Gilgi (20 page)

“Yes—Martin—yes.” She no longer has any idea what she’s saying—she can just feel his hair, his mouth, his limbs—“away from here—Martin—yes” — — — Words die.

Gilgi has barely fallen asleep—when she wakes up again. The room is so hot—and the air is so oppressive—it could suffocate you. So why aren’t I sleeping—I really want to sleep. And why am I afraid? And why am I so restless? I can’t stand it any longer. Just—what—is—wrong—with—me? And Gilgi stands up slowly, feels her way through the darkness into the next room—closes the door quietly behind her so as not to wake Martin. Opens the window, stares out into the cool black air—presses her hands against her chest—what’s wrong with me? Why don’t I have any words—for Martin—or for myself, either?—There are two layers in me—and the upper one, it dictates—everyday words, everyday actions—little girl, little machine girl, little clockwork girl—the lower layer underneath it—always wanting, always searching, always longing and darkness and not knowing—not knowing where to—not knowing where from. A thinking without words, a knowing behind the words—a wakefulness in sleep—behind laughing, a weeping — — — the uncut umbilical cord—a tie to the dark world. And the gray world and the bright world, you’re familiar with them and you know about them—and you didn’t want to acknowledge the dark world and you’re still trying to lie it out of existence. But it’s there—for every woman—every man. And one person says sorrow and one person says pain and one person
says crime—filth—or God—no word cuts right through to the core. What—am—I—really? All the bad things and all the good things—that’s a human being—and heaven and hell—that’s a human being—the most tragic and most ridiculous thing—a human being. The most inhibited and most eager thing—a human being. And war and peace—that’s a human being—and the urge to murder and Mary’s desire to give birth—a human being. The most alien thing sinks down into you, making what’s most truly you rise up—in you, in you—everything in you—everything, everything, everything in you. And whatever your thoughts desire, your body loves—and whatever your body loves, your thoughts desire. It’s a sharp flame, the pale girl—has eyes which speak, eyes which scream—she’s like all the others—knows much about herself, knows nothing about herself. Burning in the blood, burning in the brain—burning, burning, burning. Restless limbs—longing for flesh—restless hands—longing for flesh—for flesh that lives, flesh that breathes, flesh that thinks …… An identity broken in two—an identity shattered into a thousand pieces. I—a transient dutiful wish for We. I—an eternal cry seeking You—and everything else—isn’t true …… cover your dark world with the diamond lie of shame—cover your dark world with the golden lie of the will—cover your dark world with the silver lie of contenting yourself—cover your dark world with the iron lie of belonging to the everyday—but don’t—cover your dark world with the tarnished copper lie of cowardice.……

Midday concert from the West German Radio Network. Gramophone records: … If you’re coming to Hawaii / If
the temperature is rising / If your eyes with love are shining … It’s a little too much to expect—that so many unusual events will coincide—Gilgi thinks, and anyway she’s busy darning Martin’s socks. She has to do this secretly, picking a time when he’s gone out. “I’d rather walk around barefoot than have you do such a horrible chore,” he said the other day. And he shouldn’t want her to do it, either—which is precisely why she likes to do it … There’s a ring at the door. Gilgi walks slowly over. Opens up. “Hans—you?” He’s standing there with a white, distorted face. A torrent of words falls upon Gilgi—she understands one here and there—“… forged a check—for the children—won’t prosecute if the money’s paid back by tonight—if not—Hertha—doesn’t know—jail — — —”

“How much do you need?”

“Twelve hundred marks — — — but no-one—been everywhere—but I wasn’t being irresponsible — — —”

He definitely wasn’t being irresponsible. Gilgi nods. Feels as though she’s been anesthetized. Thinks of the brave blonde woman—the little children—the room—everything — — — It dawns on her suddenly that she didn’t say anything about herself, that Hans thinks she’s married—that she’s well off, that the beautiful apartment belongs to her … and should she explain now? But I’m poor myself, Hans … Always words, always words, always wanting to help with words. No, no, we have to stick together—one day you have to prove yourself, one day you mustn’t think of yourself, one day you mustn’t. Because even in our times there are still deeds, even in our times there must still be deeds. And she sees the ugly little child, and again her body feels the trusting pressure of the little silver-blonde head against her stroking hand — — — “oh,
Gilgi—I feel—so dissolute—so pathetic—I should leave—how can I ask you …”

“Don’t talk anymore, Hans, go home—I’ll bring you the money no later than tonight.”—

“You—what—are—you—saying — —” —

“Go home, Hans—I’ll bring you the money.”

Gilgi is standing by herself. What did she say? She promised something. What did she promise? She has to keep her promise. — — Twelve hundred marks!—How can she keep it? She will keep it. You have to help—not always just think that you ought to help. You have to really do it. And if Hans goes to jail—then Hertha and her little children are lost … And they’re such upright, really good people, you mustn’t let them be ruined. And how disgusting, revolting—everyone’s eternal, cut-price, glib sympathy—without any deeds behind it. Don’t think now—act! I must have twelve hundred marks by tonight.

And Gilgi pulls on her trench coat—forgets to put on her hat—runs through the streets—to the savings bank. Right—she’s got seven hundred marks—five hundred to go. Where can I get five hundred marks? I made a promise, I have to keep it. To Pit—maybe Pit can think of something. And Gilgi runs with her coat flying out behind her—has red cheeks and tousled hair—occasionally forgetting completely the sad purpose she needs the money for. She forgets Hertha, the little children—forgets her own problems and worries—even forgets Martin—has only one end in view—I must have the money by tonight. That’s a difficult assignment, and carrying it out gives her a positively liberating sense of sporting enjoyment. All of a sudden, intermittently, she’s the smart little Gilgi of old again, the Gilgi who didn’t bat an eyelid before accepting the most
hair-raising bets, and who wouldn’t dream of letting any kind of emotion stand in the way of her winning them.

Running through the streets at a steady pace—oh, that won’t make you lose your breath. Really it’s fun to have an assignment which is a bit difficult.—Maybe I’ll burgle someplace—once when I was fourteen I decided to become a cat burglar’s girlfriend—I thought that would be very exciting—keeping lookout on a dark street-corner somewhere and whistling with two fingers when …

“ ’Lo, Gilgi,” Pit says with a surprised, happy expression when she bursts into his room. “ ’Lo, Pit,” Gilgi says—and she only needs to stand still, only needs to hear her own voice, to plunge from the fleeting lightness of the past minutes—from the brief dream of the old Gilgi back into the dark, alien, experience-freighted world of now. Ach, confidence has become self-deception. You’ve stepped over the narrow border which divides those who are concerned only with the present from those who are connected to the past and the future. You’ve been forced away from the thin-blooded, comfortable, supine idea of “people”—and forced to be human. Being human—that means something—you can’t hide in the totality anymore—it means being alone. You have to learn how—being human, you have to learn how—learn that one laugh costs a thousand tears—learn that an hour of happiness is paid for with a thousand hours of pain … Yes, and right now I have to find five hundred marks.

“Don’t you want to sit down, Gilgi?”

“Of course.” Gilgi drops onto Pit’s bed. “I think I’ve lost my mind, Pit—I’m going crazy …”

Let her talk. So what do you care if someone else
is talking? Pit has his own burden to carry — — so he frees himself of it. “I behaved like a pig, Gilgi—the other night …” Again Gilgi emerges from her preoccupation—looks at Pit—listens to him—understands clearly what he wants and what he means. She smiles a little, and her eyes are big and knowing … there’s a lot of pleasure in saying how awful you are, isn’t there, Pit? But how many times do people want to be born? So some guy believes he’ll turn himself into a new person by making himself out to be rather worse than he really is. It’s our age-old hereditary sorrow that no-one can give himself absolution—and God can’t, either. God—this little figment of overworked imagination, God—this pallid lie born of desperation—we say God—and we mean humanity, ourselves and others. The longing for a human being is genuine—a human being is more than God—a human being is a beast and God. Longing for God—damned laziness which costs nothing. Mild, bloodless hysteria. Longing for a human being—you pay for that with your blood and with your self and with your flesh—your longing for God can be settled with promissory notes — — rags—paper — — — A drop of red blood is worth more than three prayers. — — — “Yes, Gilgi, I behaved like a pig—you must despise me.”

“I despise myself three times over before I start despising anyone else,” Gilgi says in a high, clear voice. “Don’t talk such utter garbage, Pit—the things that torment you and make you unjust torment everyone and make everyone unjust—or at least that’s what I believe now—and I could be wrong.”

“Do you want a cognac, Gilgi?” Pit stumbles about the room with an uncharacteristically hospitable intent—puts
a glass with a toothpaste ad on it and an egg-cup onto the table.—

“Pour it out, Pit,” Gilgi says, and then picks up the half-filled toothpaste glass—sits down opposite Pit—“you’re a decent guy, Pit—sometimes. No-one can be decent all the time—if someone even gets the chance to be decent now and then, that’s already something—well, you have the chance. And if you also have the same natural, healthy illness in the blood as I do—God knows I can’t hold that against you.”

Gilgi’s words make Pit more drunk than the cognac does. You might have imbibed self-confidence and world-weariness by the pailful—you still need an authority from time to time—the authority which tells you “You’re good” or “You’re bad”—“You’re in the right place” or “You’re in the wrong place”—the authority which can confer the Order of Whiteness or Blackness upon you. You need an authority, so you create one for yourself—and the little, hurriedly devised authority called Gilgi, whose friend is hungering for reassurance, is more than ready to pin the Order of Whiteness on his incessantly self-doubting chest. “Well, you’ll sort yourself out, Pit—probably more quickly and easily than me, just you wait.” But no-one likes hearing that things will be easier for him than for others. Of course, your own problems aren’t exactly pleasant or totally fulfilling, so to compensate at least they should be highly unique, and most certainly they should be extremely difficult. Pit reaches for Gilgi’s hand, puts his hard, youthful face onto her soft, cool palm—“a little Oedipus complex, Pit? Male longing for female superiority? Well, Pit — —” the soft palm under his face closes into a fist, hits
him lightly on the chin—“it’s not about the two of us at all, Pit—it’s about third parties. Do you know where I can find five hundred marks right away?” Pit listens closely as Gilgi tells him Hans and Hertha’s story.

“… and two little children, and a third one on the way …”

“Irresponsible, breeding like rabbits. Why do they have children all the time?”

“They’ve only got one bed, Pit.”

“They shouldn’t bring the pregnancies to term …”

“They haven’t got any money, Pit.”

“There are some people who are too weak to live, and whom we shouldn’t hesitate to let die …”

“Weakness and strength aren’t the measure of a human being’s worth by a long way, Pit.”

“But of their fitness to live.”

“But not of their right to live.”

“Everyone must earn that for himself.”

“You can only earn that for yourself by helping others to earn it.”

“You have to think in economic terms when you …”

“Your miserliness makes you poor when you cut back on helping …”

“You should only help those for whom it really is help.”

“You should help everyone.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is true.”

“Wishy-washy do-goodery.”

“Obligation. — — Stop it, Pit, maybe your dialectics are superior to mine. Dialectics! How shameful—when we’re talking about four living human beings. Sometimes
you should find individual human beings more important than the masses ……”

Pit stands up. “I don’t have any money myself—as you know—but I’ll—I’ll—go to my father—I haven’t seen him for four years ……”

“Heavens, Pit—you—would—do—that?”

“Well, if you need money—then you need money, don’t you?—and if you think it’s right to help people, then that’s probably the right thing to do.” Pit grabs his hat—“wait here for me—I’ll be back in an hour at the latest.” You can already hear his heels clattering hurriedly down the steep wooden staircase. Gilgi thinks nothing and does nothing, falls onto Pit’s bed and goes to sleep. “Wake up, Gilgi—dammit—will you wake up!”

“Pit—you?” Gilgi rubs her eyes. “I’m terribly hungry—what time is it?”

“Five o’clock, I think.” God, Martin, what will Martin be thinking—I must get home—yes, what was I doing …… “Have you got the money, Pit???”

“I was at home—my father was away—giving a lecture in Frankfurt. So I went to a friend’s …”

“Have you got the money?”

“No—maybe by midday tomorrow …”

“That’s too late—my God, there’s no time left to lose. What other well-heeled people do we know, Pit?” Gilgi thinks it over. Should I go to the Krons? Impossible. Well, they might give me the money—but when? The day after tomorrow, or next week. Because they’re the kind of people who “don’t have any cash on hand.” Pawn your fur coat? But you wouldn’t get anything like enough. And you wouldn’t do it anyway. Because Martin gave you the coat—and Martin mustn’t have the slightest connection with the
whole business. “Wait—I know …… S’long, Pit …” Gilgi bolts down the stairs.

Kaiser Wilhelm Crescent. Greif.—Gilgi rings the bell. The status-conscious maid opens the door. “Frau Greif around?”