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German writing
Also by Franz Kafka
published by TSP:
Contemplation
A Hunger Artist
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from A COUNTRY DOCTOR
by Franz Kafka
translated from the German by Kevin Blahut
illustrated by Zoulfiia Gazaeva
A Fratricide
It has been proven that the murder occurred in the following way:
At nine o'clock on a clear, moonlit night, Schmar, the murderer, arrived at the corner where Wese, the victim, would
turn from the street where he had his office onto the street where he lived.
Cold night air, sending a shudder through everyone. But Schmar was wearing only a thin blue suit, and his jacket was
unbuttoned. He did not feel the cold; he was constantly in motion. His weapon, half bayonette, half kitchen knife, was
exposed, and he gripped it tightly. He examined the knife in the moonlight; the blade flashed; not enough for Schmar;
he raked it over the cobbles so that it threw sparks; perhaps he regretted this; to make up for it, he ran the knife
over the sole of his boot like a violin bow; at the same time, standing on one leg and bending forward, he listened to
the sound of the knife and the sound from the destiny-laden side-street.
Why did Private Pallas, who was watching from his second story window, tolerate all this? Human nature is a mystery!
With his collar upturned and his dressing gown covering his broad body, he looked down, shaking his head.
And five buildings further on, on the opposite side of the street, Frau Wese, wearing fox fur over her nightshirt, was
looking out the window to see if her husband was on his way home; this evening he was unusually late.
 Finally there is the sound of the bell in
the clocktower across from Wese's office, too loud for a bell in a clocktower; it rings out over the city and up to the
sky, and Wese, the diligent worker, emerges from the building, still out of sight, announced only by the bell; immediately the
pavement is counting his quiet steps.
Pallas bends forward; he does not want to miss anything. Frau Wese has been reassured by the sound of the bell, and her
window creaks shut. Schmar kneels down; because the rest of his body is covered, he presses only his face and hands
against the stones; while everything else freezes, Schmar radiates heat.
Wese stops right on the border that divides the streets, planting his walking stick on the other side. A momentary
impulse. The night sky has charmed him with its dark blue and its gold. He regards it unknowingly, and unknowingly he
removes his hat and strokes his hair; nothing up above converges to show him the immediate future; everything remains
in its senseless, inscrutable place. In and of itself, it is perfectly reasonable for Wese to continue walking, but he
walks right into Schmar's knife.
"Wese!" screams Schmar, standing on his tiptoes, his arm extended, the knife pointing sharply down. "Wese! Julia waits
in vain!" And Schmar stabs left in the throat and right in the throat and a third time deep in the stomach. Water rats,
when slit open, make a sound much like Wese.
"Done," says Schmar, and throws the blade, the superfluous, bloody weight, against the facade of the nearest building.
"The ecstasy of murder! Relief, inspiration through the shedding of another's blood! Wese, old night shadow, friend,
drinking companion, flows away into the dark earth of the street. Why aren't you just a balloon full of blood, so that
I might sit on you and make you disappear altogether? Not everything has been fulfilled, not all dreams of bloodshed
have ripened, your heavy remains are lying here, blocking the path. What silent question do you mean to pose?"
Pallas, all the venom in his body raging, is standing between the two front doors of his building, which have been
flung open. "Schmar! Schmar! I have seen everything, have overlooked nothing." Pallas and Schmar look each other over.
Pallas is satisfied. Schmar continues looking at him.
Frau Wese hurries to the scene with a crowd of people on either side, her face aged with horror. Her fur coat flies
open; she falls on top of Wese, her body, clad in a nightshirt, belongs to him; the fur, covering the married couple
like the grass on a tomb, belongs to the crowd.
Schmar makes an effort to bite back his revulsion, his mouth pressed to the shoulder of the constable, who
light-footedly leads him away.
© Twisted Spoon Press
translation © Kevin Blahut
illustration © Zoulfiia Gazaeva
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ISBN 978 80 902171 4 0
96 pp.
130 x 180 mm
8 b/w illustrations
hardcover
short fiction
Price of €11.50 includes airmail worldwide
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