That morning, the man woke up from a night of uneasy dreams transformed into Kafka. He was not in Prague, this was not the 1910s. He was still at home, in Winnipeg, in his own time. He could’ve just been sleepy. A persistent nightmare that had made its way into the waking hours. A glance at the bathroom mirror was enough to dispel doubts. His eyes were bigger. His hair, parted each side. The new bony and austere complexion was not solemn enough to mask the terror he felt. His family wouldn’t recognize him. His boss wouldn’t shake his hand. His girlfriend would flee in panic, positive that someone was poorly impersonating her boyfriend, copying words of affection, references, inside jokes: their history. Was the change just physical? Was that despair his own? He’d been reading those books for years. Had he just been absorbing Kafka’s personality, each dry word a step toward that bachelor’s apartment so far away in time and geography? Unwilling to call anyone or ask for help, he got dressed, a black t-shirt covering his bony but firm chest, and left home. A psychotic episode would be just the obvious explanation, with the remaining matter that everything else seemed right, including other aspects of his own body. The larger forehead could’ve always just been this way. The taller frame naturally fit his clothes. On the sidewalk, he stopped by a coffee shop. Its glass reflected haunted, dark eyes. His estrangement was Kafka’s estrangement, no more, no less. He entered the shop and politely asked for a latte. The cashier nodded and turned to the espresso machine, which he operated with two legs while nimbly grabbing a clean paper cup with another. The man wondered how many times he’d seen that. When he turned around, he realized all patrons were insects. Couples talked in undecipherable languages while solo patrons operated phones and computers using hairy limbs. Each time one of them drank coffee, their mouth opened to the sides, revealing a long, spiky tongue. Their eyes probed around in the meantime, compound large crystal balls that reflected each dozens of Kafka’s serious faces. The man paid for the coffee, thanked in Czech and left. The city felt warmer than usual for that time of the year. Maybe he shouldn’t have worn a tie that morning. Opening his briefcase, he sought a handkerchief to no avail. Two policemen passed by carrying a man that did not fight back. An attractive woman in a corner wearing a long, light pink dress slowly removed her white gloves while looking at him. Thirty meters later, two other women passed by, one of whom held him against the wall, a hand firmly on his crotch while whispering on his ear, “if God doesn’t exist, who made you leave bed this morning?”. He closed his eyes in fear before noticing the other woman stealing his briefcase. Nervous, he wondered if he shouldn’t just go back home. His feet took him to the office. The porter, all mustache and muscles, welcomed him. The elevators were broken. He went up eight floors by stairs with five other people, none sweating, none saying anything except for “Guten Morgen” whenever they crossed a manager or director, all five saying the four syllables in tandem. At his desk, a paper box was waiting, its sender identified only by the letter M. He blew at this typewriter, then lit a pipe to begin the workday. His boss arrived, greeted him and asked if the new insurance policy draft could be ready by 10 am. The man put a white sheet on the typewriter, smiled and nodded.
[Handwritten on five postcards during a trip in September/23. I gave them to my partner, together with a red beret and a The Scream-printed tote bag. Almost a year later, I transcribed the story to computer, and revised it.]
[Conto escrito à mão em cinco cartões postais durante uma viagem em setembro/23. Dei os cartões-postais à minha namorada, junto com uma boina vermelha e uma bolsa com estampa de O Grito. Quase um ano depois, transcrevi o conto para o computador e o revisei.]
Os Bufões - contos & outros textos 