KAFKA: Max.
BROD: I hoped you were sleeping.
KAFKA: Max.
BROD: What?
KAFKA: I think I shall die soon.
Did you hear me, Max?
BROD: Let’s cross that bridge when you come to it. You’ve said you were dying before.
KAFKA: I know. But I won’t let you down this time, I promise.
BROD: Kafka, I want you tolive.
KAFKA: Forgive me. If I die …
BROD: What’s this if? He says he’s dying then suddenly it’s ‘if’. Don’t you mean ‘when’?
KAFKA: When I die I want you to do me a favour.
BROD: Come to the funeral, you mean? Look, this is Max, your best friend. I’ll be up there in the front row.
KAFKA: No. The funeral can take care of itself.
BROD: Pardon me for saying so, but that’s typical of your whole attitude to life. A funeral does not take care of itself.
KAFKA: (Overlapping) I know, Max. I know.
BROD: Take the eats for a start. You’re dealing withgrief-stricken people. They want to be able to weep secure in the knowledge that once you’re in the grave the least they’ll be offered will be a choice of sandwiches.
KAFKA: But after the funeral … this is very important … I want you to promise me something, Max. You must burn everything I’ve ever written.
BROD: No.
KAFKA: Stories, novels, letters. Everything.
BROD: What about the royalties?
KAFKA: I’ve published one novel and a few short stories. Does it matter?
BROD: But where would they go in a bereavement situation?
KAFKA: My father, where else? Which is another reason to burn them. I’ve got stuff in technical periodicals to do with my work at the insurance company. Don’t worry about that …
BROD: But the rest I burn, right?
KAFKA: Yes.
BROD: That is your honest decision?
KAFKA: Cross my heart and hope to die.
BROD: That’s not saying much; you are going to die.
KAFKA: Max, Imean it. All my works burned. Understand?
BROD: All your works burned.
KAFKA: Everything. When I go, they go. Finish.
BROD: You’ve got it. Message received and understood.
KAFKA: Where are you going?
BROD: To buy paraffin.
KAFKA: Max. Stay a minute. After all, my writings are worthless. They wouldn’t survive anyway. They don’t deserve to survive.
Don’t you think so?
BROD: You’re the one who’s dying. I’m Max, your faithful friend. You say burn them, I burn them. (Going again) Maybe I’ll get petrol instead.
KAFKA: Max! (Pause.) If you want to read them first, feel free … just to remind you.
BROD: (Going again) No. I read them when you wrote them. If I’m going to burn them I may as well press on and burn them. Only …
KAFKA: (Brightening) What?
BROD: Well, I ask myself, are we missing an opportunity here? Why not juice up the occasion? … Ask one or two people over, split a bottle of vino, barbecue the odd steak then as a climax to the proceedings flambé the Collected Works? Anyway, old friend, don’t worry. All will be taken care of.
KAFKA: Good. Still, if in fact you can’t get hold of all my stuff, no matter. Some of it has been published. It could be anywhere.
BROD: You’re kidding. I mean, what are we saying here? This is your f