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Dinner with Kafka.

At the dining table, I sat opposite to Kafka, contemplating my invitation to invite my old

friend over dinner. I looked at him and he looked at me he looked at me, his beady eyes

appearing to watch my every move, almost as if he thought I might make a sudden and

unexpected move or gesture.

Shall we begin? I asked.

I watched with mild distaste as Kafka slurped his soup with every tasting. It was as though

he had neither eaten soup before or had never been taught good table etiquette, both of

which I knew to be untrue. However, there was a time when Kafkas manners and manner

were both impeccable, if not fastidious. Nevertheless, I had to concede that time and times

change a man, and his manners.

Kafkas soup was as much around his mouth as it was in the soup bowl. In addition, he

gulped loudly as he swallowed every mouthful, something that in any polite company would

promote stares and indignation. However, for me, both the sound and the sight of Kafka

eating was something I had become use to over time. He was after all my long-time friend,

and friends tolerate the social improprieties of their friends.

So, how are you this evening Kafka? I said belatedly.

Im fine, he replied in a garbled voice, as the soup still partially filled his mouth.

And how is the latest novel coming along. Is everything going well? I asked.

Kafka began to talk, elucidating the agony and ecstasy of being a novelist. However, I

stopped listening almost before he had uttered his first sentence I had heard the narrative

many time before. Instead, and almost immediately, his had jacket transfixed me, causing

me sit there mouthing my soup, pretending to listen, yet, all the time staring at his jacket.

Im not sure why I found his jacket so intriguing, except for the fact that the more I looked at

its dark brown hues and deep blacks the more I became fascinated by its subtle shades of

browns and black, the smooth blends; truly, the workmanship was incredible.

.And of course I refuse to even contemplate what that might mean, said Kafka, suddenly

and incomprehensibly as his voice flashed itself back into my consciousness.

I concurred, I should think not, I said in a matter of fact tone. Speaking to him as though I

had heard everything, he had said.

I must say, I do admire your jacket, is it new? . I asked with a slight hesitation on my

voice, thinking that he might realize I had not really been listening to him.

Ah! He said, with a gratified nod of agreement. Yes, it arrived just last week. Marvellous

is it not? The other one had become a little shabby and, frankly had become just a little too

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tight. I had obviously grown out of it, so it was, practically, falling off my back. Must be as a

result of all this good food you keep serving me. Kafka chuckled at his own amusement.

Most recently, happiness was a rare thing to see in Kafka, besides which, right now, Kafka

had very little in his life to be amused about. Once an easy-going man, with a brooding

mind, careful thinking, and a light, open personality, Kafka had changed to being somewhat

tetchy, nervous, and some might say even a little paranoid

Moreover, when he and I walked and talked he would stroll in a rather deliberate,

pedestrian manner, carefully and at a pace in keeping with good manners. Now, however,

Kafka had changed to become a person more nervous, less focused on matters at hand, and

who seemed to scurry, edgily, even nervously, everywhere he went.

These days, we rarely talked of politics or even read newspapers together, as we once had.

Indeed, Kafka had, it seemed, even developed a phobia of newspapers, he had gone so far

as to banish all newspapers from his house or even permit anyone carrying a newspaper to

enter his home. I longed for the return of my friend of old, when we would sit in front of

the home fire, smoking a cigar reading the newspapers and idly passing time talking of

politics and novels. It seemed that everything about him had changed.

Talking of food, I said with a mild sense of urgency, take a look at this. I pointed to the

middle of the table where, hidden beneath a silver platter, sat our main course.

Kafkas eyes seemed to look at the dish, look at me, and practically everything in the room

all at the same time. I could not tell whether his gaze focused on the silver platter or

something else was distracting him on the other side of the room. Undeterred, I leaned

over to the centre of the table and lifted the lid of the platter, revealing a large piece raw of

bloody meat garnished with rotting food scraps. While the food scraps were relatively

fresh, the meat was undeniably not - a fact confirmed by a thin, acrid smell of decaying

flesh.

I looked at my friend. His mouth fell open at the sight. He appeared to be salivating at the

display of raw meat in particular, as two hands went up to each side of his mouth and wiped

away a thin trail of spittle. This is splendid, just splendid, he said in an excited tone. May

I, he said, gesturing towards the meat eagerly.

I smiled and nodded my consent, at which Kafka reached across the table with two hands,

picked up the flesh, placed it in his mouth, and started to suck on the bloody, raw meat

eagerly.

This is just delicious, he said. His voice muffled by the beef. My compliments to the

chef Kafka mumbled between the loud slurping caused his sucking the meat and licking the

blood from meat surface.

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I was delighted that Kafka was happy with the meal. Since finishing his last novel he had

become a changed man; Metamorphosis had taken a lot out of him. Increasingly, morose

and depressed it was good to see my friend happy at such a simple offering.

It took several hours, but eventually Kafka finished the raw meat, congealed blood (which

now not only covered his face and hands but also some of his legs). That was a superb

meal, said Kafka, as a rested back in his chair, clearly sated. He folded his legs in front of

him and began stroking each of them in turn, meticulously cleaning away every scrap of

food that had fallen.

I knew my friend would not stay much longer. These days once, he had finished his meal he

was keen to get back home, where he felt safe. Once he had cleaned himself, Kafka

announced it was time for him to leave. As he stood up the carapace of his hard arched

back glistened in the light and his mosaic of eyes reflected my image a hundred times over

a web of reflections glistening in the lamp light.

I had a wonderful evening, my dear Max, said Kafka, his antennae waving with

appreciation. As he stretched out his hand, I took shook it in the usual manner avoiding

the sharp barbs that protruded along his arm.

Kafka left me much as he had arrived scurrying along the hallway, stopping several times

to briefly inspect or touch some object or other, before continuing on his way. As I closed

the door behind him, I could only wonder at the trial that his metamorphosis had become.