“You still are the real K,” I said.
He took a deep breath, responded obliquely: “In any case, it was there, at the sanatorium, when I returned from my ten-day visit to my family that the thought, the idea, came to me. You recall I asked Klopstock right away about the man without family who was nearing death. He was a slightly retarded man who had been cared for by an elderly housekeeper in Vienna before she died. I stayed at the sanatorium three days and asked Klopstock to examine me. He couldn’t believe it. ‘What miracle happened to you?’ he asked me. I told him what I knew. He shook his head. ‘I’ve never seen anything like this.’
“‘Still,’ I told him, ‘I want to die. Officially.’
“Fortunately, Klopstock was a mentch, a friend. He had nursed me, helped me, nurtured me, even babied me. Klopstock and I looked at each other. It was as if the same thought came to both of us at the same time.
“‘I have a life-and-death favor to ask you,’ I told the doctor.”
25. A Thirty-Minute Trip
It took me thirty minutes to get to Graf’s house. Of course, I took my camera. Now the problem was — would he be there? This was certainly a marvelous turn of events, I mused. If one of the two people who disappeared in Prague was found, could the second be far behind? It was a good omen, a fine omen, an excellent omen. Provided of course I actually laid eyes on Karoly Graf, K’s putative son.
Yes, in the foreroom of the apartment house Graf was on the list of tenants. So the address was correct. I wondered if he had a family, for the concierge of Graf’s old apartment building had referred only to Graf alone.
I rang the bell. A man’s voice spoke in Czech. I told him in English who I was, “sent by the shamesh.”
“Wonderful. You’re here. Happy, happy, happy am I. Come up. Fourth floor. Sorry, no elevator.”
A smiling Graf waited for me by the open door. He was cleanshaven, had lost that haggard, grizzly look he had had when I first met him outside the K Museum and mistook him for a beggar. He was tall and thin as ever, with a prominent Adam’s apple. But his cheeks were no longer hollow and he didn’t give me the edgy feeling I was speaking to one of life’s unfortunate creatures.
Graf greeted me affably and invited me into his small, light-filled apartment. Books everywhere. In bookcases, on wooden shelves propped by bricks, on the floor. An entire section, I saw at once, devoted to K.
“Come in, come in, man from the Shawmee State, who pays homage to K. So happy to see you.”
“I too. But I must ask you—”
But he interrupted me with, “Why did you not come to see me?”
So he beat me to it. I was just waiting to express my righteous indignation, but Graf got to me first.
I could have — I wanted to — explode with: What’s the matter with you? Why did you give me a card with the wrong address? Why did you do that to me after you so excitedly and passionately told me you’re K’s son? I took my camera with me and was prepared to video you, to make you a leading figure in my film. I can’t understand why you invited me and then gave me a wrong address.
But I said nothing. Like Joseph before his brothers, dying to speak, I controlled myself. I merely — and with marvelously understated dramatic flair — pulled his card out of my wallet and showed it to him.
“I tried,” I said softly.
He gazed at the card and gave me a puzzled look. “But this is my old veezeet kart. No wonder you couldn’t find my house.”
What is one supposed to do with this Alice in Wonderland topsyturvy behavior?
“So how could I possibly find you if I don’t have your current address? This is the address you gave me.”
Suddenly, he slapped his head. He looked at me with contrite eyes. “Oh my God! Please, please forgive me.” He sounded like he would soon fall down on his knees and plead for pardon. “Forgive me. I gave you an old veezeet kart. I am so apologetic to you I am nearing to cry. I was wondering why you didn’t come next day to visit me.”
“I went to your old address and the house manager said you moved out more than a year ago and he didn’t know where you’d moved to.”
“That is true. I did not give my new residence and since I didn’t hear from you, I thought maybe you went back to America. Until—”
“Until you saw me in the Metro. You did see me, right?”
Karoly Graf clapped both my shoulders.
“I did see you. And what a pleasant coincidence. Something that happens only in cinema. But now, at this moment in time, I must state I have a cartilege to pick with you.”
“Why?”
“Why? I tell you why. And you tell me why you ran away?”
“What?”
“I said, why you ran away?”
“When? Where?”
“That day I tried to catch up to you. Near the Old Town Square. But you flew like a wind.”
“Was that you?”
“I think it was me, yes.”
“Shouting ‘American’?”
“Yes. Why you ran away?”
“I thought it was someone else who is after me, chasing me.”
“I finally see you close by and not in Metro going in opposite direction and you run away from me. I thought you ran into the K Museum but receptionist said you’re not there.”
“Never mind,” I said. “Main thing is you found me and I found you. Now the question is — how did you do it? I looked and looked for you, tried all kinds of municipal registries, but you were not listed anywhere.”
“And to myself I thought, how do I find a visitor? Then I remembered I met you at the K Museum. So I went to see Dr. Hruska if he saw you. He said he has not seen you in a long time and, misfortunately, has misplaced phone number you gave him.”
“And then?”
“And then I thought of going to synagogue because you said you were interested in Prague, in golem, in K.”
“How smart! How clever! How right!”
Graf smiled. “You see, I very much wanted to see you.”
“Wonderful. Brilliant. Now tell me what you tried to signal me during those few seconds we saw each other on the Metro.”
“I lifted up one finger,” said Graf.
“Yes, I remember that.” Should I tell him I first thought it was a pen top? No, that would only confuse him. “But a raised forefinger can have so many interpretations. I thought it meant we should meet on the first floor of the K Museum. I went the next day but you weren’t there.”
“And Dr. Hruska didn’t tell you I was looking for you.”
“He was away on a trip to Holland, I was told.”
Graf nodded. “I know a gesture can have many interpretations. But how could I invent speed language that would tell you what I wanted to say? With lifting one finger I wanted to tell you: one station. I’ll go one station and wait for you. Did you see me making a gesture with my thumb, indicating out, that I would get out first station?”
“That I didn’t see.”
“I got out at next station and waited. It was a small chance, I know, but I did it.”
“Why didn’t you leave your address with Dr. Hruska and ask him to give it to me when I come?”
“I don’t think he likes me. So it’s very hard for me to bother him.”
“May I video you while you talk?”
“Yes. Of course. Please.”
As I took the camera out of my bag and set up the tripod I asked him:
“Did you see my gestures to you?”
“Yes. You put fist to one eye and made little circles with your hand.”
“Right. How did you interpret that?”