Gilgi (18 page)

Do you remember, do you remember, do you remember. And now? That poor gray-faced guy there was once the liveliest of the bunch.— He’s no longer the same at all—and—his life now … you can hardly ask.

But then he starts talking about it of his own accord. Because they’re not very inhibited at all, the guys. God, yes, they don’t say anything—until the need and the opportunity to say something happen to coincide. “… of course back then I was working for my uncle in the transformer factory, and working hard—and everything was going well—and I had quite a clear, straight path laid out before me, which went upwards gradually, but reliably.
And then there was Hertha—you remember, Gilgi …” Gilgi thinks—oh yes, pretty blond Hertha with the soft, motherly hips—“of course I remember—she was very good at the breast-stroke—and a lovely girl …”

“Yes, she is,” Hans agrees whole-heartedly. “We got married. You know, she had such funny parents, they always kicked up a fuss when she came home a bit late at night …”

Gilgi nods: “I know—the usual!”

“Yeah, so we just got married. And I was very happy, too, about having our own apartment and everything—everything was wonderful—and as a young guy you thought you were really something when you could say: my wife. And Hertha was a secretary with Brandt & Co., of course, with quite a good salary—not to mention my salary—! We got by really well. And Hertha wanted to keep her job for another two years, until I was earning enough for both of us. But then the first child came along, and she had a nasty chest complaint for a long time. And then our firm went bust—I was running around for months before I got another job. And we had to give up the apartment and moved into a back attic in Friesenstrasse. And Hertha was so good, Gilgi!—never complained, never moaned. And the most difficult time was also the nicest—that’s when I learned what it means when someone really belongs to you.—Then I found something in an insurance company, as an agent—it didn’t suit me at first, you have to talk at people so relentlessly and intensively—but in our times you really can’t afford to say that something doesn’t suit you. I tried terribly hard—but just when I was starting to get the hang of it I was fired again. And Hertha had the second child. But we love each other so much. It’s just
terrible, Gilgi, how you only bring each other bad luck when you love each other. Hertha would have got on by herself, and I would have got on by myself too. And together you’re lost, finished. But you belong together come what may, and if you wanted to go your separate ways—it would kill you. Shouldn’t be such a thing as love in the world, Gilgi.”

“Shouldn’t be such a thing as love in the world, Hans.”

“So I ran from pillar to post, helped out in a garage, and as a waiter in a garden restaurant. I addressed envelopes and delivered newspapers. Once I got a good offer for the Dutch East Indies—but of course I couldn’t accept it. Then I was a sales representative again for an underwear factory—then a welfare recipient again for a while. One time I was onto a good thing as a branch manager—if I could’ve paid a surety of four thousand marks—which of course I didn’t have. Then I went from door-to-door again with vacuum cleaners—and now with floor wax.—Gilgi—anyone who hasn’t gone through it themselves doesn’t know what it’s like. Like a criminal, that’s how they treat you, like the worst kind of common criminal. You get the door slammed in your face—you get such angry, hostile looks—and you walk and walk and walk, and often the day’s earnings wouldn’t even pay for the wear and tear on your shoes.—But—damn it, it’s your duty—not to lose heart, isn’t it?” The corners of his mouth are trembling hopelessly—“and it should get better one day, shouldn’t it?”

And he looks at Gilgi, wants to read a Yes in her face—and suddenly his head falls forward onto the table-top, and his shoulders are trembling, his whole body is shaking—he’s crying, my God, he’s crying—a rasping, sobbing
sound is coming from his throat—you can’t listen to that, you can’t look at that—a man who’s crying. And the sobbing—my God—Gilgi has leapt up, she’s leaning on the arm of the chair, chalk-white—stop it, stop it, I can’t listen to that—he’s sobbing so brokenly—it’s driving me mad, I’ll jump out of the window if he doesn’t stop … And now he lifts his head, the whites of his eyes are veined with red — — — “it—will—never—get—better again, Gilgi—I can feel that it will never get better again. And I can’t stand it anymore—just can’t—stand it—anymore—when I walk along the street—and see such plump red-cheeked children, and then think of my own two—so pale and miserable—up there in the stuffy attic. If I was only responsible for myself I’d never, ever lose heart—but I can’t stand it anymore—I don’t know what to do now—can’t go on now …” Tears run down his face, but he doesn’t turn away, he’s not ashamed—once you’ve ended up where he has, you’re not ashamed anymore.

“Hans, dear Hans,” Gilgi says. Because this is one of her group. And you ought to stick together, you ought to stick so closely together. That’s much more important than any ideas about being in love: we young ones ought to stick together. We shouldn’t let all these things happen to each other, we should all, all of us be such true friends …

“I’d better get on, Gilgi,” Hans says, and stands up.

“It’s raining outside.”

“Yes, it’s raining outside.”

“You don’t have an overcoat?”

“Couldn’t redeem it from the pawnbroker.”

“Would you like to leave seven tins of floor wax here for me, Hans?” They’ll cost the exact amount of her unemployment benefits.

“Yeah, you see, Gilgi, I wasn’t used to talking anymore. And you shouldn’t talk, either—it doesn’t make things better, it just makes everything more vivid. See you, Gilgi. It’ll work out all right. Has to work out, doesn’t it? Hey, Gilgi, I’ll write down my address for you—visit Hertha sometime, would you? It’d cheer her up—she’s always so alone—we have no friends at all …”

“Yes, Hans, I’ll visit her. Goodbye, Hans.”

Gilgi watches him as he staggers down the stairs with his little case—then slowly closes the door of the apartment. Walks around as in a dream, clears the crockery away and takes it into the kitchen. Goes back to bed. What’s being done to people? What? What? You ought to help each other—that’s so important—and there are pale little children who don’t have enough to eat—and at the labor office—and—yes, when you love each other you only bring each other bad luck. I’d get on without Martin, and Martin wouldn’t run up so many debts without me. And anyway, love isn’t important at all—as long as there are people who want to work and aren’t allowed—as long as there are people who are prevented from earning money—as long as there are little children who don’t have enough to eat … and always this buzzing desire in my limbs, the sweet repellent desire—I can’t stand it anymore, I want to die—I don’t want it anymore—I don’t want—it disgusts me to be so powerless against my body. And if I could talk to Martin about it! But I can’t do that—whatever I say, I’ll never strike to the heart of it, I’ll just give a fuzzy outline—because words which pass the lips never reveal, they only conceal. And Gilgi thinks of the impoverished, hardened young man and longs for Martin—and she feels ashamed that her thoughts of other people’s misery are interrupted
by her longing for Martin—and a tiny droplet of hostility flows into the longing—and she feels ashamed because her longing for Martin is paralleled by such a profound sympathy for someone else, another man—and feels guilty—in her own eyes—other people’s eyes—everyone’s eyes—her thoughts go round and round — — — peace, if she could have some peace for once. You probably don’t find peace until renunciation forces you into its gray prison—when you’ve become old and undesired and undesiring … I’m so tired …

Crack—goes the front door—and then Martin is standing in the room, swinging his shoebox cheerfully. “Did a great job getting everything, you’ll be happy, sweet girl … but what’s the matter with you?” He sits down next to her—“Why are you looking like that—so white and—have you been crying?”

Oh, his dear face and his kind voice! “It’s just my cold, Martin.” So tired—you have to dig every word out of yourself.

“I’ll make you some tea, little Gilgi—and you must stay in bed today—hey, tell me, what are all those yellow tins out there in the hallway?”

“Floor wax, Martin—I bought them from—a—poor—man.” Gilgi pulls Martin’s head onto her chest with a lightning-fast movement—he mustn’t see her fiery red cheeks. Martin, my dear Martin, I’ve lied to you. Too tired to tell you it all—no, not too tired—but you would’ve asked questions, questions, questions—and if I’d got the feeling—from a single glance, a single breath, that something which was infinitely sad for me was just “an old boyfriend” for you—that poor broken man—if there’d been just a flicker of some kind of mistrust in your
eyes—I would’ve slapped you in the face. Martin, I’ve lied to you—now you’re infinitely superior to me. I love you so much, Martin, I’ll die if I stop loving you—there has to be something which lasts forever, has to be something which has substance. Martin—have I done something hateful, immoral to you now? How that makes me love you. And Gilgi draws Martin’s face up to hers, kisses it all over—everything’s dark, everything’s spinning around—something has to be, something has to continue—Martin—and puts her hands around his stiff, sinewy neck—Martin—I’ve lied to you—I’ve delivered myself over to you because I’ve lied to you—and seven tins of floor wax—and walking, walking, walking from door to door—no work—little children who don’t have enough to eat—that’s so important—why is it sinking now, why is it not important anymore—you, Martin—only you—nothing else matters anymore—only you—closes her hands more firmly around his neck—“I could wish you were dead—don’t we all wish some day for the death of what we love too much—because it doesn’t leave us air to breathe anymore, because it cuts us off from the world … ah, Martin, don’t listen to what I’m saying—because I love you and want you to live” … digs her sharp nails into his neck—“no, let me, Martin—I want to hurt you—I don’t want to be good to you—want to hurt you—I love you so much …”

The next morning Gilgi is quite fresh and cheerful again, with barely a trace of her cold left. Makes coffee in the kitchen, whistling “The Marseillaise.” Olga is sitting at the shiny scrubbed kitchen table, radiating brightness and
the scent of chypre … “Just wanted to say goodbye, Gilgi—my train goes in an hour.”

“Oh, Olga, are you really going away now?”

“Yes, to Berlin, little Gilgi—now, don’t make such horrified saucer-eyes, little one—I mean, you’re so occupied that you really won’t miss me …”

“It was such a lovely, reassuring feeling to know that you were nearby …”

“Come here, Gilgi.” Olga pulls Gilgi to her, strokes her soft, wavy brown hair, “here’s my address for you—don’t lose it.” Olga puts a piece of paper folded to the smallest possible size down the front of Gilgi’s dress. “So, little one, you know that you have to write to me from time to time, it would be uncouth and irresponsible of you to make me worry because I’d heard nothing from you. Look out—your coffee’s boiling!—if it’s drinkable, you can give me a cup. Right—what else did I have to say? I won’t give you any more advice. Everything that you decide and that you do now has to be worked out by you alone …”

“Yes, Olga. But—but you should’ve told me before that you’re leaving today, I ought at least to have packed your suitcases for you—you’ve absolutely no idea about packing, marzipan girl. How did you possibly get it done?”

“Yes, it was a problem, Gilgi, but I solved it with a stroke of genius. First I boldly emptied all my wardrobes and drawers and threw everything onto the floor—then I ran out of ideas, and didn’t know what to do next. All at once I had a bright idea: I rang up the would-be Mussolini—you know—the Casanova with the black curls, who loves me with such elegant hopelessness that it’d really be a pity if we ever—anyway, I rang him up and invited him for
tea—tête-à-tête. You should have seen how he charged in a quarter-hour later bearing roses and chocolates, and smelling adventurously of Coty—evidently he’d also quickly put on a clean collar and a provocative tie—and felt that his boldest hopes had been more than fulfilled. So I led him into my room—took the roses and the chocolates and climbed up onto the big tiled stove and declared that I’d only come down again when all the stuff had been cleared off the floor. Gotta say, he did beautiful work, and took a lot of trouble. I sat up there on the stove, eating chocolates, giving instructions about everything, and occasionally calling some very kind and encouraging words down to him. Afterwards, when it was all done, the room looked as bare as if a plague of locusts had been through it—I said I couldn’t possibly expect him to stay another minute in such an unappealing room, and it would probably be better to take tea at the Restaurant Charlott. — — —

“Now—my little Gilgi—it’s high time I—come on, give me a kiss before I go …”

“Oh, Olga …” Gilgi wants to say something else, tell her—but better not, better not—once something has been said, it takes on such a strange life of its own. “When will we see each other again, Olga?”

“As soon as you need me—for sure, Gilgi. You can always rely on me.—You know”—Olga’s merry blue operetta-eyes suddenly become serious and thoughtful—“I really do like men as such—but it’s funny and it makes me mistrustful to see that there’s no true friendship among men anymore, no honest, immediate sticking together, and above all no unconditional solidarity. All that’s left are ‘comrades’ or ‘party colleagues’—which isn’t much at all. I’d have a hell of a lot of respect for a man who had a male friend he preferred
to me. Haven’t you noticed, too, Gilgi—that we’re living at a time where there’s more true solidarity among women than among men? That makes us superior. Pity. I don’t set much store at all by superiority in itself. Oh well, if that’s the way it is!—God, my train!” Gilgi’s brown fingers close around Olga’s pampered little hand once again.—“All the best, Olga.”—“All the best, Gilgi—where’s Martin?”—“Still in bed.”—“I’ll just say goodbye to him.” Olga flits into the bathroom, pours water onto a sponge—pulls the bedroom door open—takes a solid wind-up and throws the sodden sponge, hitting Martin on the nose—“It was a lipsmacking kiss, my beloved lazybones, wasn’t it? Farewell for a while—I’m leaving town. Be good to my little friend, and don’t forget to send me my procuress’s fee.”