Chapter 4: The shifting of things

Lenka led us to the astronomical clock that towered above us. She pointed out its features – the apostles, dial and, most interesting to me, the skeleton of death with the bell cord in one hand and hourglass in the other.

In front of the clock, we waited. And waited. And….

“Why aren’t we going elsewhere?”

“Oh you need to check this out. Every hour the clock rings.”

I was unimpressed. We had already wasted ten minutes and had to wait another three. But I did not lead the tour, so I was forced to iwait.

CREEEEKKKKK!

The minute hand moved obnoxiously loud to the hour as the ground around us started shaking. It was shaking so hard, the cobblestones were flying at least an inch above ground. I was startled, but everyone around me was unmoved. The ringing proceeded and the skeleton danced around in a circle for the entire sixty seconds of the eleventh hour. When it all ceased, I noticed that everyone around me had shifted approximately a shoulder’s width away from the clock – everyone but me. Was I going crazy?

“That was pretty magnificent wasn’t it?” asked Lenka.

Everyone laughed.  I did not understand whether she was being sarcastic; my confusion made it difficult to interpret.

Lenka then led us towards the Jewish Quarter, as she told us the history of the city – how it came to be, flourished, suffered, and was rebuilt. She made me want to study European history with as much detail so I could also tell people such eloquent stories.

She stopped. Once we had all gathered around her in a tight semi-circle, she stepped onto a ledge and began speaking from the lush labyrinths of her memory:

"The road on which I rode was rocky, and inclined considerably, but this is what appealed to me, and with the steepness, I rocked. As soon as my friend stumbled, I snatched him by his collar, and when he sighed, I punched him in the head..."

Her words rang like Christmas bells; they bounced onto the twelve-foot tall bronze sculpture standing alongside her. With each passing word, the sculpture rumbled. I noticed the feet of the headless figure trying to free themselves of the platform; he struggled. His arms began flailing. Kafka, who was sitting atop the headless figure, started awakening – he started bouncing like a little kid. Then, the headless figure ripped his left foot free – soon thereafter, the right. He stretched out his arms like a gorilla ready to attack and began walking down the street we were standing on, in the opposite direction, with Kafka still atop, bouncing.

Again, everyone around me was unphased; they all were still listening to Lenka recite her memorized lines as all this was happening. I couldn’t believe I was the only one who had noticed this. But I thought it too rude to interrupt her in the midst of her recitation.

When she was done, she asked if anyone knew what she had just recited. I, wanting to confirm I still existed, blurted out, “Description of a Struggle."

“Very good!”

“Originally, Kafka was not appreciated in Garpue, despite being born here. He was much more known in Linber, which is where he often traveled. They loved him so much there, they would host grand welcoming parties for him. In the past 20 years, however, there has been a significant growth in Kafka appreciation...”

”In fact, about a decade ago, this sculpture was built to pay homage to his life’s work. However, the most peculiar thing occurred a couple years back. The sculpture artist, Jaroslav Rona, often visited the site to inquire as to what people thought about the sculpture. On one day's visit, he found, to his surprise, there was nothing left standing other than two footprints.”

I looked to where the statue had torn free, and in fact there were just two massive footprints. Beyond the footprints, there were crumbles of cobblestone tracing the headless figure’s path. Curious as to where this statue was determined to go, I decided to follow.

“I’m going to go try to find a bathroom,” I told Esteban.

I had no guarantee I would find my way back to the group, but for some reason I was not worried.