, make every effort not to wake them.
First he wanted to examine his suitcase to take a look at his belongings, of which he only had a vague memory, and of which the most valuable were surely already gone. Because once Schubal lays his hand on something, there’s little chance of getting it back in its original condition. Admittedly, he probably stood to get a large tip from the uncle, and the blame for any individual missing items he could always pin on the original minder of the suitcase, Mr Butterbaum.
When he opened the suitcase Karl was appalled by what met his eyes. All those hours he had spent during the crossing, packing and repacking it, and now everything was crammed in in such a higgledy-piggledy fashion that the lid flew up when he opened the catch. But Karl soon saw to his joy that the sole cause of all this disorder was the fact that the suit he had worn during the crossing, and for which of course the suitcase had not allowed had been crammed in afterwards. Nothing at all was missing. In the secret pocket of his jacket there was not only his passport but also the money he had brought from home, so that, when Karl added it to what he already had on him, he was for the moment plentifully provided with money. The linen he’d been in on his arrival was also there, washed and ironed. He immediately put his wristwatch and money into the tried and tested secret pocket. The only lamentable circumstance was that the Verona salami, which was not missing either, had imparted its smell to everything in the suitcase. If that couldn’t be removed by some means, Karl faced the prospect of going around for the next several months shrouded in that smell.
As he looked out a few items in the very bottom of the suitcase, a pocket Bible, letter paper and photographs of his parents, his cap slipped off his head and into the suitcase. In its old setting he recognized it at once, it was his cap, the cap his mother had given him as a travelling cap. He had been careful not to wear it on board ship, as he knew that in America caps are generally worn in place of hats, and he hadn’t wanted to wear his out before he even got there. Now Mr Green had used it to amuse himself at Karl’s expense. Had his uncle put him up to that too? And in an unintentionally furious movement he banged the lid of the suitcase, which clicked loudly shut.
There was nothing for it now, both sleepers had been woken by this. At first one of them stretched and yawned, and then the other. And almost the entire contents of his suitcase were spread out on the table, if they were thieves they needed only to make their way to it and help themselves. Not just to pre-empt this possibility, but also to establish a few facts, Karl went over to their beds, candle in hand, and explained his right to be there. They seemed not to have expected any such explanation, and, far too tired to speak, they just stared at him without being taken aback in the slightest. They were both very young fellows, but hard work or hunger had made the bones stand out prematurely in their faces, they had scruffy beards on their chins, their long-uncut hair was rumpled on their heads, and in their sleepiness they rubbed and pressed their knuckles against their deep-set eyes.
In order to exploit their momentary weakness, Karl said: ‘My name is Karl Rossmann, and I am German. Since we are sharing this room together, please tell me your names and nationalities. I would like to assure you that I have no interest in claiming a bed, since I arrived late, and I do not in fact intend to sleep. Please do not be misled by my good suit, I am very poor and have no prospects.’
The shorter of the two – he was the one with his boots on – intimated with his arms, legs and general demeanour that none of this had any interest for him, and that this was no time for such a palaver, lay down and was asleep at once: the other, a dark-skinned fellow also lay down again, but before going to sleep he casually waved his hand: ‘That’s Robinson and he’s Irish, my name’s Delamarche, I’m French, and now goodnight.’ No sooner had he said this than with a huge breath he blew out Karl’s candle, and fell back on his pillow.
‘So that danger has been averted for the time being,’ Karl told himself, and went back to the table. Unless their sleepiness was feigned, all was well. Too bad that one of them had to be Irish. Karl couldn’t quite remember what book at home had warned him to beware of Irishmen in America. His stay with his uncle would have given him an excellent opportunity of going into the question of the dangers of Irishmen, but because he’d thought himself in security for good, he had neglected to do that. Now he at least wanted to take a closer look at the Irishman, with the candle that he had re-lit,
and found that he looked if anything more palatable than the Frenchman. There was still a trace of roundness in his cheeks, and he had a friendly smile as he slept, as far as Karl could make out standing on tiptoe some way away.
For all that, still determined not to sleep, Karl sat down on the one chair in the room, put off the repacking of his suitcase, for which he had the rest of the night, and leafed around in his Bible without reading it. Then he picked up the photograph of his parents, in which his little father stood very tall, while his mother sat shrunken in the armchair in front of him. One of his father’s hands was on the back of the armchair, the other, making a fist, rested on an illustrated book which was open on a fragile ornamental table beside him. There was another photograph that depicted Karl and his parents together, one in which his father and mother were both glaring at him, while he had been instructed by the photographer to look into the camera. But then he hadn’t been allowed to take that photograph with him on the journey.
The more minutely he now examined the one in front of him and tried to catch his father’s gaze from various angles. But try as he might, even moving the candle to different points, his father refused to become any more alive, his heavy horizontal moustache didn’t look anything like the real thing, it wasn’t a good photograph. His mother had been better caught, her mouth downdrawn as though she’d suffered some injury, and forcing a smile. Karl thought that that must be so obvious to anyone looking at the picture, that a moment later, it seemed to him that it was too blatant and actually illogical. How could a picture give one an irresistible sense of the concealed feelings of its subject. And he looked away from the photograph for a while. When he looked at it again he was struck by his mother’s hand, dangling from an armrest in the very foreground of the picture, close enough to kiss. He wondered whether he shouldn’t after all write to his parents, as both of them had demanded, his father with particular sternness in Hamburg, at the end. Admittedly he had vowed to himself that terrible evening when his mother had told him that he would be going to America, irrevocably, that he would never write, but what did the vow of an inexperienced boy count in these new circumstances. He might just as well have vowed that after two months in America he would be a general in the American army, whereas in fact he was sharing an attic room with a couple of tramps, in an inn outside New York, and moreover, he had to concede that this was just the right place for him. Smilingly he interrogated his parent’s faces, as though one might tell from them if they still craved news of their son.
So looking, he soon noticed that he was in fact very tired, and would scarcely be able to stay awake all night. The photograph slipped from his hands, he laid his face against it so that its coolness soothed his cheek, and with that pleasant sensation he fell asleep.
In the morning a tickling in his armpit woke him up. It was the Frenchman who permitted himself this intimacy. But the Irishman too was standing by Karl’s table, and they were both looking at him with as keen an interest as Karl had shown in them the night before. Karl wasn’t surprised that their getting up hadn’t woken him; their quietness didn’t necessarily imply any evil intent on their part, because he had been in a deep sleep, and they clearly hadn’t taken too much trouble dressing or, for that matter, washing.
They now greeted each other properly and with a certain formality, and Karl learned that the two of them were fitters who had been out of work for a long time in New York, and so were pretty much on their uppers. By way of demonstration, Robinson opened his jacket and one could see he had no shirt on underneath, which one might also have concluded from the loose fit of his collar, which was attached to his jacket at the back. They were on their way to the little town of Butterford, two days’ walk from New York, where apparently there were jobs to be had. They had no objection to Karl joining them, and promised him firstly that they would carry his suitcase some of the time, and secondly, if they should get jobs themselves, to get him a place as a trainee, which, if there was any work going at all, would be a simple matter. No sooner had Karl agreed to this, than they were counselling him to take off his good suit, which would only be a disadvantage to him in looking for a job. In fact, there was a good opportunity to get rid of it here and now, because the cleaning woman ran a clothes stall. They helped Karl, who wasn’t altogether convinced in the matter of the suit, to get out of it, and they took it away. As Karl, alone now and still a little groggy with sleep, slowly got into his old suit, he reproached himself for selling the other which might disadvantage him in applying for a traineeship, but could only be of assistance in the search for a better sort of job, and he opened the door to call the two of them back, but there they were already, laying half a dollar as the proceeds of the sale on the table, but looking so pleased with themselves that it was impossible not to believe that they hadn’t also earned their share from the sale, and an irritatingly large one at that.
There was no time to argue because the cleaner came in, every bit as sleepy as she’d been in the night, and ushered them all out into the corridor, on the grounds that the room had to be got ready for new guests, a specious reason of course, it was pure malice on her part. Karl, who had just wanted to put his suitcase in order, was compelled to look on as the woman gathered up his things in both hands and slung them into the suitcase with such force, as if they were wild animals being brought to heel. The two fitters danced around her, plucked at her skirts, patted her on the back, but if their purpose was to help Karl, it had the opposite effect. When the woman had shut the suitcase she pushed the handle into Karl’s hand, shook off the fitters and drove them all out of the room, threatening them with no coffee if they didn’t leave. The woman seemed to have completely forgotten that Karl hadn’t been with the fitters all along, because she treated them all as one band, although the fitters had sold Karl’s suit, which did at least imply a certain, common purpose.
They had to walk up and down the corridor for a long time, and the Frenchman in particular, who had linked arms with Karl, was swearing incessantly, threatening to punch the landlord to the ground if he should show his face, a moment he seemed to be preparing for by furiously grating his fists together. At last an innocent little boy came along, who had to get up on tiptoe to hand the Frenchman the coffee can. Unfortunately there was only that one can available, and the boy couldn’t be made to understand that glasses were wanted as well. So only one person could drink at a time, and the other two had to stand and watch. Karl didn’t want any, but not wanting to offend the others, he raised the can to his lips when it was his turn, but didn’t drink from it.
When it was finished, the Irishman tossed the can on to the flagstones and they left the inn unseen by anyone, and walked out into a thick yellowish morning fog. For the most part they walked abreast and in silence along the side of the road, Karl had to carry his suitcase, the others probably wouldn’t relieve him without being asked, the occasional automobile shot out of the fog, and all three turned their heads towards these cars, which were usually enormous, and so striking in appearance and so fleetingly present there was no time to notice whether they had any occupants or not. A little later, the columns of vehicles bringing food to New York started up, and in five lanes that took up the whole breadth of the road, they rolled by so solidly that no one could get across. From time to time the road widened out into a square, in the middle of which on a tower-like elevation a policeman strode up and down, directing everything and ordering the traffic on the main road and the side roads too, which then remained unsupervised until the next square and the next policeman, but was voluntarily kept in sufficient order by the silent and watchful coachmen and drivers. It was the prevailing calm of it all that most surprised Karl. Had it not been for the cries of the carefree animals going to the abattoirs, perhaps nothing would have been heard save the clatter of hooves and the hissing of the tyres. Although of course, the speed was anything but constant. At some of the junctions, because of the excessive pressure of traffic from the side roads, extensive rearrangements
had to be undertaken, whole columns would grind to a halt, and only inch forward, but it also happened that for a while everything would hurtle past at lightning speeds, until, as though stopped by a single brake, it was all becalmed once more. The road didn’t throw up a single speck of dust, the air remained crystal clear. There were no pedestrians, no market women making their way into town, as existed in Karl’s home, but there were some large flat-backed automobiles, carrying up to twenty women at a time, all with baskets on their backs, perhaps they were market-women after all, craning their necks to see the traffic, and hoping to make faster progress. There were also automobiles of a similar type on which a few men rode, strolling about with their hands in their pockets. On one of these automobiles, which bore various inscriptions, Karl gave a little cry when he read: ‘Dock workers hired for Jakob’s shipping company’. The car was just travelling very slowly and a short, bowed, lively man beckoned to the three travellers to come on board. Karl took refuge behind the fitters, as though his uncle might be on the car and see him, and he was relieved when the others refused the invitation, although their arrogant expressions when they did so somewhat offended him. They shouldn’t think themselves too good to work for his uncle. He immediately gave them to understand as much, although in veiled terms. Thereupon Delamarche told him not to concern himself in matters he didn’t understand, that way of hiring people was a shameful swindle and Jakob’s company was notorious throughout the whole of the United States. Karl made no reply, but from now on he inclined to the Irishman and asked him to carry his suitcase for a while, which, after Karl had repeated his request a few times, he did. Only he complained incessantly about the weight of the suitcase until it became clear that all he had in mind was to lighten it of the Verona salami, which had already drawn his favourable attention in the hotel. Karl was made to unpack it, the Frenchman took possession of it, set about it with a sabre-like knife, and ate almost the whole thing. Robinson was given the occasional slice, while Karl, who was left to carry the suitcase again if it wasn’t to be abandoned on the highway, got nothing at all, as though he had already had his portion in advance. It seemed too petty to him to beg for a bit of it now, but it did gall him.