Kafka's Son by Curt Leviant

Author:Curt Leviant
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Kafka’s Son
ISBN: 9781938103384
Publisher: Dzanc Books
Published: 2015-05-06T05:00:00+00:00

20

The Chase

As I was coming out of a little vegetarian restaurant—rustic wooden tables, cozy atmosphere, no smoking, imaginatively prepared food— and made my way along a little lane that led to the great square, I heard a cry “American!” I turned and saw someone running toward me from the top of the lane. That cry spurred me to run first and think later. It had to be someone local, for an American would have called me by name. Who could be running after me? I thought, as I sprinted ahead.

Sensing someone loping among them, people made way for me. For those who didn’t, I nimbly stepped left and right, hopped, pivoted on one foot, and pressed ahead.

Who could be calling me “American”? As storefronts moved by and behind me, I felt I was a camera dollying forward in the middle of the street. Now the shops whizzed and blurred by until I was in the crowded open square, where it was easier to elude a pursuer.

It could be the director, after me for damages I had caused his set; it could be that huffy actor. He had said he would meet up with me and he was right. I turned. My pursuer, whose face I couldn’t see, was running too. I didn’t want to meet him again. I owed him nothing. I had apologized. And the shamesh wasn’t here to help with some kind of magical powers to give me an edge in a confrontation, which I didn’t want in the first place.

Or maybe it was someone Katerina Maria has sent—Katerina Maria, angry that I hadn’t made contact with her again and had abandoned the relationboat we had launched together. Or maybe it was her papa after me for other, more complicated, reasons: leaving his daughter, making false promises, placing his thirty-seven-year-old virgin in harm’s way, embarrassing the entire extended family now that she, unattached, unspoken for, unmarried, was in the family way.

All these thoughts—again came the urgent call, “American!”— flitted in my head as I danced, leaped, jigged, and ran. Hadn’t I done this before, when I was in pursuit some time ago after the girl in the blue beret?

It was good the crowds were thick and I was able to blend into the crush of people, moving quickly, unobtrusively, now at the edge. On I ran. Ran on and on. I ran and ran. It seemed I was running all over, through, and around Prague, crossing bridges, streets, up the hill and down the hill, passing the Altneu on Parizska Street, running along the Moldau, traversing the great plaza again, dodging crowds, my adamant, unknown pursuer well behind me, always letting me know that he was still near, with his recurrent shout, “American!” showing that he had not given up, was relentless in his chase, but was well enough behind me to keep out of sight and shroud his identity.

Could that actor in Katya’s little film still remember that alleged slight so well that, despite my apology, which

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