Gilgi (17 page)

“You’re as fit as a fiddle, young lady. Marvelously constructed hips—”

Gilgi interrupts: “What do you mean, Doctor, marvelously constructed hips.” As always when confronted by difficult and unalterable circumstances, she’s completely enveloped in ice-cold rationality. You need a strong dose of street-urchin manners for self-protection. No fear of words, no fear of ideas—plain speaking. She feels a fierce and unjust anger against the harmless little doctor. Don’t make yourself so important, you pathetic medical-school Mickey Mouse, you … “What do you mean, marvelously constructed hips! I don’t want a child.”

The little doctor places his hand paternally on Gilgi’s shoulder. —“Young lady …”

“Enough of the cozy granddaddy routine—I don’t want a child.”

“You mustn’t get so excited now, dear young lady—it would be best if you got married.”

“I’d say that knowing what’d be best is somewhat beyond your area of expertise, wouldn’t you? And anyway, that’s the last thing I’m worried about. I wouldn’t have the least hesitation in bearing five healthy children as an unmarried mother, if I could support them. But I can’t. I’ve got no money, the father has no money—I mean, it’ll cost less to dispose of the matter promptly. Can you do that?”

“What do you think I am!” The little doctor is shocked, half in earnest, half not. Oh, for God’s sake—do you want me to put on the act, you pint-sized idiot! All right, so we’ll put on the act. Gilgi stares into space for several seconds, lost in her pain, then seizes the doctor’s hand—the script would consider some low moaning appropriate at this point—oh well, perhaps it’ll be enough to say: “Help me, Doctor! I feel so safe with you (every doctor likes hearing that), I don’t know what—I mean—you see, I—”

Nonsense, it’s too ridiculous, I can’t do this. Surely you can talk sensibly with someone like this. And Gilgi speaks quite calmly and quietly: “Listen, Doctor, there’s nothing more immoral and unhygienic and absurd than making a woman give birth to a child which she can’t feed. And there’s absolutely nothing more immoral and absurd than making a woman have a child which she doesn’t want …” And they talk back and forth—for a solid half-hour. Gilgi’s aggressive energy is already slackening. Ach, none of it makes any difference, just let whatever has to happen come to her.

“So you’ll come back in three weeks, young lady, and quite often these things come right by themselves — — — and, well—and in a case like this things could perhaps be helped along.” Gilgi nods wearily. Yes, she’ll come back in three weeks.

Slowly she goes down the staircase. Suddenly feels so limp and shattered that she has to sit down on one of the steps for a moment. She thinks back over the doctor’s final words—what exactly did he mean by them? Maybe a veiled promise. Must have been. What else? Or — — — he wants to string me along until it’s too late … which would mean that I should try someone else—ach, once was
enough. I’ll come back in three weeks. Three more weeks! Three more long weeks. Three more short, short weeks. Gilgi lets her head sink onto her knees. You won’t tell Martin anything—not until there’s absolutely no other way. In the meantime you won’t say a word. Maybe something will be broken if he finds out. Maybe he’ll take it terribly lightly—you couldn’t bear that. Maybe he’ll be helpless and completely out of his depth—you couldn’t bear that. Maybe he’d feel that he had obligations and was forced to rearrange his whole life—that’d make him desperately unhappy, and me as well. The whole thing is revolting. Yes, if you loved Martin just a little less, then everything would be much simpler. But instead you’re senselessly and insanely afraid that something could destroy this love, this love that you depend on unconditionally, that you want to keep at any, any, any cost. And you’d bear any difficulty sooner than take the slightest risk that could endanger this love.

Gilgi shakes her head: you still can’t really believe it—and you almost want to laugh: at the idea that Martin, the damned fool, has made me pregnant. And doesn’t have a clue that right now—he thinks I’m in my room. And he himself is having a great time at that film about Africa. Oh, dear, foolish, clueless Martin, if I wasn’t so tired I’d be really angry with you — — — Three more weeks—for the next three weeks I just won’t think about it at all.

“Come on, Martin—get up! It’s your turn to make the coffee today!” Gilgi punches Martin in the side—without result. He has no intention of opening his eyes. “Old lazybones.” She bends over him, gathers a few strands of hair
and brushes them over his face. Doesn’t work either. So you have to apply “the guaranteed method”: tickling the soles of his feet—he can’t stand that. Gilgi crawls to the foot of the bed. “Damn it! Gilgi, would you stop that!”—“Kukirol’s Plasters Work the Fastest!”—“Gilgi, I’ll murder you …”—“Good idea, Martin, commit a little crime against passion, why don’t you?”—“Gilgi, you’re playing with fire …”—Gilgi is already sitting upright in the bed again.—“The gentleman is awake at last? May I respectfully suggest that the gentlemen be so good as to make the coffee at last?”—“Tell me, Gilgi”—Martin rubs his eyes—“and I’m asking quite seriously, tell me, my sweet clever girl, exactly why does the German public have the idea that anyone who stays in bed in the morning is of bad character?”—“How should I know, my darling?”—“They have quite a few curious ideas here. For example—as a child, I was only ever allowed to eat things which I found disgusting, quite unconsciously people had this vague feeling: food that tastes good is sinful.”—“Listen, Martin—if you imagine that I feel like philosophizing with you right here and now, on an empty stomach—then you’re mistaken—and if you don’t get up right this minute, I’ll fetch some cold water—get up, you—I think the weather will be beautiful today.” Gilgi jumps out of the bed, runs across the room. She’s wearing pyjamas of light-blue silk embroidered with little dark-blue swallows. She opens the curtains: “Look at the sunbeams, Martin! You can reach out and take them in your hands!”

At midday Gilgi is standing in the kitchen, wielding a frying pan very expertly and importantly. “Martin, please—you’ve got no business in the kitchen at the moment.”—“Oh, Gilgi, I don’t like it when your hands and
your hair smell so much of the kitchen afterwards.”—“Let me be now, Martin.” Gilgi is concentrating devoutly on her fried potatoes. Sunlight flows in through the kitchen window, lies in wide gold stripes on the blue-gray slate floor—and Spain has become a republic, and there’s always something happening in the world—really great things are happening, but nevertheless the fried potatoes are the most important thing at the moment. And outside the kitchen window there’s a chestnut tree—it’s very proud of its brand-new green leaves and doesn’t quite have the confidence to blossom yet, a plump blackbird with an orange-yellow beak is singing in its branches—yes, it’s spring now, and—I suppose I’m crazy, but actually I’d like to have the child … the frying pan slips just a little to the side, Gilgi cries out because hot fat has spattered her leg, and Martin starts going on as though a bomb had exploded—“completely ridiculous, all this fooling around in the kitchen”—and carries Gilgi into the living-room, peels her stocking off: tiny red spots on the white skin … Then suddenly the whole apartment is full of smoke, they’re almost suffocated. And the fried potatoes have become as hard and black as heating coal—that’s the end of lunch. And right now they’re completely out of cash again—it would be nothing short of sinful to eat at a restaurant. But the smoke is intolerable. So they make some sandwiches, like the pettiest of the petty bourgeoisie, and set off, strolling for ages along Aachenstrasse—and in the end they take luncheon on a bench in the city forest.

“Oh God, Gilgi, this terrible sandwich paper! All that’s missing now are some hard-boiled eggs, straight from the third-class car on the passenger train …”

“Oh, Martin, are you an aesthete? May I point out to
the gentleman that there is a corn on the third toe of the gentleman’s left foot? They don’t fit so well together—being an aesthete and—” Gilgi often fails to finish her sentences now, she’s simply too lazy to bother. Oh, how lazy she is. She’d like to put her arms behind her head—much too much effort. Hasn’t a bit of strength left in her joints. Lets her arms lie limply in her lap, blinks up at the sun—is so wonderfully tired, completely enveloped in a twilight cloud of sweet, soft indifference. Doesn’t want to break out of the cloud yet—not yet, not yet—because something has to happen, something has to be done, when you break out of it. Decision—action—oh, the words hammer too loudly.

Broad, broad green lawn, shy little daisies, trees, sky, sun, caressing air—very occasionally a human figure—but who would be taking a stroll in the city forest at this time on a weekday? “Don’t you notice as well, Martin, how even a single person can ruin the view for you?” Martin doesn’t answer. Both look into the sunlight for another half-hour in silence.

“Tell me, little Gilgi”—Martin shatters the silence suddenly—“how was it exactly before we met—who was it that you—liked? You see, I know so little about you.” Gilgi ignores the soft, insistent, inquisitorial tone which men can never avoid when asking such questions. “Yes, there were a few I liked—was probably in love, too—my God, I can’t remember them properly anymore. You know, I suppose the mind remembers, but the feelings have no memory anymore—it’s so difficult to reconstruct something if the feelings have lost the memory.” Martin isn’t satisfied, wants to know more—how—what—who—why—wherefore—. For a moment she looks at him doubtfully
from the side—“ach, don’t ask so many questions. There’s probably nothing that’s wiped out more conclusively by the arrival of something new and stronger than old love affairs are.” She lets her head fall onto his shoulder—“don’t ask so many questions, I really don’t think that kind of thing is important”—she has a well-meaning, superior expression around her mouth, as people do who suddenly discover that someone is concerned about something which they themselves consider insignificant.

“You shouldn’t go out in this terrible weather, little Gilgi—your cheeks are hot—probably a temperature …”—

“Heck, it’s only a little influenza, Martin!”

“You should go to bed!”

“Later, Martin—later. I just have to pop out to the labor office—because my money is due today!”

A gray room—filled with the smell of humanity, vapors from wet clothes, dust, and noise. You queue up at the counter—for many, many, many minutes. Immediately in front of you a little, destitute woman with a grubby child on her arm. They’re pushing behind you—women and girls, women and girls, packed together—you’re pushed so disgustingly close to each other … Gilgi’s gaze falls on the greasy hair of the woman in front of her—the yellow-gray scalp showing under the sticky strands. You feel sick in your stomach, your throat—Gilgi closes her eyes. And now everything forces itself upon you—the smell forces itself upon you—the people force themselves upon you—the room forces itself upon you. You’re dissolving among a faceless crowd—what’s left of you? What’s in the room: a buzzing hopelessness, droning like the crying of a
half-starved child—a broken will which has lost its power to desire—a waiting in which all purpose has died—fumbling for the days—resting in yesterday—no strength for tomorrow—excluded from common experience—forced out of the circle—forced into another, unwanted commonality. An acceptance of having sunk—an inability to protest—against yourself—absolved of personal responsibility—no longer supported by your own desire and ability—leaning on what’s outside you, leaning on what’s outside you … ach, the breathing around me, and if they wouldn’t stand so close to me in front and behind—I’m about to fall over, but I can’t fall over like this. What’s left of me? Do people ever suspect how completely they can be influenced!!!! The body’s immunity is so disproportionately greater than that of the mind. The slightest concession to weakness, the very least willingness to let yourself go exposes you to the world—alien thoughts enter through your pores, alien wishes, an alien desire, an alien hopelessness—alien influences which take root in you—you don’t notice it, you don’t know it, but days—weeks—years later you might feel the pain of inflamed, sick feelings—might wonder wearily about the incomprehensibility of a wish, a thought which didn’t grow within you yourself, wonder, puzzling over the motive and the purpose of an involuntary action to which you feel no connection—even though often a mere breath was the cause, a breath of a stranger whose face you maybe hadn’t even seen, a breath that entered you—remained—festered—erupted …

Gilgi opens her eyes: still three—seven—eight people in front of her. The monotonous collective noise of those waiting is broken here and there by single sounds, a sharp laugh, the impatient tapping of a foot, words—Gilgi can
distinguish different kinds of backs—shoulders in front of her. Brash shoulders, despairing shoulders, tired shoulders, indifferent shoulders … ah, why do I belong to them? Maybe misery and poverty aren’t the worst thing. The worst thing is that the people here have had every feeling of responsibility taken from them. The worst thing is that quite a few of them almost feel comfortable in their “it’s not my fault”—lying down, as in a coffin, in the idea that their misery is exclusively other people’s fault. They let their precious, precious knowledge of their own laziness and incapacity be strangled, let their will for life and desire for action die slowly within them—because it’s not their fault. And the fact that other people’s failure helps to cover the tiny quantum of their own failure—maybe that’s the worst thing, that’s the end, that shows that you’ve died …

Gilgi coughs—her chest really hurts. She shudders with cold. Probably really does have a bit of a temperature—and it’s just the right weather now for catching a chill. The woman with the child thinks so, too—and she remembers that her feet are cold. “If it’d jus’ warm up properly at las’, so that we didn’ need the heatin’ anymore,” she shifts from one foot to the other, the child starts to fret—it has such ugly scurf around its little mouth, and horribly old eyes — — — and one more week—then I have to go to the doctor …

“Ach, little Gilgi, so you went out in the rain for a lousy thirteen marks! My God, you’re such a stubborn, inexplicable girl!”