Why am I here? You’re looking for keys. Keys? Yes, keys to release you from your prison
Stan had been preparing for this trip for a long time. An avid reader of Franz Kafka, he finally wanted to make a pilgrimage to the great writer’s grave. He was going to sit on a bench near the great writer’s grave and meditate. He wanted to soak in the mood of the old cemetery as he observed the dusty chestnut trees and the well-trodden paths, as he sensed the grief of centuries.
Stan was a Prague native, and he had visited the city a few times during his Canadian exile. All his visits were short. A few beers with friends, a pastry in a café, the standard tourist jaunts which held no interest for him. He could take no more than a few hours with his old gang. Following his long-ago departure, their lives had assumed the expected trajectories: marriages, kids, mortgages, divorces. Time had not stood still for Stan, and he was irritated by their unthinking assumptions. They would all sit and reminisce in one Prague tavern or another and his mates would yammer on as if he were still the boy they had known decades before. As if he cared about the fate of his 8th Grade classmates. Josef was an architect, Pavel was a vet, Jan lived in Brno with his mistress, and freckled, short-haired Maria was on her third marriage, drank too much. Rumor had it her daughter was a call-girl in Hamburg. Beer waiters performed their well-orchestrated dance, smacking fresh mugs of Pilsner on tables, creamy snow-white foam overflowing the rim. The conversation got faster and louder, as the steins were emptied. Stan cared for none of that. He leaned back, the corners of his mouth raised in a slight smile. He sipped his beer, and never said much. He suspected his friends considered him as snob.
The reasons for Stan’s previous visits were simple: he felt a constant need to reconnect with the city. Throughout his Canadian exile, he thought of the steep streets of the Lesser Quarter leading up to the Castle almost daily. Or the banks of the river in wintertime, coated with snow as fine as powdered sugar. He dreamed of the hills sloping down from the Castle, intense fragrance of lilac in the air in the spring months. His reverie would take him to Prague in autumn, when the city was grey with intermittent drizzle dripping off brown naked trees, hungry sparrows pecking on slippery sidewalks. But it was always the city, never the people.
Once Stan began reading Kafka, he was struck by how much of the city’s atmosphere was contained in his works. He came away from reading Kafka a changed man. Not only were there no answers contained in the master’s books – one wasn’t even sure what the questions were. There was mystery and dread, confusion, elements of farce in Kafka’s world which echoed in Stan’s innermost life. It was comforting in some way that this genius writer who belonged to the city of Stan’s birth, portrayed a world that resonated with so many. Stan did not know precisely what the reasons were for this literary echo that had traveled generations. There was one constant – both in the books and in many of Stan’s own dreams - a tacit assumption of guilt over transgressions long forgotten or, more alarmingly, transgressions that had never happened
“You can’t go away when you’re under arrest.” “That’s how it seems,” said K. “And why am I under arrest?” he then asked. “That’s something we’re not allowed to tell you. Go into your room and wait there. Proceedings are underway and you’ll learn about everything all in good time”
Stan arrived in Prague at the end of November. The airport cab driver was chatty – they always were. Stan just wanted to sit back and watch the approach to the city, the freezing drizzle, the huddled, flitting shadows on the sidewalks. But the driver yammered away: “Been away for long? Doesn’t seem like it. Your Czech is perfect. No accent at all. The other day I picked up another Czech guy from America. Terrible. Could hardly put three words together. Atrocious accent. I guess some people don’t give a shit. Bail out, forget their homeland. So many people do that. Get out of here. I would too if I could. Three kids. Can’t just pick up and leave.” The driver paused and they rode in silence for a minute or two. “Look at the weather. Not fit for a dog” The driver scratched his chin. An unlit cigarette was stuck to his lower lip. Years ago, he would have been puffing away but like everywhere else, smoking went out of fashion. “We keep our taxis clean and smoke-free” read the little sign on the door. “Do you mind if I roll down the window just a crack?”, he said. “It’s freezing out, but a bit of fresh air would be nice. You live in Florida?” Stan had no idea why Florida would be the first American location to be on the driver’s mind. The weather contrast, probably “No, I live in Montreal. No stranger to this weather. In fact, it’s a lot colder than here. Snowstorm last night as I was leaving!” The driver nodded. “Canada’s a great place. Not like here. This place is so corrupt. Our President has to ask the Chinese when he needs to use the bathroom…which is often!” He chuckled. “Believe me, Czechs would sell their grandmother to just be left alone, drink a half-liter with a nice foamy head and have a juicy hot-dog to bite into. No stand-up people left in this country. No morals. No manners. No backbone.” He paused and sighed. “No fucking backbone”
Traffic thickened as they entered the city. Stan felt a familiar chill. He felt a living connection with the fin de siècle buildings, the busy streets, even the bare November trees. November trees symbolize Prague’s historic sadness: naked branches, tatty looking sparrows barely hanging on to the slippery bark. Shorn of foliage, they accentuated the greyness of the skies. Heavy frozen raindrops drummed like bullets through the denuded tree crowns. The sadness was acute, almost approaching a sense of dread. Is this the kind of dread K would have felt during his arrest, ruminating about his forgotten transgressions? The sorrow, a part and parcel of the season, spoke to Stan directly. Yet so did the fragrance of lilac in May which celebrated rebirth and possibility. So did the snows of January: they had a natural joy about them. Children throwing snowballs and laughing, dogs wagging tails, burrowing their noses in snowbanks, and barking with sheer delight. Stan always thought it weird how most people despised January. The lights of Christmas gone, the presents discarded, the decoration put away, January seemed dire and dismal. But Stan didn’t care for Christmas, the phony mirth, asinine songs on a loop in every store. January was as much of a true beginning as May, more so in fact. January was a wake-up call, a time to get things done. January was the month most capable of imparting meaning: work had to be done, tasks accomplished. The May rebirth smelled much sweeter, but a natural misanthrope never forgets there is already a hint of autumn in the far distance, just enough to temper the sweetness.
The cab pulled up in front of the hotel. Stan tipped the driver generously and waved to him: “Hey, if you need the bathroom, come in and use the one in the lobby. No need to ask the Chinese for permission!” The cabbie laughed out loud, waved back, and turned his Nissan around. Stan recalled the Russian made cabs of his childhood, the Volga and the Moskvitch models, loud, gas guzzling beasts. Powerful machines that feared no snow drift. Not known for a sleek profile or elegance, they were roomy, warm, and comfortable on the inside. Built for Moscow winters.
Stan checked in and walked up to his room. The old hotel had no elevator. The staircase was narrow and utterly incapable of accommodating a traveler with more luggage. Stan traveled light: a carry-on with a change of underwear and socks, a couple of books, a razor, pants and two shirts. He figured that buying a pair of pajamas, or a shirt locally was cheaper than the cost and hassle of checking suitcases.
His room was furnished for bare-bones comfort and decorated in the mid 60’s IKEA style so beloved by European designers. Stan was perfectly happy with the spare décor and the narrow bed, its headrest abutting the wall, inches under a large window. The view was perfect: a winding side-street with a row of late 19th century houses, streetlights affixed to posts that had sported gas lamps until well into the twentieth century. Back in Stan’s youth the houses were grimy, with cracked and fading plaster but they had been restored to their original glory since the Communist regime collapsed. Slow freezing rain was falling, the street was deserted. Stan was hungry but jet lag got the better of him. He pulled a well-worn copy of The Trial out of his suitcase, kicked off his shoes and lay down. The wind had changed directions, carrying the heavy drops sideways and they on the window with an incessant rhythm. Late November darkness was descending on the city.
“Someone must have been telling lies about Josef K., he knew he had done nothing wrong but, one morning, he was arrested”
Stan dozed off instantly and drifted into a clammy, anxious dream. He stood outside the hotel, a steep narrow alley stretching before him. Though he could not actually see the Castle, he knew the sloping street led all the way up to it. It was snowing, and Stan was still only wearing his travel pants and deck shoes. He felt an irresistible pull. He started walking up the narrow street to the Castle. Every step was hard work. His knees hurt as he pushed through the accumulating snow. A few windows were lit but he was the only person out in the storm. The street was lit by ancient gas lamps that created a cone of hazy light reaching only a foot or two beyond the post. The street remained submerged in darkness, but the gas lamps provided useful guideposts. Stan trudged through the snow from lamp post to lamp post, perhaps twenty yards each time. Stan's shoes and socks were soaked. Despite the freezing weather, he sweated profusely as he made his way step by heavy step, from one gas lamp to the next. He panted and wheezed with the effort, soon the snow was halfway to his knees. "I must be almost there," he thought. “How many lamp posts has it been? Twenty? Thirty? Can’t be too far now!” There was no way of knowing. The castle could not be seen. He stopped to catch his breath bent and leaned on one of the lamp posts. He turned around. All he expected to see was a dark street, snowflakes, and his footsteps on the snowy sidewalk. What he saw instead shook him to the core. There were no footsteps, no gas lamps. He was standing in front of his hotel! How was that possible? He had been walking for twenty minutes at least! He should have been at the top of the street. His legs were heavy, his shoes soaked. He was out of breath. Rivulets of cold sweat froze to his cheeks. His eyelashes were caked with frost. There was a purple tinge on everything. He was shivering. "Why am I here? I never turned around! I kept walking up,” he cried"
Nothing made sense. Should he walk back up to his room, take off his shoes and socks, dry his feet and rest? No, he could not do that! The Castle was still there, up on the hill, at the end of the long narrow alley, somewhere up there in the clouds heavy with snow. He turned back around and was about to begin his climb again, from gas lamp to gas lamp, through knee-deep snow, determined that this time he would reach the top. It had to be accomplished now, tonight. He had to see the Castle tonight, wet socks and shoes, frozen tears of struggle on his cheeks. He only took a few steps, a few slow, sloshy, breathless steps when he noticed something inside the light cone of the nearest streetlamp. It was a silhouette of a man, a thin man in an overcoat and a businessman bowler hat, a man with a prominent nose and protruding ears. The man, the silhouette, wasn’t standing in the street. He levitated a few inches off the ground, the outlines of his face and clothing visible in the foggy yellow light. Stan tried to speed up to get a better look. He rubbed his eyes with the wet sleeve of his jacket to get rid of the purple glow that marred his vision. And then he heard the mysterious vision suddenly speak. The man spoke perfect Czech with only a slight bit of a German accent: “What are you doing out on this freezing, snowy night, Stanislav? Why not stay in your cozy room?” Considering he was being addressed by a phantom hovering three feet above the ground, it was peculiar that what Stan registered first was the form of address. No one had called him “Stanislav” since his father had passed away many years before. “I need to reach the Castle tonight, Franz. I know it’s up there. I have already walked a good distance but…I have no idea why…it’s as if I have not made any progress at all…I’m still standing in the hotel entrance.” “Don’t be silly, Stanislav. Who wants to see the Castle at night? You can’t visit any of the important halls, or the galleries, definitely not the cathedral. How do you even know this non-descript little alley even leads up to the Castle? And look at the way you’re dressed! You’ll catch pneumonia. Just forget about it, Stanislav. Turn on your heel, get back up to your room, my friend!” Kafka – for that is who the phantom was - said the last two words with a benevolent smile. “Nonsense, Franz! I’ve come all this way, I’ll keep going. Snow or no snow, wet shoes or barefoot. I will get up to the Castle tonight.” “Fine, then. I see you’re a stubborn one. I won’t stand in your way. But before you continue, let me say a few words.” The silhouette hovered a few feet higher. Now Kafka’s face was clearly visible, as was his slightly shabby suit and black boots. “You have come to see me, haven’t you? You wanted to understand me, my fears, my innermost feelings. You’re not the only one. There can’t be many writers whose names spawned their own adjective? In this city every little absurdity, every little bureaucratic tangle is instantly called ‘Kafkaesque’”. Kafka chuckled: “Life is one huge bundle of complexity. The passport office that requires a hundred obscure documents to process your request? Kafkaesque. The absurd tax rules and regulations, the maze of edicts – most definitely Kafkaesque. But societies are complicated because we are. Our hearts want one thing, our parents another. Our wives are determined to own a big house, we want to live in a shack. Our souls yearn to be free, Stanislav, but we struggle to define that freedom. We erect a thousand barriers, then pay a thousand shrinks to tear them down. It’s all Kafkaesque. It’s just a question of degree. All my short life, everything seemed like a battle. The battle I had with my father shaped all the other battles to come. And then I died, just as I was truly starting to understand my life’s purpose and falling in love with Dora more and more each day.” Kafka paused. The silhouette grew fainter. Stan was afraid he was losing him and yelled: “Franz! Franz! Tell me more!” The echo of his shouts bounced off the old stone buildings, and died quickly, muffled by the snow. Stan looked ahead, straining his eyes. The figure was almost gone. All that remained was a bluish afterglow. But then, suddenly it reappeared, even higher off the ground than before. “Look, Stanislav. The Castle is irrelevant. It may be up there, or it may not. What’s important is for you to get back up to your room, get the fireplace going and dry your clothes. The receptionist has a bottle of nice Scotch behind the counter, ask him to pour you a glass. Yes, I know everything about this street, about this whole neighborhood, my friend.” Kafka paused. “I thought I hated my father. But was that the root of my problems – or was it my inability to ask the right questions? Does every person do the best they can? Or do they do just enough to get from one day to the next? Look what transpired…my two brothers died. My sisters were murdered by the Nazis, may they roast forever in the fires of hell. And my best friend Max Brod betrayed my wishes and published my work. If not for the betrayal, neither one of us would be here, on this dark freezing night. Don’t climb up snowy streets, huffing and sweating, half-blind, looking for something you don’t know is there. Believe me. My whole life and all my works were about that very experience. Too Kafkaesque for words. Go back in and enjoy a nice glass of Glenfiddich. Very few of those in these parts.”
And with those words, Kafka was gone. The cone of pale-yellow light remained. It stopped snowing. No tomb could have been quieter than that steep, narrow street at that moment. Stan grabbed the handle of the heavy oak door to his hotel. He called for the receptionist but there was no one in the lobby which seemed even colder than the street had been. And that’s when Stan woke up, his teeth clattering, his blanket on the floor, his window open and the radiator stone cold.
He rolled off the bed and, half-asleep, pulled out a sweater from his carry-on and walked downstairs. The receptionist didn’t have a bottle of Glenfiddich but he offered to brew a cup of tea.
“Should be a much nicer day tomorrow,” the receptionist said. “You didn’t exactly pick the best season to visit!” “I’m from here, I know that” Stan said defensively. “I like Prague in the fall. Not many tourists around and the vibe is perfect if you want to indulge your depression,” Stan said it with a smile to indicate he was joking but the receptionist took it at face value. “You’re right. The old buildings here, the constant wetness, it’s damn depressing. I was in New York last year around this time of year. Sure, it was cold, but the sun was shining the whole time. I’d get out of here in a minute if I could.” The receptionist was the second person saying he’d leave “if he could”. Stan smirked. He thought to himself: when people say, “I can’t leave”, they mean “I don’t want to because it’s hard work.”
Stan took his tea upstairs. He unpacked the rest of his belongings and put them in the wobbly looking IKEA hutch. He splashed some water on his face – the cold-water faucet was on the left, old style. He lay back on the bed. There was nothing to do. He was exhausted. The dream had raised his anxiety. He reached for his bottle of Xanax and popped one. Within 20 minutes he was asleep again. No dreams this time. The night passed slowly in the small hotel that smelled of old plumbing and stale smoke. Time continued flowing as heavy as it always had in the city of magnanimous kings, brilliant rabbis, child pickpockets and a brilliant German speaking writer who had made his Czech speaking native town world-famous because his friend, a scribe of much more minor talent, did not obey the great writer’s dying wish and did not burn all his manuscripts.
Stan stayed in the city for a few more days. He did visit Kafka’s grave as planned and sat on a cemetery bench, hunched over against the November wind. His dream never left his head. He went over everything the ghost said many times but failed to see a message of any great importance beyond what he already knew…the desire to climb up through snow and slush to see the Castle was not real. It was just a feeling, such as one is bound to get in heavy dreams induced by jet lag and extreme fatigue.
He saw some of his old friends despite having promised himself not to prior to his journey. He was in a constant foul mood when in their presence and he thought about Jung’s bon-mot, “Everything that irritates us about others can lead us to an understanding of ourselves” No clear understanding presented itself. He preferred to be back in his hotel room, where he’d sip tea, watching skinny sparrows on the cobble stones outside his window. “I feel peace here, in this crummy hotel, by myself, sipping sweet hot tea, watching hungry birds. I could do that in Montreal, but it would not be the same. Here – I’m at one with the city and feel complete, to use a trite phrase. Just me, my hot beverage and those ancient cobble stones glistening in the freezing rain” He knew many fellow ex-pats in Montreal. They missed the old country. But they missed the food, their families, their friends. They missed mushroom picking forays. They missed the deep pine forests. Stan didn’t need any of that. He was content gazing into the greyness, nursing his hot cup and imagining Franz Kafka, beat up leather briefcase under his arm, wearing his bowler hat, on his way to the office. The constant tension between the inscrutability of life in the city with its merciless vast bureaucracy and yet - the utter calm of the familiarity, of being one with history, a speck of driftwood floating on the heavy river of time in the city of magnanimous kings, brilliant rabbis, and child pickpockets.
When Stan arrived back in Montreal, the city was covered in fresh snow. Heavy, St. Lawrence River snow, always followed by fierce gusts of arctic wind and temperatures so cold, they froze your mind. Like vodka straight out of a freezer, the brain would produce a slow, syrupy trickle of lazy, unfocused thinking on those frigid days. Stan took a cab to his apartment, turned on the TV and opened up the radiator full blast. Even though he could never come back whole – a piece of him having forever been left in the old city – it was nice to be in his spacious mid-century apartment, overlooking Mount Royal dressed in white and watching beautiful Quebecoise ladies battle the gusts in long mink coats. Montreal women acknowledged the climate by wearing fur, but they never forgot that looking elegant was their first duty. Stan threw his carry-on on the bed and unpacked his few items. And there, right at the very bottom he found something odd. Something he didn’t own, something he never would have packed. Crumpled, shabby, a black bowler hat. Stan’s heart raced. He took the hat out and looked inside, under the silk ribbon that ran around the rim.
“Paul Guttfreund, Hutmacher, Feine Herrenmode, Prag, 1905”
(header poster © J. Votruba)
That was beautiful. Thank you.