Kafkas hat, p.1
Kafka's Hat, page 1
Contents
Cover
1
2
3
About the Translator
About the Author
Copyright Information
To Michaela and Madeleine
When reading Kafka, I cannot avoid approving or rejecting the legitimacy of the adjective “Kafkaesque,” which one is likely to hear every quarter of an hour, applied indiscriminately.
– Italo Calvino
Two ideas – or more exactly, two obsessions – rule Kafka’s work: subordination and the infinite.
– Jorge Luis Borges
I often think of Kafka … He represents something I carry inside me.
– Paul Auster
1
It is precisely 8:07 a.m. when the Boss calls P. into his office. P., who has never met Mr. Hatfield, wonders what he could possibly want. Truth be told, the Boss’s secretary was unapologetically straightforward: “The Boss wishes to see you right away.” Impossible to guess, from the tone or content of this terse order, whether this was good or bad news. The verb “wish” might lead one to expect a friendly meeting but the adverb “right away” suggested a certain impatience. Some sentences, P. finally tells himself, say nothing more than what they say. So after drawing a line in the bottom-left margin of the document he is verifying for accuracy, P. puts down his pencil, adjusts his tie, wipes the dandruff off his shoulders and promptly makes his way to the Boss’s office.
The secretary opens the door and invites P. to go in. Standing at the window with his hands clasped behind his back, like a man contemplating his empire, the Boss stares out. Merely a few seconds elapse between the moments the secretary closes the door and the Boss addresses P. Evidently, the Boss is not a man to waste time – whether his or his employees’ – with formalities such as “Pleased to meet you.” Without turning around or even acknowledging the presence of his employee in the room, the Boss explains the situation in a few brief sentences and asks P. whether he feels up to the challenge. After P. agrees without a hint of hesitation, the Boss takes out a wooden box, carefully opens it and produces a small envelope. He then turns to P., making eye contact for the first time, and hands him a tiny ticket stub.
What is the nature of the task so casually entrusted to an employee he doesn’t know from Adam? Simply this: P. must fetch a hat recently acquired by the Boss at an auction.
“It’s a one-of-a-kind,” says the Boss, “and I’m giving you this delicate mission because I trust you.”
According to Mr. Hatfield, the hat once belonged to a long-dead writer whose novels “marked the adolescence” of the man now at the head of an important New York firm. P. replies that his hat is in good hands and, as if to show his skills in the matter, takes his own hat, carefully puts it on his head, respectfully salutes the Boss and goes in search of the precious headgear.
Outside, P. hails a cab. After exchanging a few banalities with the driver about the weather, chronic traffic jams and the New York tourist season, P. settles in the back seat and watches people and buildings go by. He has been working for Stuff & Things Co. only for a few weeks, so this “mission” is a surprising vote of confidence from an employer who, apparently, never talks to new employees. Hired less than a month ago, P. not only had a private meeting with the Boss, but the Boss even confided in him! He talked about literature! And his adolescence!
P. thinks about the gossips who, day after day, talk behind the Boss’s back. “People are so jealous!” he muses. Unlike the stories circulating during morning coffee breaks, the Boss seemed perfectly correct – a true gentleman. P. suddenly feels ashamed to have taken part in earlier backstabbing sessions. He takes a deep breath as if to erase embarrassing memories from his mind, crosses his legs and looks straight in front of him.
When P. sees the huge port cranes, he leaves his guilty thoughts behind. To his great dismay, he realizes he can’t remember the name of the author. He only remembers it’s a short name that starts with the letter K and ends in a. Strangely, in the moment, the name reminded him of a Lebanese or Greek dish. So starting with the only dish that comes to mind, he tries to redo the process of identification in reverse. He takes out his notebook (the same notebook he should have pulled from his pocket when the Boss said the name of that poor writer who died bare-headed!) and starts writing variations of “spanakopita”: Kapsakapita, Kasnanopika, Kanospikata, Kaskonapita, Kapkasapita, Kassipapikata. Those names seem too long.
P. decides to cross out the middle syllable. The list becomes: Kapita, Kaska, Kanta, Kasta, Kapta and Kasta. Then he notes two things: first, none of the names reminds him of the writer with the hat; second, Kasta appears twice. P. declares this statistic of two worthy of hope and writes the word “Kasta” at the top of a new page. That way, the names that, from a basic mathematical point of view, have little chance of leading to the desired patronymic won’t clutter his mind. P. hates when useless ideas clutter his mind. Raised in the purest Protestant tradition, in a small town in the American Midwest, he sees chaos as the mother of all vices, specious arguments and fallacious conclusions. There is only one way to arrive at the truth: by removing, one by one, in a methodical way, all the falsities strewn in the path leading to Reason.
While P. is thinking about possible variations of “Kasta,” the cab reaches its destination. P. pays the driver, climbs out of the car and walks towards a building. From the sidewalk, not only is it impossible to determine the number of storeys of the grey and monolithic tower, but P. cannot make out the different floors. The vertical line is completely uninterrupted and the skyscraper gives a strange impression, similar to what one may experience watching a starry sky or contemplating a log fire. For a fraction of a second, P. feels minuscule in front of this pyramid-like monument erected to the glory of the State Administration.
There is something about the concrete and finite structure that is indefinable, impalpable, even contradictory. As if it were limited and unlimited at the same time, finite and infinite. P. shakes off the feeling and goes into the lobby. Once inside, he notices a large board and concludes it is the building directory. He pulls from his pocket the ticket stub the Boss gave him and finds, without any difficulty, the appropriate Customs Office Department: suite 1934.
The number reminds him of the year 1934. As he walks towards the elevators, he wonders what was significant that year. Hitler’s appointment as Reich Chancellor in 1933 and the end of Mao’s Long March in 1935 immediately come to mind. But in 1934, nothing.
“Something must have happened,” he mumbles.
Four elevators wait in the centre of the building. Since there are forty floors, two elevators stop at every floor up to the twentieth floor, and two go straight to the twentieth floor and stop at every floor after that. Our man cannot believe his luck. Since he is going up to the nineteenth floor, he can choose either option. He can go directly to the twentieth floor and walk down one floor, or he can risk stopping a maximum of seventeen times before he reaches his destination. Although the doors of a “1 to 20” elevator are the first to open, P. decides to wait for an “express” that will take him directly to the twentieth floor.
P. cannot resist the temptation to follow, on the display above the closed doors, the progression of the elevator he let go. When he sees it stop briefly on the twelfth floor and, after pausing for a few seconds on the eighteenth floor, start to head back down, an almost imperceptible sigh escapes him. “If I had taken that elevator, I would be there by now,” he tells himself. Meanwhile, the “express” elevators, which are making many a stop between the fortieth and the twentieth floors, don’t seem inclined to head back to the ground floor. The fourth elevator, immobilized on the third floor, hasn’t moved.
In the end, the elevator that P. let get away is the first one to come back. Is there a way to calculate the probability of the same elevator being the fastest twice in a row? P. ponders that question while the elevators go from floor to floor, following a logic he cannot begin to guess. Obviously, the “human” factor makes the whole thing more difficult to understand. Human nature being for the most part unpredictable, and elevators being for the most part used by humans, it is practically impossible to predict elevator behaviour. For P., this is not only an irrefutable syllogism but it is the quintessential axiom of sound management. His years managing, coordinating, mentoring and supervising people have provided him with countless opportunities to validate this hypothesis. But since the elevator doors are about to close, he cuts his reflection short and, without taking the time to evaluate the pros and cons of his action, jumps in and presses 19.
Later that day, when P. will have a chance to think back on the series of events that led him, within the space of a few hours, from the comfort of his New York office to the crowded highways of New England, he will point to this first irrational – or, at the very least, “precipitated” – act. He will tell himself, as he watches the trees along the road and starts dozing off, “If I had thought about it before jumping in that elevator, I wouldn’t be here right now.” But let’s not anticipate: P. presses 19.
On the third floor – that same floor where the fourth elevator seems to be stuck – his elevator stops. Assuming employees are going to get in, P. moves to the side and stares at his feet. A few seconds later, he is still staring at his feet – the elevator doors did not open. He waits a bit longer. He clears his throat twice. After waiting longer still, he pushes the button that should open the doors. Nothing. He looks at the button and reads out loud, “Open.” He presses it a second time. S
P. wonders, “What is this button for if it doesn’t open the doors?” He approaches the elevator control panel and considers the other possibilities. Other than the most obvious option, which is to bang on the doors and call for help, he can either press the Emergency button or use the red phone. However, his education, as much as his experience in the workplace, has taught him to favour dialogue and to opt for purely mechanical solutions only as a last resort.
So choosing the negotiation option, P. picks up the phone. He waits several long minutes before a nasal voice comes on. The person identifies herself, but so fast that P. cannot make out what she says. Actually, he does make out something, but clearly the woman did not say, “The gator’s waddle and Syrian lumber, geez.” So he says, “Hello?”
“Yes?”
“Good morning, ma’am. I’m stuck in an elevator.”
“The elevator’s model and serial number, please.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The elevator’s model and serial number, please.”
“I don’t know what they are, ma’am.”
“Without those numbers, I can’t open a file.”
“Okay. Where can I find the numbers?”
“I have no idea, sir.”
“You have no idea?”
“I have no idea, sir.”
“You can’t expect everyone who uses your elevators to find the serial number without any help whatsoever!”
“They’re not ‘our’ elevators, sir. They don’t belong to us; we’re only responsible for their maintenance. If you have any questions about our company, I’m happy to transfer you to the Vice-President’s office. They’ll be able to explain the nature of –”
“All right, all right, just a minute. Let me open the control panel and see if it’s written inside.”
P. reaches for the small door, but sees the following warning: Open Only in Case of Emergency. Is this really an emergency? Can he wait longer or choose another course of action? Is this his only recourse? P. takes a step back, as if creating distance between the panel and his person could give him a better perspective on the situation. After hesitating a few seconds, he reaches for the small door again and tries to open it. It resists. Surprised, he pulls harder. Nothing. He leans forward to take a closer look. He notices a tiny lock to the left of the handle. He picks up the phone.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Yes?”
“I can’t open the door.”
“The elevator’s model and serial number, please.”
“That’s what I’m telling you. I can’t get to them because the panel is locked.”
“If you don’t have those numbers, I can’t do anything for you. Thank you for calling Up & Down Elevators, Inc.”
“Wait a minute, I’m stuck in one of your elevators! You can’t abandon me like this!”
“Without the model and serial number, I can’t do anything for you. I don’t even know what city you’re calling from.”
“I’m in New York.”
“I’d like to believe you, sir, but how do I know you’re not in Chicago or Miami or even Montreal?”
“Why would I lie about that? I’m telling you, I’m trapped in one of your elevators. I’m in New York City, in the Old Port building. I don’t see why you need the serial number –”
“And the model.”
“– and the model to send an emergency team.”
“We don’t send emergency teams.”
“You don’t send emergency teams?”
“No.”
“Then what do you do?”
“Personally, I fill out form P-3287-S. When I’m done, I give it to my supervisor, who must approve it no later than six hours after the call. If, in his opinion, the information is incomplete or seems suspicious, he may call the client. Then, once he’s satisfied, he communicates with the police. The police determine the degree of urgency of the request and, if necessary, send an emergency team.”
“If necessary?”
“If necessary.”
P. sighs deeply. In the process, his eyes migrate to the elevator ceiling, where he sees, written in huge characters, the following information: MODEL: A-4373, SERIAL NUMBER: 3785938496-FD. He grabs the phone, excited.
“Ma’am?”
“The elevator’s model and serial number, please.”
“It’s model A-4373 and the serial number is 3785938496-FD.”
“Thank you. How can I help you?”
“Well, as I said earlier, I’m stuck.”
“Stuck?”
“Yes, the elevator stopped and I can’t make it go up or down.”
“Did you try opening the doors?”
“Yes.”
“Did they open?”
“Uh, no.”
“At what time did the elevator stop?”
“About twenty minutes ago.”
“Why did you wait twenty minutes before contacting us?”
“I didn’t wait twenty minutes; I tried opening the doors and called almost immediately after. The phone rang for several minutes before you picked up. And we’ve been talking to each other for at least ten minutes now.”
“Is this your first time stuck in an elevator?”
“Yes, I believe so.”
“Do you suffer from diabetes?”
“No.”
“Do you have high cholesterol?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Are you claustrophobic, paranoid, hypochondriac?”
“No.”
“Do you experience dizziness or feel nauseous when facing unforeseen and potentially dangerous situations?”
“Uh … No, but how many questions are there?”
“Only three more. How old are you?”
“Thirty-three.”
“Are you married?”
“No.”
“Do you have any children?”
“No.”
“Thank you. I’ll forward your request to my supervisor. Thank you for calling Up & Down Elevators, Inc., and have a great day.”
The lady hangs up and P. finds himself, so to speak, alone again in the elevator. Knowing he will most likely have to wait several minutes, if not hours, before the emergency team frees him, he takes off his hat and his jacket. He neatly folds the jacket, sets it down in a corner of the elevator and sits. He loosens his tie and glances at his watch. This is no doubt an unexpected and upsetting turn of events, but P. can put this time to good use. He closes his eyes and mentally replays his earlier conversation with the Boss. This is a well-known mnemonic device; by re-immersing oneself in a situation and replaying the scene in one’s head, one can see and hear things that might have been overlooked the first time. P. tries to piece together everything that was said and done during his meeting with the Boss. But unfortunately for him, he cannot hear Mr. Hatfield say the name of the dead writer who so marked his adolescence that he decided, at 8:07 a.m., to send P. to fetch his hat.
P. takes out his pencil and notebook, and continues the exercise he started in the cab. The idea of a Greek or Lebanese dish previously led him to “Kasta.” Now he needs to find a way to go further. He repeats the word out loud several times: “Kasta, Kasta, Kasta.” “There was no s in that name,” he also says out loud.
Although short, the name he is looking for sounded cold and guttural. Probably suggesting the absence of an s because that letter tends to soften words. As in, for example, “susurrate,” “sigh” or “souvenir.” So he replaces the s with a more percussive consonant. He proceeds methodically, in alphabetical order: Kabta, Kacta, Kadta, Kaf …
Just as he is considering this fourth possibility, the phone rings. P. leaps from his makeshift seat and picks up the phone before it has time to ring a second time.
“Yes?”
“May I speak with Mr. P.?”
“This is he.”
“My name is Sergio Fortunato. I’m the Complaint Department Supervisor at Up & Down Elevators, Inc.”
“How are you?”
“Very well, thank you. I have your form here in front of me and, according to your statement, you’re stuck in one of the elevators for which we provide maintenance.”
“That’s right. How much longer do I have to wait before the emergency team –”
“One thing at a time, Mr. P. Your form shows several incongruities so, if you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
