Gilgi (12 page)

When Gilgi leaves the office in the afternoon, Täschler is waiting to receive her. She’s just what I needed. This is the second time she’s been on guard outside the office, she’s sniffed out where Gilgi works. She’s the complete detective, sprung from the pages of an Edgar Wallace novel.
With her head weighed down by a startling hat, she trips along beside Gilgi. “Ya got anywhere?”

“No.”

“Ya got any money yet?”

“No.”

“I jus’ don’ know how I can go on,” Täschler says. She’s not whining in the least, she’s talking quite calmly and objectively, and she’s even smiling. A thin, crooked smile. And her hands look like wilted cabbage-leaves, and she walks like a dead woman. And if she cried and whined, it would make no impression at all. You can’t stand that—other people’s tears—or your own, either.—If only she’d cry. But no more than—I jus’ don’ know how I can go on. That sounds so convincing, and whether it’s her own fault or someone else’s—it remains the fact. How should you answer? There’s no advice you can offer and no help you can give. You’re quite powerless. There must be lots of people who don’t know how they can go on, lots of people who are having a bad time. Collective misery—you’ve always closed your eyes to it. If you encounter an individual case, it pushes in behind your closed lids. It means something to you. Why? Yes, why! Because you’re not made of stone.

“A three-mark coin is all I have on me!” You’re ashamed and feel ridiculous—which is a big help! She doesn’t even want to take it. “Oh, not from you—I mean, ya have to earn it yourself. But why don’ ya go to your mother?” She’s built herself a kind of tenement in the air and can’t be coaxed out of it. “Go on, take it—here you are—my streetcar!” And Gilgi tries to press the coin into Täschler’s hand—it falls to the ground—Gilgi jumps onto the departing streetcar; the conductor yells at her—let him yell as much as he likes. She sees the old woman kneeling
on the busy street—crawling, searching the ground with groping hands and short-sighted eyes. She’s scrabbling there among the pedestrians, her hat has slipped to the side … close your eyes, tight, tight, don’t give in, don’t give in, anyone who hits rock bottom has almost no chance of getting back up again, you don’t have any damn time to waste now on slacking off and going soft — — —

“I can stay for an hour, Martin—I’m not going to my room today, I …”

“Don’t you want to tell me where this mysterious room of yours is?”

“No, Martin. I must—it’s—to do with my independence. I must have a place to work, I can’t do it here where you’re always around, and if I was in my room, I wouldn’t have a moment’s peace if I had to think that you could suddenly appear.”

“Idée fixe.”

“Well, let me have one.”

“Gilgi,” Martin says on Sunday morning, “you shouldn’t go to the office anymore, the bed always gets so cold and uncomfortable for me when you get up so early.” Gilgi shakes her head, so astonished that she can’t think of an answer. What answer could anyone think of? Yes, that’s a reason to give up your job in times like these, just to protect his right side from a draft. He’s one-of-a-kind, this Martin! “Look, little Gilgi, the money I have isn’t enough for one, which means that it won’t be enough for two, either, what do you think—shouldn’t we live together on my money?”

“What an idea, Martin!” Gilgi smiles with motherly superiority.

“Well, at least you shouldn’t go to old man Mahrenholz anymore!”

“I’ll be finished with him in three days anyway. Seriously, Martin—I really must earn money. You know, next year I’ll have saved enough to go to Paris and to Spain. Martin, we’ll go together, I don’t see things properly if you’re not there, you’re my better eye. Olga says you can live terribly cheaply on Majorca, and in Paris we’ll live in the
Quartier latin
—if we’ve saved carefully—you, too, Martin, you can put aside a set sum every month. I’ll make some changes in this household here.”

And Gilgi becomes energetic. Starts by giving Frau Boss her notice. She can do the little bit of washing-up and sweeping-out herself. Now she’ll show Martin just how competent and productive she is. So much competence and productivity make him uneasy.

“Are these all of your shirts, Martin? Can’t be worn anymore. What? I’ll make new ones for you. I know how. What was that? Well, there’s a sewing machine at the back of the store-room, I’ve been itching to use it for ages. What did you say? It doesn’t matter how you look? It surely does. Never mind those old Greeks now, Martin, we’re going out to buy material.”

“You’re so terribly impractical! Martin! Yes, are you nuts? Because we don’t buy material in such an expensive shop—Henry Ford might, but I wouldn’t bet on it—we go to one of those little places on an upper floor, Martin, where everything only costs half as much. You have to take into account the fact that the people are paying high rents on the shop and all kinds of other … What? Boring? It’s not at all boring, it’s interesting, and useful to know.

“Would you like stripes, Martin? I think plain colors
are more elegant. Fräulein, this material won’t shrink in the wash, will it? What did you say, Martin? You’re happy with anything? We’ll take shantung silk—because summer’s coming soon, then you won’t need a jacket when …

“Martin, you’ve just got to have a new overcoat.”

“What can you possibly have against my good old overcoat, that’s served me so long and so faithfully? If you knew all the things we’ve been through together …”

“That’s just it, it’s so obvious what the coat has been through.”

“Doesn’t matter, I don’t want a new coat. Am I a gigolo?”

“You must learn to keep track, Martin, you must get into the habit of writing down your income and expenditures,” Gilgi commands, purchases a little notebook, equips it with a little cord, and hangs it next to Martin’s desk. Martin can never see it without shuddering inwardly. He goes on strike. “I don’t have any income, and writing down just expenditures—that’s no fun.” Gilgi is frustrated to find that, despite all her efforts, she fails to establish a system for their joint financial affairs. It’s incomprehensible to her that someone can create such a muddle just by existing. But Martin can. Without getting worried in the least. He’s always spending money—on nothing. Only needs to walk around Ringstrasse in his horrible old overcoat for ten minutes and bingo!—his pocket is ten marks lighter. Heaven knows how he does it.

And he runs up debts too! The first time Gilgi comes across a few of his bills, she feels like crying. She goes secretly to the tobacconist’s on the corner and pays the outstanding amount. Martin has found out by that night. It’s
their first fight. Martin rages, until Gilgi sits cowering in the corner of the club chair, all tiny and intimidated.

“What I do with my money is no business of yours—understood? What a tactless little thing you are. How much did you pay? What? Here it is. Who invited you to take care of my debts? Who gave you the right?” Gilgi crawls further and further back into the corner of the chair. She’s desperately unhappy, but she’s pleased that he’s so angry. She loves him a thousand times more now, assuming that such a thing is actually possible.

“Well, don’t cry.” Martin comes closer, already appeased. He’s surprised to find himself taking this funny, silly little thing so seriously. He lifts her onto the windowsill, he enjoys moving her around like a doll. She pulls a thick curtain of hair across her face:

“Don’t look at me, Martin, I look so ugly when I’ve been crying.—Yes—give me the face-powder that’s on the table—and the mirror.” Well, if he’s not supposed to look at her face, then he’ll look at her legs. The slight, gentle curve of her calves is so beautiful, so perfect, and her knees are so finely chiseled, that you can admire them without feeling aroused. Martin admires these beautiful live artworks so thoroughly, and describes his admiration in such a silly, childish way, that Gilgi becomes jealous of her own legs. After all, they’re not separate beings of some kind, they’re part of her, and he’s talking as though that’s not so. “I wish you loved me, Martin—do you understand—me!” But of course he doesn’t understand, and she can’t explain it.

And Gilgi is drifting in the river of superfluous feelings. Superfluous? They were once, they seemed to be once. Isn’t
she happy? Of course she is. Often. But the hours of happiness come at a high price. The bill is presented promptly. Pay it! With what? With fear and twinges of pain. No, I don’t think the price is too high, I just find the currency strange. Fear—pain! To whom should I pay them? Who profits from this odd currency? Gilgi feels the impersonal element in Martin’s love. There’s no doubt—he loves her, even takes her seriously—in his own way. But something’s missing, the commonality of their inner and outer lives is missing. Gilgi thinks long and deeply—a difficult and unfamiliar job.

At night she lies awake for hours, with Martin close beside her. Her bare arm lies diagonally across his chest. Nevertheless, Martin is far away. You know so little about him. All attempts to co-ordinate him with her life somehow have failed so miserably. You should try it the other way around—to adapt yourself to him. Commonality is what counts. Our connection is so loose, so insubstantial. He might decide tomorrow that he’s had enough of Cologne. What did he say yesterday: “We should go away from here—to Bergamo or to Scotland, I’ve got friends there, they’d be happy to have me, and if I bring you along they’ll be twice as happy.” Yes, and after that? He doesn’t think about it. But it’s completely impossible for her to abandon everything here. Impossible to be dependent on the hospitality of people that she’s never met. To be dependent on Martin! On his money. When he doesn’t have enough for himself. He has absolutely no idea how impractical he is, and he’ll never change …

And if you lie awake at night, you’re tired during the day, and if you’re tired—no, she’s not doing her job badly. “Once a man appears, a woman becomes useless at work,”
Herr Höhne, the bookkeeper who’d got his notice, had always said. She’ll prove him wrong, she’ll prove everyone who says that stuff wrong. Gilgi is two and three times as conscientious as before. Only—what used to be a pleasure is now a major effort, she’s cramping up, if you like, but after all that’s her business alone. The letters which she gives Herr Reuter to sign are cleanly and correctly typed, no cause for complaint there. The fact that she’s given up her classes at the Berlitz School, that she hasn’t been to her room for weeks—don’t think about that, put that right out of your mind. You need the little bit of the afternoon that’s left to be together with Martin. You go for walks with him, read books with him, try doggedly to agree that everything he finds beautiful is beautiful. Make quite inhuman efforts to find that things which left you cold before are beautiful, grit your teeth and try to force yourself. And has it worked? Not so far.

“Oh, Martin, now you’ve spent all your money again!”

“Well, what if I have?” He shrugs his shoulders, and you can tell that he doesn’t want to talk about it, simply doesn’t want to admit that he’ll start getting into debt again—what’s he going to pay with, he’s getting in over his head. But you still worry, because you belong to him. This mess, this confusion, it’ll have to make him uncomfortable one day, and when he’s uncomfortable …

And Martin himself is surprised that he doesn’t feel even more uncomfortable. He’s never heard the repulsive word “money” as often in his life as he hears it from this little girl. She’s a well-meaning and pretty little thing. And if he didn’t like her so much, he wouldn’t stay here another hour. Seems almost to think that he’s a con-man, the little one. He’ll pay his debts all right—sooner or later. After all,
he won’t need much—later—when he’s by himself again. But to economize while living with a pretty woman! Hell—he feels sick at the very idea. It’s not the kind of thing he’s used to. And he’d be much, much more in love with the little one if he could give her nice clothes and diamonds and soft furs … that’s just the way it is: the more brilliant and impressive a role you can play for someone, the more you love them. And his thoughts are a closed book to Gilgi, who wishes: if you could just talk sensibly with him—about money, about economizing, about practical things. You’d like to see your future stretching before you like a smooth, clear road—a stretch of a shared future—and you see nothing but a dark, messy thicket.

“My poor little Gilgi, you look pale—I’ve got a marvelous old Burgundy, we’ll drink it tonight—you’ll get the roses back in your cheeks, and you’ll cheer up.—And one day I’ll just pack you in my suitcase and set off with you.”

“Martin,” Gilgi says, sitting down in his lap—“if you did some work!” She blushes dark red, is afraid he’ll be angry. He just laughs: “What kind of work should I do?” Well, if someone asks like that, what are you supposed to answer? “Anyway, I do work, little Gilgi.” Yes, he does. Thank God, he does. It happens once or twice a week that Martin suffers an acute attack of work-fever and writes from the evening into the small hours. Those are happy hours, when Gilgi lies awake at night and hears Martin’s pen scratching across the paper. Those are happy hours, when the place beside her in bed is empty—because Martin is “working.” She used to think that there was nothing more despicable than a man who doesn’t work. And Gilgi would rather identify all the most pathetic, miserable qualities in the world in herself than find the slightest
defect in Martin. He’s succeeded in half-convincing her that not working doesn’t necessarily need to be contemptible, and that even if Martin is a—a—a non-worker, then this just proves that there are—non-workers who are wonderful people. This proof notwithstanding: she’s prouder and happier when Martin is working. And when Gilgi, during one of her brief meetings with Olga, says in passing: “he always works through the night,” then she believes it, because she wants to believe it.

“Now then, now then—my little one—dissatisfied with me?” She grips his thick hair: “Martin, I feel sorry for the girls who fall in love with bald-headed men—can’t be much fun scrabbling around on a bare surface without finding anything—yes, Martin—what I mean is—I—whether you want to work—to work for money!”