Kafka in Love (7 page)

Franz kept his word. He always refused to answer any of Max’s questions about her. In his
Diaries
, he wrote only the girl’s initials, GW (from which her identity was only discovered decades later).

The little that we know of this brief encounter comes from his
Diaries
, where the events of these two weeks take up barely ten lines, and from the letter he writes to Felice three months later, on December 29, when he confesses to his fiancée, with his usual abrupt frankness, that he fell in love with a young Swiss woman, almost a child, eighteen years old, that he was very attached to her, but
that they had not been right for each other. On the day of his departure, he says, the young woman almost burst into tears, and he was just as bad.

Yet this episode convinced him that deep inside, what he truly aspired to was … to marry Felice.

He carried away from his stay in Riva one regret. The ribbon games that he played with Gerti prevented him from taking his pleasure with the young Russian woman in the room directly across the hall from his. Each of her smiles, each of her innuendos, had been an invitation.

Franz leaves Riva a little surer of himself. His hair is starting to turn gray, his eyes are gentler.

Grete Bloch, or the First Trio
 

F
elice is the one who, after two months, decides to break the silence, a silence that is starting to feel like a final separation. In her letter dated October 23, 1913, she informs Franz that a friend of hers is coming to Prague, a young woman, whom she has charged with effecting their reconciliation. Furthermore, she asks Franz to come to Berlin in the days after the meeting.

Franz has received three letters from Felice’s unknown friend, three letters that he has left unanswered. How could Felice ever imagine that an emissary coming out of the blue, totally ignorant of their complicated history,
could magically sort out their differences? How could she ever have hoped such a thing?

The idea of explaining himself to this unknown lady, who was most likely of a certain age, tall, strong, and maternal, does not appeal to him.

Even as he tells himself he won’t go, a temptation arises: to introduce a new element or character, however secondary, into a plot that has stalled, and onto a stage that is emptying. He wants to break the monotony of the passing days. His life was starting to feel like one of those schoolboy punishments where you are made to write the same absurd sentence a hundred times.

Who is this woman friend that Felice is sending me, though she has never spoken of her before? After a few days of hesitation, he answers Fräulein Grete Bloch: “Certainly I shall come to your hotel, please name a convenient time.”

And to Felice: “Since you have requested it, I shall arrive in Berlin on Saturday, November 8, and leave the next day between 4 and 5 o’clock.”

A useless trip, he knows, another trip that will bring no added light, no final resolution to their conflict. In the meantime, typically enough, he starts to ask himself questions: How did Grete Bloch get drawn into this mission? What does she expect from it? Where does
she live? In what quarter does she stretch her limbs before going to sleep? Could I ever do what she is doing? What would I feel? What will happen to her when she gets older? These thoughts agitate him, and he gets a stomachache.

He meets Fräulein Grete Bloch on November 1, 1913, in the lobby of her hotel, The Black Horse. He doesn’t like the look of her and is suspicious from the outset. She is wearing a showy fur stole that doesn’t suit her. Franz has a fierce aversion to fur, this one especially, with its long guard hairs and silk lining.

But Fräulein Grete Bloch is not a matron. She is a frail young woman, somewhat unusual looking, much younger than Felice. Twenty years old? Thin lips, an intelligent face. She looks up at him with melancholy eyes, is deferential toward him, which he responds to.

When she urges him to make the trip to Berlin, which she describes as absolutely essential, he objects: “Both my trips there have been a disaster. After each of our meetings, Felice has felt more hesitant than ever.”

Fräulein Grete Bloch smiles. “Perhaps, Dr. Kafka, you should write to her less and visit her more?”

As they part, he eagerly agrees to the meeting she proposes for the following day. He adds, “Fräulein, may I write you in Vienna? Your mission is not over.”

Immediately on his return from Berlin on November 10, 1913, Franz sends the young woman a letter. He is writing her, he mentions straight off, even before writing to Felice. This declaration is so flattering that Felice’s friend perhaps slides unawares down the slope of ambiguity. He tells her in abundant detail about his recent encounter with Felice. He writes Fräulein Bloch again the next day and on the following days without giving her time to answer. It is true that Felice is at the heart of these first letters: he hopes to learn from Grete what his fiancée’s secret intentions are, as well as what lies behind her hesitations and her silence.

Since his visit to Berlin, Franz has received nothing further from Felice. His letters and telegrams remain unanswered. On the telephone, she promises to write him that same day, but nothing comes of it. Franz asks his mother to send her a note. Still nothing. He then asks his friend, Dr. Ernst Weiss, who lives in Berlin, to visit Felice at her office and prod her out of her silence. Franz receives a five-word letter: “I will write you soon.” He sends her four telegrams, gets four categorical promises in return, including this one: “My letter has been mailed.” Nothing comes. “It’s inhuman,” he tells her. He sends her three more letters, receives none in return. He then questions Grete: “Do you know anything, and would you be willing to tell me?”

He is thoroughly confused, all the more so because he and his parents are moving. They are relocating to the Oppelt house. Everything is topsy-turvy. He sleeps miserably and works too hard. At half past midnight on a freezing night, his feet bundled in a blanket, he writes once more to Felice, imploring her: “Say ‘yes’ or ‘no,’ it will cost you no effort. Don’t call me ‘dear’ if you don’t love me, don’t send me affectionate regards if that’s not what they are. Just a short letter. This is not too much to ask. Even if you should leave me no hope, I will continue to wait for you. By asking you to write, I am causing you much suffering, but not nearly as much as your silence causes me. Do you not think that I am worth at least a word?”

Felice’s silence makes him turn his attention toward Grete. It is to her that he now sends his thoughts, to her that he poses innumerable questions. It is also to his “Dear Fräulein Grete” that he offers reams of advice. About her health regimen: perform exercise regularly, learn to swim, sleep with the window open, stop taking valerian, eat at vegetarian restaurants (there are some excellent ones near you), chew each bite of food for five minutes before swallowing. About her work. And about Vienna: leave that city as soon as possible, return to Berlin. He waits for her answers with almost the same fever he feels when
Felice’s letters arrive late. He asks Grete to come to Berlin when he is there, offers to meet her at some halfway point, so great is his desire to see her.

He advances further into ambiguous territory. When he learns that Grete was born on March 21, he calls her “Child of Spring.” He asks her for several photographs of herself and her friends.

During the year 1914, he writes Felice about twenty letters, whereas he writes more than seventy to Grete. He feels strongly drawn to her and, honest with himself, he does not deny the fact. This epistolary relationship, this new intrigue, gives him stability and security.

But while he is playing havoc with Grete’s heart, he is clinging to Felice. The more she hesitates and the more she holds him at arm’s length, the more he pressures her to decide. He says, “I can’t live without you, you just as you are.”

During the night of Friday, February 27, 1914, he abruptly decides to make a surprise visit to Felice in Berlin. On Saturday morning, he steps off the train and heads for Felice’s office, where he has never been. He waits at the switchboard while a secretary goes to tell Felice of his arrival. He is happy to be there. Felice arrives, quite surprised by this unexpected visit, but greets him in a friendly way. They stand and talk for a
few moments, then Felice returns to her office, where a number of people are waiting to see her. The two meet at noon at a pastry shop and spend an hour together. He accompanies her back to the office, because he is keen to see the room where she works. Late in the afternoon, they meet again and stroll together for two hours. Felice is busy that night. There is a ball she must attend for her work.

“Don’t go, let’s spend the evening together. We still have so many knots to untangle.”

“I can’t turn down the invitation at the last moment. That’s impossible. Let’s see each other tomorrow, I’m free all morning.”

On Sunday they stroll arm in arm through the Tiergarten like the happiest of engaged couples, then stop for refreshments in a cafe where they run into Dr. Weiss. Felice frowns at the sight of him. She has tried to convince Franz more than once that Ernst Weiss is hateful, and Ernst Weiss has tried more than once to convince Franz that Felice is hateful.

As she takes her leave, Felice solemnly promises Franz that she will accompany him to the station at the end of the afternoon.

On the platform he cranes his neck to catch a glimpse of her. The train gets under way. Once more, she has
failed to turn up. But she sends a telegram, the excuse is called “Aunt Marta.”

S
itting on the wooden seats of a noisy, smelly, poorly heated third-class railway compartment, Franz mulls over every statement Felice made while they strolled in the park. As the train jolts and his head bumps against the frozen windowpane, their dialogue scrolls dizzyingly through his mind.

“I quite like you, Franz, but that’s not enough to get married. I don’t want to do things by halves.”

“But I love you so much that I am ready to marry you even if your feelings toward me are lukewarm. I implore you, Felice, say yes, even if you believe that your feelings for me fall short. My love for you is big enough to make up the difference.”

“I have fears about our future together. I worry that I might not be able to put up with your idiosyncrasies, your indecision: what you want now, you no longer want a moment later.”

“I am sewn once and for all inside my skin, and nothing can alter my seams.”

“With you, it’s nothing but surprises and disappointments. I’m afraid that I wouldn’t really be able to give
up Berlin, my family, the office, buying nice clothes, and going to the theater. I’ve been thinking about all the arguments you’ve made repeatedly. You’re right, I would have to give up too much. Of the two of us, I would carry the heavier burden.”

“What I conclude is that you don’t love me at all.”

“You’re wrong. Look at the locket I wear around my neck. Your picture is with me night and day. I will never marry anyone but you.”

“Do you plan to go on writing to me? Or not?”

“You decide. I would be willing to go on writing. But I would also be willing to stop writing you.”

“Then it would all be over, and each of us would take back his letters and photographs?”

“No. I would never return your letters or your photographs. I would never throw them away or ask for mine to be returned.”

He sees the two of them pacing back and forth along the footpaths of the zoo. He is gesturing and pleading his case, ready to fall at Felice’s feet. She appears ready to end the conversation, which she finds annoying.

In front of them, in enormous cages, perched on the branches of a cement tree, monkeys are leaping, chasing each other frenetically. They emit piercing cries, grating one’s nerves. He sees the marmosets running in every
direction, exhibiting their bright red bottoms and erect members, their long tails swishing through the air.

The lewd behavior of the monkeys, their screams, their mad dashes, their brazen behavior, irritate Felice: “Franz, for the love of God, stop pleading with me. You always want the impossible. Don’t attach so much importance to every word.”

“You want only to humiliate me!”

“You’re the one who is looking for humiliation! The only thing that interests you, as you’ve said a hundred times, is tormenting others and being tormented! I’ve had enough of being both your victim and your executioner.”

She grows impatient, wants to leave. He restrains her. She responds with a sullen silence, in which hatred and disgust lurk. She looks everywhere but at him, furious.

The film plays over and over in his head, the images become confused, he sees only bright red buttocks. They swirl, fill the whole screen, the cries of the monkeys and of Felice blend together, hammer at his skull, drive him crazy.

O
nce back in Prague, he makes a decision that helps him ward off the temptation to commit suicide: if he
doesn’t marry Felice, he will quit his job, leave Prague, move to Berlin, and become a journalist.