by Paul Glennon

I liked Paul. That was the worst of it. It made it harder to understand why he wouldn’t just go along with us. In the end I had to just let go and admit that he had brought it all on himself. We were more than patient. We bent over backwards to bring him around. I know I did everything I could.

I knew him from college. He was one of those guys, who you knew second-hand. He was someone’s boyfriend, or someone’s boyfriend’s friend. We spoke a few times, but we never really connected. I didn’t know then that he didn’t believe in Kafka.

I was surprised when they asked me to speak with him. I didn’t mind, of course, but I was surprised that it was necessary. It had never occurred to me that there were people who did not believe. They showed me the literature though, and it seems there’s a long sick tradition of denial. There have been prosecutions. There have been deaths. Paul was different though, they said. He wasn’t political. He kept his views to himself. He didn’t campaign or protest or distribute pamphlets. He just didn’t believe, which is why they asked me to get close to him. They thought that with some gentle persuasion he might come around. If he could be persuaded, then they would not have to resort to uglier methods.

I arranged to run into him at the store where he bought his groceries. Is that you Paul, I said, Paul from college? I had just moved into the neighbourhood, I told him. He made me dinner that night. Within two weeks I was spending nights in his bed. On the third or fourth weekend I brought the Kafka they had given me. We lay in bed reading in fine summer Sunday sunlight. I can’t remember what book he had, some science book probably, on cosmology, on neutrinos, on dark matter – the stuff he usually read. He paid no attention to my book. He didn’t make a single snide comment, didn’t give anything away, not a smirk, not even a raised eyebrow. It seemed too calculated to me, too pure an indifference. Maybe he had been tipped off. Maybe he knew why I was there. Or maybe they had it wrong, and he did believe. Maybe they had misinterpreted something.

I brought the book every weekend. I took it on our Vermont getaway. I mentioned a dozen times that it was my favourite. I used to leave it at his house on the bedside table and call to say I was coming to pick it up. I left my Kafka there, I’d say. I’ll come by to pick it up. He would only say that I seemed to have trouble hanging on to that book and maybe I should buy another copy for his house. I couldn’t tell how funny this was supposed to be.

I finally had to bring it up myself.

– I met Jonathan downtown the other day, Jonathan from school. You remember Jonathan don’t you? – I said – he was surprised to hear about you and me. He laughed and said we’d make a great couple. When he saw the book under my arm though he said something strange. He asked me how you felt about that, about me reading Kafka, seeing that you didn’t believe.

This is how I brought it up with Paul. I told the story so well, I almost believed it had happened. I told Paul that I’d just shrugged at Jonathan and laughed it off, but now I was curious. I tried to be casual. I tried to be bemused, as if it was just curious or strange, like a remarkable birthmark or a mildly famous ancestor.

He didn’t seem to want to talk about it. He wasn’t guarded or suspicious or anything, just disinterested, as if it wasn’t worth the effort of explaining what he did or didn’t believe.

– What did Jonathan mean, you don’t believe in Kafka?

– I don’t believe in Kafka.

– What does that mean, you don’t believe in the literary style or you don’t believe there was a man called Franz Kafka who wrote those books, the stories, about the castle, the beetle, K., Gregor Samsa?

– The second thing.

– How can you not? I waved the book in front of his face. How can you not believe? The book is right here in my hand!

– You’ve read Homer too haven’t you? And Franklin W. Dixon. Do you believe in them?

– That’s different. You know that’s different. Those old Greek poems existed for so long, before there were books. Homer was a placeholder, a convenience. Kafka was born a hundred years ago. We have pictures, letters, the letters of people who knew him. And who is Franklin W. Dixon anyway?

– He wrote the Hardy Boy books, but he’s not real. The books were written by a syndicate of writers. Dixon’s just the name they put on the spine.

– You are comparing Kafka to the Hardy Boys?

From then on our discussions always went like this. They weren’t arguments exactly. He was too noncommittal. I was too incredulous. It was always just so unbelievable that he didn’t believe, as if he was just being awkward, like it was some perverse joke. And though I knew how serious it was, though I knew the consequences, I was taken in by his frivolity, his offhanded treatment of the whole thing.

– There must be a birth certificate, a death certificate somewhere.

– Have you seen them?

– No, but if you could see them, would you believe?

– These things can be faked.

– Why would anyone fake a birth certificate for Franz Kafka?

– Maybe it’s a joke or performance art.

– Do you really believe that?

I wanted to hit him with something. I couldn’t believe that he could be so facetious, when I was trying to help him, when I was trying to save his life.

– Do you really believe that?

He stopped and looked thoughtfully at the book there between us on the table, as if he was considering the possibility for the first time just now.

– No, not really.

But I felt that if I asked him again another day, he might say yes.

They said that I was running out of time. They could only hold back due process for so long. They wanted to know if he was coming around, if I’d been able to talk some sense into him.

I finally had to come straight out and tell Paul the risk he was running. I told him I’d seen Jonathan again, and that he’d heard that Paul’s name had come up at some hearings. I said I’d read some articles in the paper, and that they didn’t take these things lightly.

– Couldn’t you just say that you believe?

– Why should I?

– Can’t you just bend your principals this once? Would it be so difficult? Would it torture your conscience so much?

– What principals? What conscience? Jeese, if it it’ll make you happy yes, I can say it.

– Say it then.

– I believe.

– You believe in what?

– I believe in Kafka.

– You have to say it like you mean it.

– I really believe in Kafka.

It was no use. He would never convince them. He couldn’t see how important it was that he sound earnest. If he said it like this, they would think he was mocking them and that would be worse, if possible. They were bending over backwards for him. But Paul was hopeless. He would not or could not say what needed to be said with a straight face.

About this time Paul started talking about me moving in with him. He was so sweet about it. He wasn’t possessive or bullying about it. He just said he’d like me to move in with him. He’d like to see more of me and share more of my time. I stalled. I said I wasn’t ready to commit. It might have been because I knew what was going to happen to him or it might have been that we really weren’t that well suited. In the back of my mind I was thinking, if it wasn’t for him not believing, it would be over already. I was getting tired of his hobbies, the cooking, the science books, his casual indifference to what was going around him. I couldn’t help thinking that it was selfish of him not caring.

***

They confronted Paul finally. They went to his office in the middle of the day. They explained to him the danger he was in. They told him he was running out of time. They showed him certain pictures of other people they’d had to deal with.

He was angry when I saw him that night. He asked me if I was part of all this. I didn’t dare tell him everything, but he wouldn’t have believed me if I’d said I had nothing to do with it. I said that the first I’d heard of it was from Jonathan, that Jonathan was concerned and was trying to protect him. Paul wasn’t suspicious enough to guess that this whole not believing thing was the reason for us getting together in the first place.

– Jonathan says that you don’t necessarily have to believe. They might overlook it as long as you saw the importance of making them think you believed. As long as your statement was plausible they could let it pass.

– You’ve seen Jonathan again?

– Yes he called. He’s trying to help you.

– He’s behind this isn’t he? He’s behind this whole thing.

– What do you mean.

– You two went out in university didn’t you? He can’t let go. He can’t stand seeing you with me.

– It’s nothing like that.

– How often do you see him?

– I’ve seen him maybe twice in the last few months. Listen, he’s really concerned about you.

– Twice. Really?

– You don’t need to say it like that. I can’t believe you could be so selfish and petty. A lot of people are putting themselves out for you.

– Because I don’t believe.

– Yes, because you don’t believe.

He just rolled his eyes and looked away. I left his apartment, but the padding of the weather-stripping took all the pleasure and effect out of slamming the door. I would have left it at that. I would have left him to deal with it all on his own, but he phoned within hours. He said he was sorry, that he was way out of line, and that it was jealousy and frustration talking. He sent me flowers and an illustrated version of The Metamorphosis.

He even phoned Jonathan and apologised. Jonathan told me that Paul had invited him to dinner with us. He said that that Paul had sounded really sorry. Jonathan had tried to bring up the thing about believing, but Paul had just sighed. He said that they could talk about that at dinner.

I forgave Paul when he offered to take me to Prague for our honeymoon. I said no, but it was sweet anyway. He was really trying. This was the first time he had mentioned marriage. We had never spoken about it before and I actually started to cry when I realized he was serious. I wanted to want to marry him, but I knew it would never work. I had decided that I did not love Paul. I considered saying yes on condition that he pretend to believe in Kafka, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. It didn’t seem fair. Paul wasn’t making any bargains with me when he asked me to marry him. I shouldn’t be making demands, even if they were intended to save him. I didn’t say no right away, though. I said I needed to think about it. Paul turned away for a moment and I could see him bring his hand to his eye, but when he turned back to me he was smiling kindly.

– OK, I can wait, he said.

Then he made me the seafood risotto I love.

***

The day that he was supposed to join us for dinner, Jonathan phoned. He told me to stay home. He would talk to Paul by himself. I made my excuses to Paul and he didn’t push it too far. He asked if we were still on for skating the next day at the park. I told him of course.

The next day I phoned Paul and his answering machine picked up. I decided that he was out buying groceries for dinner. It was cold enough to skate, but bright and crisp. It was a perfect winter day. I wore woollen mittens and put my skates in a knapsack. On the way I bought flowers for Paul’s apartment, and a second hand copy of the Everyman’s Kafka (to keep there, like he’d always joked).

Jonathan met me outside Paul’s apartment building. He wouldn’t let me go up.

– We did everything we could, he said.

And I had to agree with him. I did really like Paul, but he had been very stubborn, and he had not helped himself. As I walked home, I pulled the petals off the flowers I’d brought for the apartment and ground them between my finger and thumb. I threw the stems and paper wrapping away in a sidewalk trash can.

I was angry with Paul and frustrated with the circumstances for a long time, but I think I achieved a sort of resolution finally. I think I did everything I could, and for this I was at least at peace with myself.

Paul Glennon is the author of How Did You Sleep? (Porcupine’s Quill, 2000). He is currently working on a work of suspiciously novelistic length. He lives in Ottawa.