Gilgi (16 page)

“Right, and if we have the least spark of imagination, then we’ll be able to convince ourselves that this old rattletrap of a taxi is a fabulous Rolls-Royce—or—we’re archsnobs, Martin …”

“You’re as pretty as a picture, little Gilgi!”

“Always like hearing that kind of thing, Martin—please, say it again. What? Say it three more times—can’t ever hear it enough.—Martin, the fur coat! Well, it makes me think I’m—absolutely top-class, Martin! Stop it—don’t mess up my hair—I’m too elegant now for such backseat fumblings. Stop!!! We’re there—go up, Martin—fetch Olga …

“Wait a second, Martin—how do they do it: left foot on the ground, right foot on the running board—the wife
of chairman of the board So-and-So and her streamlined, sporty 17/100 hp four-seater cabriolet with its elegantly customized bodywork—
Elegant World
—back page … I’m sorry, Martin, but all this provokes me into being uncouth. So now I’ll spit, in a first-class, streamlined, elegantly customized three-meter arc over to that wall there. Oh, Martin—Martin—no, you can’t do that—in broad daylight on a public street—Martin, let me go—if that’s from
Customs and Traditions of the South Sea Islanders
—it’ll get you into trouble with some customs and traditions of the Cologne City Police … Don’t, Martin—otherwise I’ll have to spend more than the thirteen marks unemployment benefits on my lipstick — — — go on, get up there, Martin!”

The young lady Gilgi stands by herself beside the taxi, dragging her upper lip at a crazy angle down over her attractive white teeth. Suddenly turns pale under her makeup, a shoulder sags back against the side window—it’ll all get serious soon, it’ll all be over soon … She puts her brave little-girl face back on quickly. You’ll get through it—one way or another—you have courage, and you won’t let it get you down, and with God’s help—at least it won’t be twins.

“Ah, Olga, my dear Olga! Doesn’t she look marvelous, Martin! I think it’s unnatural that you’re not in love with her — — —”

“Little Gilgi, your men are sacrosanct to me.”—“Men! Who said anything about polyandry!”—“Yes, we’re all hopelessly monogamous.”—“Of course, we’re decadent from sheer morality …”

There’s a lot to be said for hiding your feelings under chatter. Dear Olga. Gilgi is holding Olga’s hand, her knees are enclosed by Martin’s knees. Three people are speaking to each other, knees are speaking to each other, and two
hands.—You have to love her, Olga, this frivolous girl.—Gilgi laughs, draws her fur coat around her shoulders with a graceful, gentle movement—the dark amethyst glows on her pale, slender ring-finger—her left hand is gripped around Olga’s, digging her fingernails into Olga’s soft palm. Don’t be afraid, little girl—Olga’s fingers say—don’t be afraid—there’ll be no questions, nothing said—I’ll wait, and when the time comes I’ll be here. You can be sure of that—and is it enough that you can be sure? Thanks a lot, Olga.

“Where are we going, anyway? Oh, to the Savoy …”

“Yes, Chablis first—old Pommery later …”

“Oh, Martin, I think most high-class people have a waiter psychosis. They order only the best dishes, and pretend that they do it all the time—just to impress the waiter. I suppose that’s some kind of ambition!”

They eat, they drink, they laugh. They get on well together and feel good.—“Nothing agrees with me today,” Gilgi complains after the second glass of champagne. Feels like she’s been KO’d by a heavy leaden tiredness. But soon she’s laughing again, she’s kicking over the traces, and she’s just a tiny, tiny bit too loud. “Your health, children,” she cries, with an unpleasant little undertone of mockery in her voice. Gallows humor. “Your health, children—are there three or four of us here at the table?”—“Are you already seeing double, little Gilgi?”—“Qui sait?” She laughs.

“Pit came to see me a few days ago,” Olga says, “he was asking after you, Gilgi, and …” Pit! Gilgi passes a hand over her forehead. Pit! “What’s he doing, how is he?” Her questions tumble over each other. If he was looking for me, then he needs me—Gilgi suddenly feels a senseless longing for Pit, for his hard solitariness, for the clarity
of his being. She jumps up—“I have to go to him for a bit—don’t be angry with me, Martin—is he still playing in Lintstrasse, Olga? I’ll take a taxi, Martin—I’ll be there in five minutes, and back again in no more than a half-hour.” Martin objects, Olga objects: now—so suddenly—surely you’ve been all right without him for long enough—tomorrow will be just as good—but why—why … “God in heaven, you’re driving me crazy. Does everything always have to be explained!!! I want to go now—now—try to understand me—no, I want to go alone …” She’s already outside in a taxi.

Love Song From Tahitiiii … “Hello, young man,” Gilgi says, tapping Pit on the shoulder—just like the last time … Pit looks up. His face has become even narrower, even paler, his eyes even more sunken—different—not softer—no—his gaze is more distant.

“Just take a seat, Gilgi, I’ll be with you shortly.” He presses her hand quickly, firmly, and lets it go … Love Song From Tahiti … Gilgi lets her fur coat slip half off her shoulder. She looks exquisite, very beautiful and elegant. She’d completely forgotten that she looks like that—she only remembers again because the waitress asks her so respectfully what she would like to order. She’s almost a little ashamed when she looks at Pit—she finds her elegance so false. She’s ashamed because she loves this false elegance so much. She even has to give the ring an extra polish, arrange the folds of her dress more attractively. “Madam.” The waitress with the hopelessly ravaged face sets the glass of port before Gilgi—you stupid fool, you—stop grinning so obsequiously! If I was sitting here in my battered trench coat, with the smell of work about me, I wouldn’t impress you! Hey, aren’t you ashamed to be so stupid, so terribly
stupid … I suppose I should go to the doctor tomorrow—tomorrow or the day after or—whether it’s true—the … Love Song From Tahiti … Gilgi closes her eyes, she never did that—before. When she shut her eyes, she saw nothing—nothing—now she sees a great deal behind the closed lids.

“Don’t fall asleep, Gilgi!” Pit is sitting opposite her. “Well, you’ve made a good job of your clothes—you could be Al Capone’s moll, about to set off for the Metropolitan Opera.”

Gilgi is so tired that her eyes stay open. “Give me your hand for a moment, Pit—hold on to it hard—harder—so that it hurts—I’ve got to feel right down into my heart that you’re holding my hand.” Pit presses Gilgi’s fingers—if she says a word like “heart,” then there’s something badly wrong with her … the pulse beating in her fingers, the bare white shoulder, the tilted-back head—a little red patch on the white throat … “it’ll be like giving me a gift, Gilgi, if you let me help you.” He’d been looking for her, wanting to talk to her, been looking for her—her kind little friend, and now …

“Pit”—Gilgi’s voice comes into the room from a long way away—“I’m starving for brutal honesty—Pit, I wanted you to hold my hand differently … you can’t help me by doing something for me, you can only help me because you’re there. Be tough and angry and clear, Pit, I need that.” Gilgi isn’t looking at Pit, her glance is stuck somewhere in the jungle of red and white paper streamers on the ceiling—but she knows that it’s Pit and no-one else that she’s speaking to. “Maybe you already know that I don’t have a job now, that I’m living with a man …” Pit sits leaning forward, looking at Gilgi’s arm: a diagonal, stiff, white line
which flows into his hand. The corpse-like indifference of that line suddenly becomes a vicious, brutal insult to him. His hand feels like digging all five nails into her soft, pale shoulder, and dragging them down the diagonal line—scoring five bloodied furrows into the unmoved and unmoving white. His brain wraps itself around Gilgi’s words. “I don’t have a job anymore, I’m living with a man …”

“Do you like him?”

“Since when do you ask superfluous questions, Pit! I’d pick out someone to live with that I don’t like! I’m giving you some facts just to set the overall picture. Facts don’t scare me, facts are something I can deal with. I might be having a baby—this kind of thing happens all the time—to any number of girls. If that’s the case, I’ll deal with it as well, no reason to go all sentimental or lose my head. No, what’s scaring me is something different. Usually people don’t talk about it, or if they do, they lie about it and wrap it up … and that’s why you don’t know whether you’ve suddenly become completely different from everyone else, you don’t know whether it’s normal and everyone gets through it, or if you’re alone with a sickness …”

“What—do you mean?”

“Just let me talk, you’ll catch on soon enough, catch on to what I mean. You know that I’ve had boyfriends—two—three … we liked each other, we had fun together, and our skins said Yes to each other. That was natural and comprehensible, it caused absolutely no pangs of conscience and no unease. I always felt clean and clear, I was sure of myself and knew what I wanted and the limits I had set, which made such good sense that you didn’t need to think about them. And now — — — that I love someone—really love someone, for the first time in my life, so that I feel good
and honest and capable of anything—everything should be fine—and right and—but …” Gilgi’s head falls forward, she grabs Pit’s wrists with both hands—her mouth a garish narrow line, her words—falling slowly, unemphatically, mechanically: “I don’t know what my limits are anymore or what I want, I can’t be responsible anymore for what I might do from one day to the next. I thought that my love had made me infinitely safe and protected—now it’s made me defenseless, completely exposed—how is that possible, Pit??? I’m at the mercy of everyone and everything—of a hand which brushes the back of my neck as it’s helping me into my coat—of a glance, a voice … I had no idea that I could be like this—I’m burning up—I have an agonizing physical connection to everything—when I close my hand around the edge of the table, when I see a flower—when I stroke this fur coat … I find myself unspeakably disgusting. Nothing is clean and clear and simple anymore, not even my previous life. Maybe everything the previous Gilgi did and wanted was just a means of running away from—from her own desire. Maybe nothing has value in itself, maybe everything is untrue, and everything is driven purely by that running away … Where will it end? What’s happening with me? It’s stretching on into eternity—I’m scared, Pit.”

Pit’s face is distorted, his voice hoarse and broken:
“Why are you telling me this—you! That’s why you came to me—that’s why … just to tell me …”

Gilgi looks at him. “I see, Pit!” Dull mockery appears at the corners of her mouth. “Well, you’re right—every man for himself … neither of us can complain of a shortage of egotism. And thank you, Pit—maybe the best way for you to help me is by showing me—another glass of port,
Fräulein—quickly … by showing me that each one of us can rely only, only, only on himself.” Gilgi jumps up, stands behind Pit, grips him firmly by the back of the neck. “I believed in you, young man—in your capacity for fairness.—To hell with you and all your Socialism and your schemes for improving the world if you’re one of those men who hold it against a woman if, by God knows what accident of biology, she doesn’t want to sleep with them. You guys know exactly how to make a woman furious!” Gilgi’s hand moves slowly and angrily over Pit’s ear, creeps into his hair—“don’t flinch, young man—I’ve known for ages that men and women are animals by nature, I also know that we have a sacred duty to make something different of ourselves, and I still believe that we have the strength and the chance to be more than we are. Through ourselves? Despite ourselves? Doesn’t matter, I still believe …”

Gilgi is standing on the street. Leaning on the gray wall of an apartment building. Haze in the street—hookers screeching. I’m so mean! Better to find yourself mean than to lie to yourself. Gilgi walks, walks—each step an unspeakable exertion—chewing on her disappointment. Stops again. Twists her pale hands together—avoid one thing at all costs: never be cowardly, never be dishonest. That would be the worst thing: attributing your own guilt to other people … and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those … tear the Lord’s Prayer to pieces with your hands, tear it to pieces with your teeth—it lies, lies, lies, and deceives. Instill knowledge in our blood, instill belief in our blood—one thing, one thing above all: teach us to believe only in our own guilt—not: as we forgive those … that doesn’t make sense—we have nothing to forgive, nothing—never—no-one. No-one has trespassed against
us, there is always and only our own guilt. Yes, that’s how it is—Pit didn’t make me furious—he only proved to me how angry and hateful I really am. Dear God, what’s happening to me … I want to go home—I want to go to Martin. The elegant young lady Gilgi hails a taxi—“this one’s a cutie,” the driver thinks, winking with his right eye—she collapses onto the shabby upholstery. Lets her hands hang down over her knees, her head loll forward, has her lips half-open—Martin, my darling, what have you turned me into? Such longing. Longing for you—longing beyond you—longing—you—you’ve kissed away the firmness in my legs.

It’s late at night. Gilgi’s head is lying on Martin’s chest, she’s buried her hands in his armpits. “Martin,” she says quietly, “you’re much smarter than I am, you know much more than I do—you must make sure that love doesn’t destroy my love for you. It mustn’t ever happen that one day you’re only a man to me—you must always be Martin to me.” She lifts her head — — — no answer. Quick, regular breaths. He’s asleep. Her unsatiated lips feel their way up his chest, his throat—as far as the mouth—my darling, it would be so nice if you always knew everything that was in me without me needing to talk about it. That would be so nice. But I suppose one shouldn’t ask too much.

A functional consulting-room. Shining instruments. Smell of nothing. Self-conscious asepsis. Gilgi sits on the narrow, cool, slippery chaise longue and manages to put a neat, firm knot in her tie despite the absence of a mirror. The little blond doctor stands at the wash-basin, drying his thin, pallid gynecologist’s hands with irritating slowness.

“For crying out loud, spit it out, Doctor—what can you tell me? Am I having a child or not? What? In seven months? I see.—Fine, that’s all I wanted to know. — — — Please say what you have to say in German, I don’t understand Latin.” The little blond doctor doesn’t know whether to be surprised or offended. In the end he conceals his indecision behind patronizing goodwill.