Kafka

PRAGUE - MORNING

The Old Town is quiet. It's very early in the twisted

streets of this ancient ghetto. Dark corners casting a

medieval spell over a modern century oblivious to their

romance and mystery.

The River is the dividing line. Elegant gardens on the

opposite bank embracing the monotonous solemnity of the New

Town, tower steeples silhouetted against the sombre sky.

An empty motor bus rattles along a deserted street.

A Gothic bridge links the two halves of the strange city.

Its half-moon arches becoming circles as they meet their

reflections in the water. Thin mist swirls over the

cobblestones above.

A few boats in the water. Fishermen casting their lines in

silence. One or two lights now burning in buildings beyond.

In the Old Town Square the great clock on the cathedral

strikes six.

CUT:

A MAN'S FACE

His eyes filled with terror, beads of sweat crawling on his

brow.

He stands in the middle of a murky courtyard, perfectly

still. Waiting. Watching.

The balconies overlooking on successive floors, looming all

around him, are empty. All is quiet.

The man's name is EDUARD. He dares not move for fear of

missing a single sound. And then he hears it. A small noise

of movement nearby. He runs.

TINY ALLEYWAY:

He runs alone in the dim light of the deserted morning.

CROOKED PASSAGEWAY

Running for his life.

NARROW LANE:

Running on sheer pumping fear, long after the verge of

collapse.

BLACK TUNNEL:

Coming out into the light, but by no means out of danger, he

allows himself a brief pause, gasping for air, just for a

moment looking back into the gloom, starting to retreat again

even as he does, then turning running ...

WINDING STREET:

He runs on, past boarded-up houses and shuttered inns,

strange relics of the Middle Ages casting frightening

shadows.

AROUND A CORNER:

Eduard appears suddenly, quickly flattens himself back

against the large notice board that covers the wall here,

layers of expressionistic theatre and film posters pasted on

it.

He breathes painfully in short bursts, as silently as he

can. He watches the corner he's just come from, the ornate

archway through which any pursuer must emerge.

Nothing there. But then a shadow moves.

Eduard's shoulders tense. His eyes widen. He holds his

breath.

The shadow ... spreading ...

Eduard edges away ever so slowly, keeping his unblinking gaze

on the archway, backing off, one arm brushing the notice

board as he feels his way along it, macabre images on the

posters, some torn and incomplete, revealing other fragments

behind, Eduard's eyes staring constant, no noise here at all

and --

A HAND! clamps over his face from behind. All of a sudden

and out of absolutely nowhere and not a thing he can do about

it.

But he tries, his hands coming up to grip the arm that grasps

him, an arm of iron.

The hand is huge. It covers Eduard's face almost entirely,

only one eye gaping bloodshot through the fingers, ghastly

fingers that, just for a second, seem almost inhuman, perhaps

even fingers that seem incompatible on the same hand, a hand

covered in scar tissue, starting to squeeze as it pulls

Eduard swiftly away.

CUT:

A ROW OF TYPEWRITERS - DAY

Clacketing incessantly under slightly more agile and refined

fingers. Beyond these, another row of desks. And beyond

that another, the office workers in their neat suits tapping

away.

And beyond that another, at which one worker scribbles

furiously at his figures, the next rolls a new sheet into his

typewriter, the next answers his clanging telephone, the next

rifles through the pages of a massive record book, the next

sits erect in his chair playing his machine like a piano, and

the last, by the window, dusty light streaming across him,

contemplatively taps the end of a pencil onto his desk. This

is KAFKA.

A rather tall young man with a kind, sensitive face.

sensitive perhaps because his eyes, ears, and nose seem

slightly bigger and more inquiring than most, and his gaze

one of almost unrelenting intensity.

He's looking off at something now.

A desk, not very far from his own. But empty. The chair

pushed squarely under it. The typewriter covered.

Kafka is wondering why -- when his concentration is

interrupted.

BURGEL:

Kafka.

Kafka turns to see BURGEL, a creep.

BURGEL:

The keeper of the files is still

waiting for your final summation

of the Erlanger claim.

KAFKA:

I gave it to him yesterday.

BURGEL:

(doesn't understand)

You didn't give it to me.

KAFKA:

No, I left it in his office.

BURGEL:

Did you see him?

KAFKA:

I've never seen him. I don't

believe there is a keeper of the

files.

BURGEL:

He's usually in the storage room

sorting things out. He can't

close the file on a case until he

has the concluding report.

KAFKA:

He has it, he just hasn't noticed

it yet, all right?

BURGEL:

Who's to say he ever will? He's

a timid old man and quite careful

not to tread on anyone's toes --

In fact, I'm the only one he trusts

and he wouldn't even look at a

document if it didn't first come

through me.

Burgel just won't go away. Kafka tries to get on with his

work.

BURGEL:

In an organization as efficient as

ours, if a document once in a great

while gets lost it might never be

found at all.

KAFKA:

(tiring of this)

Burgel, I thought it would be

easier, as long as I was passing --

BURGEL:

But I'm the messenger. An error

like this damages my credibility.

KAFKA:

Your credibility -- yes, it's well

known.

BURGEL:

(flushed)

When I deliver a message the very

act of delivering it, you might say,

gives it an official stamp, and only

in this way are both the sender and

the receiver satisfied that it was

delivered at all.

KAFKA:

I'll commit that to memory.

They stare at each other with mutual antagonism.

BURGEL:

Your position in this firm is not

unassailable.

He waddles away.

KAFKA:

Has one more look over at the empty desk before returning to

his work.

THE OFFICE:

The desks make a checkerboard pattern of the huge floor as

Burgel calculates his path among them.

CUT:

LODGING HOUSE - MIDDAY

Kafka comes up the stairs to the top landing. He knocks on a

door. Waits. Knocks again. Leans a little closer to listen

for a moment, then goes away back down the stairs.

GROUND FLOOR:

Kafka comes through the door that divides the stairs from the

hall, goes to knock on the door of the first apartment down

here.

BIZARRE VOICE:

Yes?

KAFKA:

I'm sorry to disturb you -- I

wonder if you know where my

friend Eduard is?

BIZARRE VOICE:

I can't hear you! -- You'd better

come in.

APARTMENT:

Kafka comes in tentatively, seeing the CONCIERGE in a far

corner of the cluttered room, in bed, covers tucked right up

to her chin.

KAFKA:

-- I didn't want to bother you.

CONCIERGE:

Well, you have. What do you

want?

KAFKA:

(pointing upstairs)

My friend Eduard, I wonder if you've

seen him? He hasn't been in to

work, I thought he might be ill.

CUT:

STAIRS:

The Concierge trudges up to the top floor, Kafka following

guiltily.

KAFKA:

You didn't have to get out of

bed -- I could have taken the key.

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