He scratched his chin. “Which one what? What do you mean which one?”
“There is another K. It could also be Danny.”
“Who is this Danny?”
“An American comedian and film star.”
“I do not know him… That is so strange. ‘But which one?’”
“Mr. Graf, may I… I’m staying in Prague for several weeks. May I invite you to lunch one day and we can talk some more?”
“I will be so happy.” He put his hand into his jacket pocket and withdrew a raggedy-edged business card. He said, “Here is my veezeet kart,” as they do in most European countries.
“Thank you,” I said. I noted that Graf was his family name, but I wasn’t going to question him now on that.
Karoly Graf stepped back into the doorway. “And now, if you will excuse me, I will proceed upstairs again.”
“Before you go, one quick question, for which I hope you will pardon me, but I come from the Show-Me State…”
“Where is exact geographic locale of this Shawmee state?”
I thought he was pulling my leg or being sarcastic. But he wasn’t. I regretted using such a thoroughgoing Americanism with a man who had no doubt learned English here from books.
“It’s just an expression that means, prove it. Show me. You see, you know you are K’s son. I know you’re K’s son. But how will you prove it to others?”
And I immediately regretted my crass remark. But once words are uttered it is impossible to withdraw them.
He looked hurt, the old man. I felt bad I had insulted him. As if I had violated his essence, gone into his very being and extracted a dime-sized gland that comprised who he was in this world. He was pale. Perhaps no one had ever confronted him in this manner before.
“Do you…” he said in a voice that trembled, “…do you have to prove to others that you are your father’s son?”
I wanted to be nice. I wanted to be kind. I did feel sorry. I had the urge to be sympathetic to this tall, thin man with hollow cheeks, stubble on his face, and a prominent Adam’s apple, but nevertheless there was no holding back the words rising on my tongue and begging to let loose.
“No. But, then again, I don’t go around saying I’m K’s son. Or Jaroslav Hašek’s son. Or Schweik’s son. Or Masaryk’s son. Claims like that have to be proven.”
He leaned back as if repulsed, weakened, by the force of my words.
“I invited you already to come see me tomorrow. All the more reason now to come. Come tomorrow and I shall show you. Thank you. I now bid you au revoir.”
Tomorrow? I don’t remember him saying tomorrow. But tomorrow was fine with me. As proof, I imagined he would show me a letter from his father, in K’s unique, slanty handwriting which I would recognize. And I would apologize for my lack of trust and tell him I had a leading, nay, a starring role for him in my Prague film.
A wave of excitement akin to an erotic surge rose in me as I considered a surprise addition to the film. Not only an addition but a major — here’s that “A Major” phrase again — shift in focus. Thinking this, those little bubbles ran across my skin for a third time. I was tingling. There was a shift in me that made my previous outline for the film melt like an overheated negative. Yes, no matter what, Karoly Graf would be featured. I might even have him in the opening segment.
As if by magnetic force, or by the energy created by the astounding news I had just heard, I too was drawn back into the doorway. Graf went upstairs again. I stood near the entrance desk. An officious-looking man, about sixty, bald, hair greying at the temples, was looking at a ledger with the receptionist. By her expression, it seemed he was castigating her. Yes, I thought, he must be the director. The smaller the facility, I’ve noticed, the more self-important are the directors.
“Excuse me, sir,” I addressed him. “Do you speak English?”
“Why of course I do.” He straightened up. “For an educated person to be un-Englished nowadays is the equivalent of being without a tongue.”
I liked his formulation but wondered if he realized his apt pun.
“I want to compliment you on your beautiful museum.” I don’t know why I said that. I was being obsequious, condescending, and a liar too. Aside from some enlarged photographs and a romanticized thirteen-minute video that showed more of Prague than of K, there wasn’t much in this so-called museum. No manuscripts, no memorabilia. The museum coasted along on its K name. This pathetic little space didn’t even deserve the name museum; it was more a tourist diversion, a well-meaning but very minor showcase.
“I am so pleased. We try to keep the name and legacy of our great writer alive here. I am Doctor Hruska.”
I decided to cloak the important question bubbling on my lips in the guise of a compliment.
“And the fact that the legendary K’s legendary son also occasionally graces your museum is surely a plus for you.”
The director’s face fell. He beckoned me away from the receptionist to the rear wall where no one was standing. Dr. Hruska glanced up the stairs. Was anyone descending? Like in a spy movie, he checked left and right, surveying if the son or “son” was anywhere about before he spoke. I imagined the director would share some fantastic news with me, a true lover of K. Today was my lucky day. The A Major Major Discovery message that was sent to me — and by my pretty girl in the blue beret too — had seemingly come true. And now I would hear from him more amazing news, something like: Many of K’s children are here in Prague. Most of them survived the war. If you wish, I will introduce you to some of them. Did Dr. Hruska realize he was again shifting the focus of my film, perhaps even creating a new one for me? K’s Children.
At once my eyes became lenses, my ears microphones. I was already — heart racing in anticipation for the second time in minutes — filming, recording, interviewing these legendary people, already living these precious, nonpareil moments. Modesty aside, I was making, rather, going to make, history.
But yet. And even. And but. But still. Even so. In that blank, neutral, empty, even gloomy moment before Dr. Hruska began to speak, my excitement abated. My prophetic heart. Even as he opened his lips, even before the words came out, I sensed no stars glittering, no music rising within me, saw no spiral of colors exploding before the credits: K’s Son(s) — The Living Children of the Legendary Master of Prague, a documentary film by…
The director said:
“You asked me before if I understand English. Now I shall ask you if you understand international sign language?”
But before I had a chance to ask him what he meant came another twist in the falling-leaf, turning-page scenario in which I was a participant, an actor, a golem.
To understand what happened next — and something did happen next, and it had nothing to do with K or his son — and how it happened, the museum’s ground-floor layout must be described. From where I stood with Dr. Hruska at the rear wall near the staircase, I had a grand view of the Old Town Square through the large front window. Perhaps the big plate glass, which cut down enormously on display space, was important for the museum, since people passing by outside — and there were multitudes — could look in and possibly choose to enter. In any case, as the director spoke, I was gazing out the window, watching the endless movement of people on the vast square.
Just then the girl in the blue beret came by again, rubbing her elbow on the window. She walked so close to the huge plate glass the back of her sign scraped the window. Like in trick photography, it penetrated the glass and a corner of her placard was on this side of the fluid, penetrable window.
As Dr. Hruska spoke, I made up my mind quickly — my movement actually preceding my thoughts — and broke off the conversation.