Gilgi (9 page)

“And when you’re not at Carnival, what do you do?”

“Deal in oil and lubricants—but never mind that, child. Let me kiss your rosebud mouth.”

“If that’s what you want, I can lend you my lipstick—”

“It’s your mouth that I want—”

“Don’t be in such a rush—on one glass of Moselblümchen.”

“Do you want champagne, child?”

“Less talk—more action!”

“I’m glad you said that—”

“Keep your hands off me—I meant the champagne.”

“Stop playing hard to get, child—come on, it’s Carnival—it only comes once a year …”

“What about my champagne?”

“How can you think of that now? Stop being so cold—come on, it’s Carnival …”

“You think that makes you better looking?”

“You’ve got no style—”

“When you look in the mirror, you’ll see why …”

“I know I’m not handsome, child, but I have a gentle heart—my soul …”

The dancing girl gets up: “The ones who yap about their soul and their heart are the biggest pigs, and cheap on top of it all.” And on that line, she exits. The maharajah-lubricants guy folds his hands on his double stomach, as his faith in humanity shatters.

The domino-mothball guy tries to clasp Gilgi to his manly chest, but she just sneezes, fends him off, and disappears into the crowd. The maharajah’s and the domino’s eyes meet. And as the domino is in the turpentine
business, it turns out that they have intellectual interests in common. “Ya wanna go get a glass of beer at the other bar?”

“Yeah, let’s go.”

How did you, pigeon, pigeon, pigeon … Gilgi pushes her way through the dancing couples. It’s not even midnight, and the family won’t head home until five in the morning, particularly with Young Gerda and Young Irene in the party. She doesn’t want to be here anymore. How did you, pigeon … Buzzing, scraping, screeching, laughing—you’d have to be drunk, and desperate to fall in love, to enjoy it here. Hell, the stink in a wild animal’s cage at the zoo isn’t as bad as this smell of humanity in the mass. You’re swallowing dust and smoke with every breath. An exuberantly tattooed youth grabs Gilgi around the waist: “Come on, dance with me.”—“Nah, don’t feel like it.”—“Why not—come on, it’s Carnival …” Come on, it’s Carnival, come on, it’s Carnival—stick it where the sun don’t shine. Gilgi brushes off the tattooed hand. Sets a course for the family table and gets Herr Kron to give her the cloakroom check: “Just want to get my compact out of my coat pocket.”

A few minutes later she’s standing on the street. Now what? What does she actually want? She makes her way over the rain-dampened pavement towards the New Market. Her hands are buried in the pockets of her black sealskin coat. Her bare legs are rather cold. She walks with unwilling, ambling little steps. Where is she going?… how did you, pigeon … She’s uneasy, sour, depressed for no reason. New Market, Mittelstrasse, Rudolph Square—Aachenstrasse. A little
Konditorei
. Gilgi goes in and sits
down in a corner, has them bring her coffee and some magazines. It’s quiet here, so for the moment she’ll stay here. It’s good that the little cafés are open all night now during Carnival. Gilgi flicks through the magazines … For you too will betray me one day / You too, you too … They should turn the gramophone off, you can’t take that sweet schmaltzy stuff forever … For you too will betray … This is where we sat five days ago: Olga, me, and that Martin Bruck. And two days ago I waited here, and that idiot didn’t come … For you too will betray …

“That’s nice, little girl, finding you here. I figured you were kind of a regular here!” Martin Bruck is standing at Gilgi’s table, well-dressed, unruffled, self-confident. “May I join you—or are you waiting for someone?”

“No, I’m not waiting for anyone,” Gilgi manages to say, a fraction too quickly. But she promptly adds a friendly and conventional smile: “I’m pleased to see you: I have to apologize for not being here the day before yesterday.”

“Weren’t you? That’s good. I only realized yesterday that I had completely forgotten our appointment.” The boor, the graceless creep, the … Gilgi can’t make herself angry, she’s too happy. Martin takes her hand, suddenly finding this little one exceptionally cute with her shining gray eyes, her cheekily lipsticked mouth—he takes her hat off: “I like you even better like that.” Such a fresh guy! Gilgi has to laugh. No, she’ll keep her coat on.

He wants her to talk to him, tell him about herself, he’s interested in every detail. And Gilgi lays out for him the life of a very self-confident, very ambitious little girl. She tells him about Herr Reuter, about Pit, about the office, fat Müller, little Behrend. She even tells him about her search for her parents. About the Krons and Täschler. Oh, the
story hasn’t bothered her for ages, she’s not some sentimental goose, she doesn’t need anyone, she gets by on her own. She knows what she wants to do, and knows that she can do what she wants to do. And the whole time she’s telling Martin this, she grips his hand as though she was afraid that he could suddenly stand up and disappear, never to be seen again. He mustn’t do that, he must stay with her, for a long time yet … “Yes, and a girl has never been in love?” Martin Bruck frees his hand so that he can stroke Gilgi’s hair. Gilgi smiles patronizingly. Because in the end men always ask the same dumb questions. “Of course a girl has been in love—here and there—but a girl doesn’t take it too seriously, there are more important things. Men! They’re no big deal.” And she quotes Olga: “ ‘Love is nice and it’s fun, but you should never take it seriously.’ ” Martin thinks that really it’s him who should be saying that kind of thing, but at least such an uncomplicated way of looking at the world suits him just fine.

As they get into the taxi, Martin asks: “Should I get him to drive you to your masked ball, Fräulein Kron?” Gilgi doesn’t answer. It’s lucky for Martin Bruck that it’s dark, Gilgi would never forgive him if he saw how much she’s blushing.

Where are we going? I shouldn’t be doing this, I shouldn’t be in the taxi with him … he’s put his arm around her shoulders—a man! That’s no big deal.

A beautiful apartment. Thick carpets, bright cushions, soft lighting. “All this belongs to you, Herr Bruck?”—“To me?” He laughs: “Nothing in the world belongs to me, everything here belongs to a friend, he’s gone to Russia for two years, I’m supposed to keep an eye on things here, you might say I’m a kind of superior concierge. I don’t think I’ll
be able to stand two years of it.” He has to stand two years of it, he has to—Martin takes Gilgi’s coat off: she stands in front of him like a slim boy, a Gainsborough painting come to life. “I like you, little Gilgi.” Martin runs around busily. “What would you like to drink, young lady?”—I’m in luck! Life always has nice little surprises in store for its old friend Martin. What a figure the girl has! The legs just the right fraction too long, broader in the shoulders than in the hips. “Sit down, little Gilgi.”

Gilgi stands motionless. He’s already calling me Gilgi. How confident he is, how well he knows … If he’s confident, I’ll be even more confident. Gilgi is pale to the lips, makes an imperious little gesture with her hand: “You can save yourself the trouble, Herr Bruck. You don’t need to tell me that you’ve brought me here to look at an interesting book or to taste a particularly old Scotch …” Martin swallows her words like an especially bitter pill. “Little one, we have to follow the rules for a short while, at least!” Gilgi walks to the table with unsteady little steps, takes a glass—“Silly little thing,” Martin says softly, steps up behind her, strokes her shoulder gently and tenderly—“little girl, don’t try so hard to cover your nervousness with boldness, I really like it when women are nervous.” Klirrrr—Gilgi’s glass falls to the floor. She wants to push away the hand that’s stroking her shoulder, but doesn’t even have the strength to lift her arm—it’s all too fast—too fast—Fast? When you’ve been waiting for this for five long, long days?

MARTIN BRUCK IS WALKING THE STREETS, GOING nowhere in particular. Crappy weather, damp that sticks to you. If you look up: cloudy, dirty gray—if you look down: grubby pavement slippery with damp. The illuminated advertisements on Hohenzollernstrasse peer gloomily through the fog. Urban’s Restaurants—Café Vienna. Jazz hits wash towards the entrances in little waves, which break on the shivering doormen. Inside, a few bored visitors from the provinces are dotted around on the red plush seats. Given the slightest opportunity, waiters talk about how bad business is, a married couple makes a great show of leaving one café because it serves coffee in nothing smaller than a pot. Top-quality head waiters have already been brought so low that they wear out the obsequiousness previously reserved for elegantly dressed regulars on mere passing trade. Only a cute little cigarette boy bolstered by inviolable self-esteem and class-consciousness is left to represent the Ringstrasse’s claim to be a match for Berlin’s Kurfürstendamm.

Martin drinks his coffee. Drops a two-mark coin on the table, without troubling—as he never troubles—to wait for his paltry eighty pfennigs change. Thrilled, the waiter accompanies this unusual customer to the door, believing him (despite all protests to the contrary) to be an American, promises him—from an urgent need to
reciprocate his generosity—better weather next week, and recommends Dahmen’s motorized city tour.

Martin turns into Ehrenstrasse. The housewives’ El Dorado. Shop after shop. Butchers with invitingly illuminated and carefully arranged window displays. Pale posies of narcissi cowering between chunks of bloody meat. Fluffy little hares staring reproachfully out of dead, glassy eyes. From fish shops, silver-bellied pike and cod exude the stink that’s their revenge. Ladies with string shopping-bags push past the display windows with their eyes searching for their quarry, like Sioux Indians on the warpath. Pale, worn-out women drag unwashed children along behind them, shabby unemployed men sniff at the warm, inviting aromas of bakeries in a vain attempt to feel like they’ve eaten. For no charge, a dealer in radios lets Tauber sing something terribly sad from Lehár’s
Tsarevich
to the bustling street … In darkest night …

Ehrenstrasse becomes Breitestrasse. Someone called Rich can be poor, someone called Little can be big—just as this so-called broad street is narrow. Martin notes with surprise that there are people—depressed and depressing obstacles to traffic—who are veritably strolling amid the rush and hurry of these others who are eager to spend their money (or have no money to spend), as leisurely as the people who take the waters on the promenade in Wiesbaden or Carlsbad. Cologne on the Rhine, you’re such a beautiful little city—Martin is freezing cold. His hands and face are wet with rain. A sad town. A sad country. The mouths open only to exhale bad temper and joylessness into the atmosphere. Tired eyes, glum faces. Chilled and gloomy, Martin ends up in a bar at the harbor, runs his hand over the bare, honest wooden table. Furniture
like this—cracked, soaked in schnapps—makes him feel at home. He breathes in: this bar smells like every harbor bar in the world: it smells of cheap liquor and rough tobacco and moving-on-tomorrow. You could forget that you’re in Cologne, in Germany. He’d like to forget it, but can’t quite manage to. Never in his life has he felt himself so crushingly alone, so forlorn, so embarrassingly unnecessary. Whether you talk to waiters, cleaning women, streetcar conductors, taxi-drivers, booksellers, bar owners, sales clerks—every third word is: “problems.” Everyone’s dissatisfied, everyone’s complaining. A sad country, where you suck in pessimism with every breath. It seems as though, in this country, doing nothing couldn’t be pleasant, but more likely oppressive. Having to economize isn’t an unalloyed pleasure, either, he’d assumed that his needs were more modest than they actually are.

Martin stirs his toddy. He thinks about Gilgi, and his mood brightens. Nice, cheerful, little girl. He’s pleased that Gilgi likes him, that she’s attracted to him, it means a great deal to him today that someone really likes him, he feels much in need of recognition, support …

Gilgi is typing Herr Mahrenholz’s memoirs of the war. A tedious, uninteresting job—in her opinion. Tick—tick—tick—perhaps Martin will pick me up when I finish—he has before. Martin! We understand each other perfectly—name and substance. Actually it’s quite wrong to say: we understand each other, as if we’ve known each other for ages! An incomprehensible error. The warm, lively understanding of the first hours, days, weeks. We’re more than ready to discover things in common, firmly united in the reciprocal joy of difference. We know a great deal about each other. We’ll know less about each other when we start
thinking about each other. What comes later—is intimacy. We mustn’t mistake understanding for intimacy. Understanding each other—at the right distance from intimacy, that’ll take some doing. That’ll really take some doing—similar words—implacably irreconcilable ideas. You don’t create understanding, you understand each other, from the very first moment. “Too fast!” I thought—I’m really ashamed of having thought that. I was so stupid! Waiting is terribly immoral, because it’s so pointless. Because you mustn’t lie your desires out of existence … Gilgi’s thoughts are fleeting, leaving nothing behind—she inspects them briefly and forgets them completely. They appear—they’ve disappeared—she doesn’t know they were there.

Herr Mahrenholz dictates. Walks up and down. A fine figure of a man! As Frau Kron and Frau Wollhammer would say. Face with fresh color and regular features, impressively full white hair, exaggeratedly upright posture. If you look at him for too long, you get a pain in the small of your back. Well, I suppose you’re in love, and can’t look at any man without making unfavorable comparisons. Complete nonsense, what you’re typing here: a little saber-rattling—Company, halt! Occasional philosophical observations, which don’t impress Gilgi, although she doesn’t understand them.

As she’s leaving the house, she sees Martin walking up and down on the other side of the street. She goes weak at the knees, feels painfully queasy—like you feel in an elevator when it jerks into motion. “Martin!” She rushes across the bare, deserted roadway. Laughs idiotically and aimlessly when he lifts her up—the thin little thing! I bet she doesn’t weigh more than fifty kilos! He carries her a few steps to the next street-light: “You’re very pale—I don’t like
you working so much! — — — Your new lipstick tastes good, like pineapple …”—“Put me down, Martin—mind my typewriter!”—“I wish it would fall apart”—“Oh, Martin!” A disheveled Gilgi looks at him reproachfully. “You mustn’t damage it,” she says warningly and mistrustfully as Martin takes the little typewriter-case from her hand.