Kafka Was the Rage by Anatole Broyard Page B

literalness of young boys I took the word
prospect
in a different sense, as referring to my own prospects, which were as yet wide open.
    I used to bicycle to the park from my side of Brooklyn. It was several miles, but this was nothing on my bike. I chased butterflies with a net and mounted them on cardboard squares. Sometimes I rented a boat with money from my newspaper route and rowed to the end of the lake. What I liked especially about Prospect Park was the fact that, once you were well inside, you couldn’t see buildings, as you always did in Central Park.
    You know, I said to Saul, I used to play here.
    So did I, he said. I probably saw you.
    What did you think of me? How did I impress you?
    Look at that silly goy, he said. What a goyish bicycle.
    I used to catch butterflies. I rowed a boat.
    He smiled. Yes, you would. If I had seen you I would have pitied and envied you.
    He was looking around at the park as if he was taking notes, summing it up, trying to arrive at a definition of the ideal park. He was comparing this one to other parks he had only read about: the Bois de Boulogne,the English Gardens in Munich, the Boboli in Florence. His peculiarities made him so real that I could have hugged him.
    The path rose up to a little hill and I noticed that Saul was breathing hard. He was staring, too, staring at the pavement as if he had to concentrate on walking. This was the first real sign of his sickness and it seemed crazy to go on keeping quiet about it. Saul, I said, what is actually the matter with you? How long will it be until you can come back?
    He took me by the arm, as if I was the one who was sick, and drew me off the path to a bench overlooking the lake. The bench was placed with an unerring sense of rightness. All by itself on a little curve of the bank, it was overhung by a tree that seemed to embrace it.
    Imagine, Saul said when we had settled ourselves, that you’re a character in a well-written and original novel, a person remarkable for your poise, wit, and presence of mind.
    Gladly, I said. I can think of several such novels, dozens of them, in fact. But what am I to be poised and witty about?
    About not making a fuss, he said. I want you to enter into a conspiracy with me, to join a movement, sign a manifesto, against the making of fusses.
    This was alarming, but I kept up the sprightliness. Why should I make a fuss?
    He pulled off the knitted cap. It wasn’t that cold in the sun. His hair was standing up in a funny way. He said, I’m not coming back.
    His words went into my head like a shooting pain and I looked away across the lake. People were strolling along a path on the other side. The lake wasn’t verywide here and I could see the calm, parklike expressions on their faces. A little boy came up from behind us and threw a stone into the water. A pigeon pecked at a candy wrapper and the wind rustled a dismembered newspaper in the wire trash basket. The homeliness of the park, its sweetness, was so piercing that I felt I had been wasting my life.
    When Saul said he wasn’t coming back, I was sure that he had tuberculosis. It was thin, intense people like him who got it. He would have to go to a dry climate, Arizona or New Mexico. I said, It’s TB you have, isn’t it?
    He was squeezing the knitted cap in his hands. He plucked a white cat hair from the nap and let it fall from his fingers. No, he said, I haven’t got TB. If it were only that. His lips went on moving silently beneath his mustache and as I watched it flutter, I wondered whether he would cut it off now that he was sick. A phrase came into my head: The quality of mercy is not strained.
    Saul looked around as if he was afraid of being overheard. He put his hand up and felt his hair. I have leukemia, he said.
    Leukemia? I said. The word was so unexpected. It seemed raucous to me, as if a bird—a tropical bird, a parakeet or a toucan—had cried out from one of the bare trees.
    I know, he said, I know. Why should I have leukemia?