as quietly as the painter, he said, "I think you're contradicting
yourself." "How's that?" asked the painter patiently, leaning back with
a smile. This smile made K. feel as if he were examining not the words
of the painter but seeking out inconsistencies in the procedures of the
court itself. Nonetheless, he continued unabashed and said, "You
remarked earlier that the court cannot be approached with reasoned
proofs, you later restricted this to the open court, and now you go so
far as to say that an innocent man needs no assistance in court. That
entails a contradiction. Moreover, you said earlier that the judges can
be influenced personally but now you insist that an absolute acquittal,
as you call it, can never be attained through personal influence. That
entails a second contradiction." "It's quite easy to clear up these
contradictions," said the painter. "We're talking about two different
things here, there's what it says in the law and there's what I know
from my own experience, you shouldn't get the two confused. I've never
seen it in writing, but the law does, of course, say on the one hand
that the innocent will be set free, but on the other hand it doesn't
say that the judges can be influenced. But in my experience it's the
other way round. I don't know of any absolute acquittals but I do know
of many times when a judge has been influenced. It's possible, of
course, that there was no innocence in any of the cases I know about.
But is that likely? Not a single innocent defendant in so many cases?
When I was a boy I used to listen closely to my father when he told us
about court cases at home, and the judges that came to his studio talked
about the court, in our circles nobody talks about anything else; I
hardly ever got the chance to go to court myself but always made use of
it when I could, I've listened to countless trials at important stages
in their development, I've followed them closely as far as they could
be followed, and I have to say that I've never seen a single
acquittal." "So. Not a single acquittal," said K., as if talking to
himself and his hopes. "That confirms the impression I already have of
the court. So there's no point in it from this side either. They could
replace the whole court with a single hangman." "You shouldn't
generalise," said the painter, dissatisfied, "I've only been talking
about my own experience." "Well that's enough," said K., "or have you
heard of any acquittals that happened earlier?" "They say there have
been some acquittals earlier," the painter answered, "but it's very hard
to be sure about it. The courts don't make their final conclusions
public, not even the judges are allowed to know about them, so that all
we know about these earlier cases are just legends. But most of them did
involve absolute acquittals, you can believe that, but they can't be
proved. On the other hand, you shouldn't forget all about them either,
I'm sure there is some truth to them, and they are very beautiful, I've
painted a few pictures myself depicting these legends." "My assessment
will not be altered by mere legends," said K. "I don't suppose it's
possible to cite these legends in court, is it?" The painter laughed.
"No, you can't cite them in court," he said. "Then there's no point in
talking about them," said K., he wanted, for the time being, to accept
anything the painter told him, even if he thought it unlikely or
contradicted what he had been told by others. He did not now have the
time to examine the truth of everything the painter said or even to
disprove it, he would have achieved as much as he could if the painter
would help him in any way even if his help would not be decisive. As a
result, he said, "So let's pay no more attention to absolute acquittal,
but you mentioned two other possibilities." "Apparent acquittal and
deferment. They're the only possibilities," said the painter. "But
before we talk about them, would you not like to take your coat off? You
must be hot." "Yes," said K., who until then had paid attention to
nothing but the painter's explanations, but now that he had had the heat
pointed out to him his brow began to sweat heavily. "It's almost
unbearable." The painter nodded as if he understood K.'s discomfort very
well. "Could we not open the window?" asked K. "No," said the painter.
"It's only a fixed pane of glass, it can't be opened." K. now realised
that all this time he had been hoping the painter would suddenly go over
to the window and pull it open. He had prepared himself even for the fog
that he would breathe in through his open mouth. The thought that here
he was entirely cut off from the air made him feel dizzy. He tapped
lightly on the bedspread beside him and, with a weak voice, said, "That
is very inconvenient and unhealthy." "Oh no," said the painter in
defence of his window, "as it can't be opened this room retains the heat
better than if the window were double glazed, even though it's only a
single pane. There's not much need to air the room as there's so much
ventilation through the gaps in the wood, but when I do want to I can
open one of my doors, or even both of them." K. was slightly consoled
by this explanation and looked around to see where the second door was.
The painter saw him do so and said, "It's behind you, I had to hide it
behind the bed." Only then was K. able to see the little door in the
wall. "It's really much too small for a studio here," said the painter,
as if he wanted to anticipate an objection K. would make. "I had to
arrange things as well as I could. That's obviously a very bad place for
the bed, in front of the door. For instance when the judge I'm painting
at present comes he always comes through the door by the bed, and I've
even given him a key to this door so that he can wait for me here in the
studio when I'm not home. Although nowadays he usually comes early in
the morning when I'm still asleep. And of course, it always wakes me up
when I hear the door opened beside the bed, however fast asleep I am. If
you could hear the way I curse him as he climbs over my bed in the
morning you'd lose all respect for judges. I suppose I could take the
key away from him but that'd only make things worse. It only takes a
tiny effort to break any of the doors here off their hinges." All the
time the painter was speaking, K. was considering whether he should take
off his coat, but he finally realised that, if he didn't do so, he would
be quite unable to stay here any longer, so he took off his frock coat
and lay it on his knee so that he could put it back on again as soon as
the conversation was over. He had hardly done this when one of the girls
called out, "Now he's taken his coat off!" and they could all be heard
pressing around the gaps in the planks to see the spectacle for
themselves. "The girls think I'm going to paint your portrait," said the
painter, "and that's why you're taking your coat off." "I see," said K.,
only slightly amused by this, as he felt little better than he had
before even though he now sat in his shirtsleeves. With some irritation
he asked, "What did you say the two other possibilities were?" He had
already forgotten the terms used. "Apparent acquittal and deferment,"
said the painter. "It's up to you which one you choose. You can get
either of them if I help you, but it'll take some effort of course, the
difference between them is that apparent acquittal needs concentrated
effort for a while and that deferment takes much less effort but it has
to be sustained. Now then, apparent acquittal. If that's what you want
I'll write down an assertion of your innocence on a piece of paper. The
text for an assertion of this sort was passed down to me from my father
and it's quite unassailable. I take this assertion round to the judges I
know. So I'll start off with the one I'm currently painting, and put
the assertion to him when he comes for his sitting this evening. I'll
lay the assertion in front of him, explain that you're innocent and give
him my personal guarantee of it. And that's not just a superficial
guarantee, it's a real one and it's binding." The painter's eyes seemed
to show some reproach of K. for wanting to impose that sort of
responsibility on him. "That would be very kind of you," said K. "And
would the judge then believe you and nonetheless not pass an absolute
acquittal?" "It's like I just said," answered the painter. "And anyway,
it's not entirely sure that all the judges would believe me, many of
them, for instance, might want me to bring you to see them personally.
So then you'd have to come along too. But at least then, if that
happens, the matter is half way won, especially as I'd teach you in
advance exactly how you'd need to act with the judge concerned, of
course. What also happens, though, is that there are some judges who'll
turn me down in advance, and that's worse. I'll certainly make several
attempts, but still, we'll have to forget about them, but at least we
can afford to do that as no one judge can pass the decisive verdict.
Then when I've got enough judges' signatures on this document I take it
to the judge who's concerned with your case. I might even have his
signature already, in which case things develop a bit quicker than they
would do otherwise. But there aren't usually many hold ups from then
on, and that's the time that the defendant can feel most confident.
It's odd, but true, that people feel more confidence in this time than
they do after they've been acquitted. There's no particular exertion
needed now. When he has the document asserting the defendant's
innocence, guaranteed by a number of other judges, the judge can acquit
you without any worries, and although there are still several
formalities to be gone through there's no doubt that that's what he'll
do as a favour to me and several other acquaintances. You, however, walk
out the court and you're free." "So, then I'll be free," said K.,
hesitantly. "That's right," said the painter, "but only apparently free
or, to put it a better way, temporarily free, as the most junior judges,
the ones I know, they don't have the right to give the final acquittal.
Only the highest judge can do that, in the court that's quite out of
reach for you, for me and for all of us. We don't know how things look
there and, incidentally, we don't want to know. The right to acquit
people is a major privilege and our judges don't have it, but they do
have the right to free people from the indictment. That's to say, if
they're freed in this way then for the time being the charge is
withdrawn but it's still hanging over their heads and it only takes an
order from higher up to bring it back into force. And as I'm in such
good contact with the court I can also tell you how the difference
between absolute and apparent acquittal is described, just in a
superficial way, in the directives to the court offices. If there's an
absolute acquittal all proceedings should stop, everything disappears
from the process, not just the indictment but the trial and even the
acquittal disappears, everything just disappears. With an apparent
acquittal it's different. When that happens, nothing has changed except
that the case for your innocence, for your acquittal and the grounds for
the acquittal have been made stronger. Apart from that, proceedings go
on as before, the court offices continue their business and the case
gets passed to higher courts, gets passed back down to the lower courts
and so on, backwards and forwards, sometimes faster, sometimes slower,
to and fro. It's impossible to know exactly what's happening while this
is going on. Seen from outside it can sometimes seem that everything has
been long since forgotten, the documents have been lost and the
acquittal is complete. No-one familiar with the court would believe it.
No documents ever get lost, the court forgets nothing. One day--no-one
expects it--some judge or other picks up the documents and looks more
closely at them, he notices that this particular case is still active,
and orders the defendant's immediate arrest. I've been talking here as
if there's a long delay between apparent acquittal and re-arrest, that
is quite possible and I do know of cases like that, but it's just as
likely that the defendant goes home after he's been acquitted and finds
somebody there waiting to re-arrest him. Then, of course, his life as a
free man is at an end." "And does the trial start over again?" asked K.,
finding it hard to believe. "The trial will always start over again,"
said the painter, "but there is, once again as before, the possibility
of getting an apparent acquittal. Once again, the accused has to muster
all his strength and mustn't give up." The painter said that last phrase
possibly as a result of the impression that K., whose shoulders had
dropped somewhat, gave on him. "But to get a second acquittal," asked
K., as if in anticipation of further revelations by the painter, "is
that not harder to get than the first time?" "As far as that's
concerned," answered the painter, "there's nothing you can say for
certain. You mean, do you, that the second arrest would have an adverse
influence on the judge and the verdict he passes on the defendant.
That's not how it happens. When the acquittal is passed the judges are
already aware that re-arrest is likely. So when it happens it has hardly
any effect. But there are countless other reasons why the judges' mood
and their legal acumen in the case can be altered, and efforts to obtain
the second acquittal must therefore be suited to the new conditions, and
generally just as vigorous as the first." "But this second acquittal
will once again not be final," said K., shaking his head. "Of course
not," said the painter, "the second acquittal is followed by the third
arrest, the third acquittal by the fourth arrest and so on. That's what
is meant by the term apparent acquittal." K. was silent. "You clearly
don't think an apparent acquittal offers much advantage," said the
painter, "perhaps deferment would suit you better. Would you like me to
explain what deferment is about?" K. nodded. The painter had leant back
and spread himself out in his chair, his nightshirt was wide open, he
had pushed his hand inside and was stroking his breast and his sides.
"Deferment," said the painter, looking vaguely in front of himself for a
while as if trying to find a perfectly appropriate explanation,
"deferment consists of keeping proceedings permanently in their earliest
stages. To do that, the accused and those helping him need to keep in
continuous personal contact with the court, especially those helping
him. I repeat, this doesn't require so much effort as getting an
apparent acquittal, but it probably requires a lot more attention. You
must never let the trial out of your sight, you have to go and see the
appropriate judge at regular intervals as well as when something in
particular comes up and, whatever you do, you have to try and remain
friendly with him; if you don't know the judge personally you have to
influence him through the judges you do know, and you have to do it
without giving up on the direct discussions. As long as you don't fail
to do any of these things you can be reasonably sure the trial won't get
past its first stages. The trial doesn't stop, but the defendant is
almost as certain of avoiding conviction as if he'd been acquitted.
Compared with an apparent acquittal, deferment has the advantage that
the defendant's future is less uncertain, he's safe from the shock of
being suddenly re-arrested and doesn't need to fear the exertions and
stress involved in getting an apparent acquittal just when everything
else in his life would make it most difficult. Deferment does have
certain disadvantages of its own though, too, and they shouldn't be
under-estimated. I don't mean by this that the defendant is never free,
he's never free in the proper sense of the word with an apparent
acquittal either. There's another disadvantage. Proceedings can't be
prevented from moving forward unless there are some at least ostensible
reasons given. So something needs to seem to be happening when looked at
from the outside. This means that from time to time various injunctions
have to be obeyed, the accused has to be questioned, investigations have
to take place and so on. The trial's been artificially constrained
inside a tiny circle, and it has to be continuously spun round within
it. And that, of course, brings with it certain unpleasantnesses for the
accused, although you shouldn't imagine they're all that bad. All of
this is just for show, the interrogations, for instance, they're only
very short, if you ever don't have the time or don't feel like going to
them you can offer an excuse, with some judges you can even arrange the
injunctions together a long time in advance, in essence all it means is
that, as the accused, you have to report to the judge from time to
time." Even while the painter was speaking those last words K. had laid
his coat over his arm and had stood up. Immediately, from outside the
door, there was a cry of "He's standing up now!" "Are you leaving
already?" asked the painter, who had also stood up. "It must be the air
that's driving you out. I'm very sorry about that. There's still a lot I
need to tell you. I had to put everything very briefly but I hope at
least it was all clear." "Oh yes," said K., whose head was aching from
the effort of listening. Despite this affirmation the painter summed it
all up once more, as if he wanted to give K. something to console him on
his way home. "Both have in common that they prevent the defendant being
convicted," he said. "But they also prevent his being properly
acquitted," said K. quietly, as if ashamed to acknowledge it. "You've
got it, in essence," said the painter quickly. K. placed his hand on his
winter overcoat but could not bring himself to put it on. Most of all he
would have liked to pack everything together and run out to the fresh
air. Not even the girls could induce him to put his coat on, even though
they were already loudly telling each other that he was doing so. The
painter still had to interpret K.'s mood in some way, so he said, "I
expect you've deliberately avoided deciding between my suggestions yet.
That's good. I would even have advised against making a decision
straight away. There's no more than a hair's breadth of difference
between the advantages and disadvantages. Everything has to be carefully
weighed up. But the most important thing is you shouldn't lose too much
time." "I'll come back here again soon," said K., who had suddenly
decided to put his frock coat on, threw his overcoat over his shoulder
and hurried over to the door behind which the girls now began to scream.
K. thought he could even see the screaming girls through the door.
"Well, you'll have to keep your word," said the painter, who had not
followed him, "otherwise I'll come to the bank to ask about it myself."
"Will you open this door for me," said K. pulling at the handle which,
as he noticed from the resistance, was being held tightly by the girls
on the other side. "Do you want to be bothered by the girls?" asked the
painter. "It's better if you use the other way out," he said, pointing
to the door behind the bed. K. agreed to this and jumped back to the
bed. But instead of opening that door the painter crawled under the bed
and from underneath it asked K., "Just a moment more, would you not like
to see a picture I could sell to you?" K. did not want to be impolite,
the painter really had taken his side and promised to help him more in
the future, and because of K.'s forgetfulness there had been no mention
of any payment for the painter's help, so K. could not turn him down now
and allowed him to show him the picture, even though he was quivering
with impatience to get out of the studio. From under the bed, the
painter withdrew a pile of unframed paintings. They were so covered in
dust that when the painter tried to blow it off the one on top the dust
swirled around in front of K.'s eyes, robbing him of breath for some
time. "Moorland landscape," said the painter passing the picture to K.
It showed two sickly trees, well separated from each other in dark
grass. In the background there was a multi-coloured sunset. "That's
nice," said K. "I'll buy it." K. expressed himself in this curt way
without any thought, so he was glad when the painter did not take this
amiss and picked up a second painting from the floor. "This is a
counterpart to the first picture," said the painter. Perhaps it had been
intended as a counterpart, but there was not the slightest difference to
be seen between it and the first picture, there were the trees, there
the grass and there the sunset. But this was of little importance to K.
"They are beautiful landscapes," he said, "I'll buy them both and hang
them in my office." "You seem to like this subject," said the painter,
picking up a third painting, "good job I've still got another, similar
picture here." The picture though, was not similar, rather it was
exactly the same moorland landscape. The painter was fully exploiting
this opportunity to sell off his old pictures. "I'll take this one too,"
said K. "How much do the three paintings cost?" "We can talk about that
next time," said the painter. "You're in a hurry now, and we'll still be
in contact. And besides, I'm glad you like the paintings, I'll give you
all the paintings I've got down here. They're all moorland landscapes,
I've painted a lot of moorland landscapes. A lot of people don't like
that sort of picture because they're too gloomy, but there are others,
and you're one of them, who love gloomy themes." But K. was not in the
mood to hear about the professional experiences of this painter cum
beggar. "Wrap them all up!" he called out, interrupting the painter as
he was speaking, "my servant will come to fetch them in the morning."
"There's no need for that," said the painter. "I expect I can find a
porter for you who can go with you now." And, at last, he leant over the
bed and unlocked the door. "Just step on the bed, don't worry about
that," said the painter, "that's what everyone does who comes in here."
Even without this invitation, K. had shown no compunction in already
placing his foot in the middle of the bed covers, then he looked out
through the open door and drew his foot back again. "What is that?" he
asked the painter. "What are you so surprised at?" he asked, surprised
in his turn. "Those are court offices. Didn't you know there are court
offices here. There are court offices in almost every attic, why should
this building be any different? Even my studio is actually one of the
court offices but the court put it at my disposal." It was not so much
finding court offices even here that shocked K., he was mainly shocked
at himself, at his own naïvety in court matters. It seemed to him that
one of the most basic rules governing how a defendant should behave was
always to be prepared, never allow surprises, never to look,
unsuspecting, to the right when the judge stood beside him to his
left--and this was the very basic rule that he was continually
violating. A long corridor extended in front of him, air blew in from it
which, compared with the air in the studio, was refreshing. There were
benches set along each side of the corridor just as in the waiting area
for the office he went to himself. There seemed to be precise rules
governing how offices should be equipped. There did not seem to be many
people visiting the offices that day. There was a man there, half
sitting, half laying, his face was buried in his arm on the bench and he
seemed to be sleeping; another man was standing in the half-dark at the
end of the corridor. K. now climbed over the bed, the painter followed
him with the pictures. They soon came across a servant of the court--K.
was now able to recognise all the servants of the court from the gold
buttons they wore on their civilian clothes below the normal
buttons--and the painter instructed him to go with K. carrying the
pictures. K. staggered more than he walked, his handkerchief pressed
over his mouth. They had nearly reached the exit when the girls stormed
in on them, so K. had not been able to avoid them. They had clearly seen
that the second door of the studio had been opened and had gone around
to impose themselves on him from this side. "I can't come with you any
further!" called out the painter with a laugh as the girls pressed in.
"Goodbye, and don't hesitate too long!" K. did not even look round at
him. Once on the street he took the first cab he came across. He now had
to get rid of the servant, whose gold button continually caught his eye
even if it caught no-one else's. As a servant, the servant of the court
was going to sit on the coach-box. But K. chased him down from there. It
was already well into the afternoon when K. arrived in front of the
bank. He would have liked to leave the pictures in the cab but feared
there might be some occasion when he would have to let the painter see
he still had them. So he had the pictures taken to his office and locked
them in the lowest drawer of his desk so that he could at least keep
them safe from the deputy director's view for the next few days.
Chapter Eight
Block, the businessman--Dismissing the lawyer
K. had at last made the decision to withdraw his defence from the
lawyer. It was impossible to remove his doubts as to whether this was
the right decision, but this was outweighed by his belief in its
necessity. This decision, on the day he intended to go to see the
lawyer, took a lot of the strength he needed for his work, he worked
exceptionally slowly, he had to remain in his office a long time, and
it was already past ten o'clock when he finally stood in front of the
lawyer's front door. Even before he rang he considered whether it might
not be better to give the lawyer notice by letter or telephone, a
personal conversation would certainly be very difficult. Nonetheless,
K. did not actually want to do without it, if he gave notice by any
other means it would be received in silence or with a few formulated
words, and unless Leni could discover anything K. would never learn how
the lawyer had taken his dismissal and what its consequences might be,
in the lawyer's not unimportant opinion. But sitting in front of him
and taken by surprise by his dismissal, K. would be able easily to
infer everything he wanted from the lawyer's face and behaviour, even if
he could not be induced to say very much. It was not even out of the
question that K. might, after all, be persuaded that it would be best
to leave his defence to the lawyer and withdraw his dismissal.
As usual, there was at first no response to K.'s ring at the door.
"Leni could be a bit quicker," thought K. But he could at least be glad
there was nobody else interfering as usually happened, be it the man in
his nightshirt or anyone else who might bother him. As K. pressed on
the button for the second time he looked back at the other door, but
this time it, too, remained closed. At last, two eyes appeared at the
spy-hatch in the lawyer's door, although they weren't Leni's eyes.
Someone unlocked the door, but kept himself pressed against it as he
called back inside, "It's him!", and only then did he open the door
properly. K. pushed against the door, as behind him he could already
hear the key being hurriedly turned in the lock of the door to the
other flat. When the door in front of him finally opened, he stormed
straight into the hallway. Through the corridor which led between the
rooms he saw Leni, to whom the warning cry of the door opener had been
directed, still running away in her nightshirt. He looked at her for a
moment and then looked round at the person who had opened the door. It
was a small, wizened man with a full beard, he held a candle in his
hand. "Do you work here?" asked K. "No," answered the man, "I don't
belong here at all, the lawyer is only representing me, I'm here on
legal business." "Without your coat?" asked K., indicating the man's
deficiency of dress with a gesture of his hand. "Oh, do forgive me!"
said the man, and he looked at himself in the light of the candle he was
holding as if he had not known about his appearance until then. "Is Leni
your lover?" asked K. curtly. He had set his legs slightly apart, his
hands, in which he held his hat, were behind his back. Merely by being
in possession of a thick overcoat he felt his advantage over this thin
little man. "Oh God," he said and, shocked, raised one hand in front of
his face as if in defence, "no, no, what can you be thinking?" "You look
honest enough," said K. with a smile, "but come along anyway." K.
indicated with his hat which way the man was to go and let him go ahead
of him. "What is your name then?" asked K. on the way. "Block. I'm a
businessman," said the small man, twisting himself round as he thus
introduced himself, although K. did not allow him to stop moving. "Is
that your real name?" asked K. "Of course it is," was the man's reply,
"why do you doubt it?" "I thought you might have some reason to keep
your name secret," said K. He felt himself as much at liberty as is
normally only felt in foreign parts when speaking with people of lower
standing, keeping everything about himself to himself, speaking only
casually about the interests of the other, able to raise him to a level
above one's own, but also able, at will, to let him drop again. K.
stopped at the door of the lawyer's office, opened it and, to the
businessman who had obediently gone ahead, called, "Not so fast! Bring
some light here!" K. thought Leni might have hidden in here, he let the
businessman search in every corner, but the room was empty. In front of
the picture of the judge K. took hold of the businessman's braces to
stop him moving on. "Do you know him?" he asked, pointing upwards with
his finger. The businessman lifted the candle, blinked as he looked up
and said, "It's a judge." "An important judge?" asked K., and stood to
the side and in front of the businessman so that he could observe what
impression the picture had on him. The businessman was looking up in
admiration. "He's an important judge." "You don't have much insight,"
said K. "He is the lowest of the lowest examining judges." "I remember
now," said the businessman as he lowered the candle, "that's what I've
already been told." "Well of course you have," called out K., "I'd
forgotten about it, of course you would already have been told." "But
why, why?" asked the businessman as he moved forwards towards the door,
propelled by the hands of K. Outside in the corridor K. said, "You know
where Leni's hidden, do you?" "Hidden?" said the businessman, "No, but
she might be in the kitchen cooking soup for the lawyer." "Why didn't
you say that immediately?" asked K. "I was going to take you there, but
you called me back again," answered the businessman, as if confused by
the contradictory commands. "You think you're very clever, don't you,"
said K., "now take me there!" K. had never been in the kitchen, it was
surprisingly big and very well equipped. The stove alone was three
times bigger than normal stoves, but it was not possible to see any
detail beyond this as the kitchen was at the time illuminated by no more
than a small lamp hanging by the entrance. At the stove stood Leni, in a
white apron as always, breaking eggs into a pot standing on a spirit
lamp. "Good evening, Josef," she said with a glance sideways. "Good
evening," said K., pointing with one hand to a chair in a corner which
the businessman was to sit on, and he did indeed sit down on it. K.
however went very close behind Leni's back, leant over her shoulder and
asked, "Who is this man?" Leni put one hand around K. as she stirred the
soup with the other, she drew him forward toward herself and said, "He's
a pitiful character, a poor businessman by the name of Block. Just look
at him." The two of them looked back over their shoulders. The
businessman was sitting on the chair that K. had directed him to, he
had extinguished the candle whose light was no longer needed and pressed
on the wick with his fingers to stop the smoke. "You were in your
nightshirt," said K., putting his hand on her head and turning it back
towards the stove. She was silent. "Is he your lover?" asked K. She was
about to take hold of the pot of soup, but K. took both her hands and
said, "Answer me!" She said, "Come into the office, I'll explain
everything to you." "No," said K., "I want you to explain it here." She
put her arms around him and wanted to kiss him. K., though, pushed her
away and said, "I don't want you to kiss me now." "Josef," said Leni,
looking at K. imploringly but frankly in the eyes, "you're not going to
be jealous of Mr. Block now, are you. Rudi," she then said, turning to
the businessman, "help me out will you, I'm being suspected of
something, you can see that, leave the candle alone." It had looked as
though Mr. Block had not been paying attention but he had been
following closely. "I don't even know why you might be jealous," he
said ingenuously. "Nor do I, actually," said K., looking at the
businessman with a smile. Leni laughed out loud and while K. was not
paying attention took the opportunity of embracing him and whispering,
"Leave him alone, now, you can see what sort of person he is. I've been
helping him a little bit because he's an important client of the
lawyer's, and no other reason. And what about you? Do you want to speak
to the lawyer at this time of day? He's very unwell today, but if you
want I'll tell him you're here. But you can certainly spend the night
with me. It's so long since you were last here, even the lawyer has been
asking about you. Don't neglect your case! And I've got some things to
tell you that I've learned about. But now, before anything else, take
your coat off!" She helped him off with his coat, took the hat off his
head, ran with the things into the hallway to hang them up, then she ran
back and saw to the soup. "Do you want me to tell him you're here
straight away or take him his soup first?" "Tell him I'm here first,"
said K. He was in a bad mood, he had originally intended a detailed
discussion of his business with Leni, especially the question of his
giving the lawyer notice, but now he no longer wanted to because of the
presence of the businessman. Now he considered his affair too important
to let this little businessman take part in it and perhaps change some
of his decisions, and so he called Leni back even though she was already
on her way to the lawyer. "Bring him his soup first," he said, "I want
him to get his strength up for the discussion with me, he'll need it."
"You're a client of the lawyer's too, aren't you," said the businessman
quietly from his corner as if he were trying to find this out. It was
not, however, taken well. "What business is that of yours?" said K., and
Leni said, "Will you be quiet.--I'll take him his soup first then, shall
I?" And she poured the soup into a dish. "The only worry then is that
he might go to sleep soon after he's eaten." "What I've got to say to
him will keep him awake," said K., who still wanted to intimate that he
intended some important negotiations with the lawyer, he wanted Leni to
ask him what it was and only then to ask her advice. But instead, she
just promptly carried out the order he had given her. When she went
over to him with the dish she deliberately brushed against him and
whispered, "I'll tell him you're here as soon as he's eaten the soup so
that I can get you back as soon as possible." "Just go," said K., "just
go." "Be a bit more friendly," she said and, still holding the dish,
turned completely round once more in the doorway.
K. watched her as she went; the decision had finally been made that the
lawyer was to be dismissed, it was probably better that he had not been
able to discuss the matter any more with Leni beforehand; she hardly
understood the complexity of the matter, she would certainly have
advised him against it and perhaps would even have prevented him from
dismissing the lawyer this time, he would have remained in doubt and
unease and eventually have carried out his decision after a while
anyway as this decision was something he could not avoid. The sooner it
was carried out the more harm would be avoided. And moreover, perhaps
the businessman had something to say on the matter.