Gilgi (20 page)

Gilgi goes to her, puts an arm around her shoulder—“and if you left him, Hertha?”

“Oh, Gilgi—don’t get me wrong—I couldn’t leave him any more than I could leave the children. I need him the same way I need the children. Whether maybe that’s love after all—or what other kind of feeling it is that gives me an unbreakable bond with him—I don’t know” — — — —

“Hertha—it’ll all get better. I’ll see that you get a pram, and we’ll go to the parks with the children, and you’ll be pretty again …”

“That’s nice of you, Gilgi—that cheers me up. You like me in spite of everything, don’t you? That’s so nice. I’d really like a friend, a woman who understands.—Listen, Gilgi, I’ll tell you something—you still have time—no matter how good things are for you now: make sure you have your own income and your independence—then you can love a man and keep that love alive. See while there’s still time that you’ll never become as helpless and unprotected as I am …”

“But, Hertha, it’ll all get better.”

“Get better!” The blond Hertha smiles wanly—“I’m expecting my third child, Gilgi. Grotesque, isn’t it? You almost want to laugh. Get better? Ach, I don’t want anything for myself anymore—only the strength to hold out—but
everything I want beyond that is for my little children and for Hans—yes, for him too.”

“Hertha—my God—you can’t have the child, you can’t!”

“Looks like I’ll have to, Gilgi—or do you think the health insurer will help me not to? Just don’t tell Hans anything, he doesn’t need to know about it yet—he’s already a nervous wreck, and has enough to worry about.”

“Oh, Hertha, I’ll help you—I’ll work out how … I want to help you—I’ll come visit you often.”

“Yes, come visit me, Gilgi. But—tell me—you don’t look as though everything in your life was just fine, either?”

“Oh, I, Hertha—I’m not at all important.”

“You silly child, as if the most important thing in everyone’s life wasn’t themselves! Your own toothache always hurts more than someone else’s broken leg.” — — — —

The young lady Gilgi is walking through the streets—walking, walking, walking—is so tired and keeps right on walking—right on, without a destination. Such heavy feet—and stones on her chest and stones on her shoulders. And you have to help—I used to think it was enough to get by on your own and not accept any help. I wanted to buy my freedom by not accepting any help—but now I know that you have to help—even if there’s absolutely nothing left of you at the end. How much money have I got now? Of course I might need it for the doctor and the clinic. Should I give her the money? So that she doesn’t have to have the child? Yes, and what about me? It would be completely irresponsible of me. Me with a child! And Martin! We would end up like Hans and like Hertha—oh, my God!—are you really so abysmally egotistical that
completely genuine sympathy with other people always leads you back to yourself? Oh, and it’s not about me at all—but what would become of Martin? What? And all the love and all the beautiful things and all the good things would be destroyed. And I love him precisely because he’s so light-hearted and happy and youthful. And if I stay with him for a long time, then suddenly there’ll be no more money—and all the things that make him happy will be destroyed—and then everything will become so awful … Isn’t there any way out? So what should I do? So what should I—do?… and Hertha doesn’t even have that anymore, her complete and total love for the man she’s bound to—she doesn’t even have that! I’d rather be dead than stop loving Martin. — — But I have to help her—yes, I have to.—

And she lies beside Martin during the night—I could never exist without you. The dark tangle of her thoughts becomes more and more confused. “What’s the matter, Gilgi?” Martin asks. He’s uneasy. He was cheerful and satisfied while she was still only a toy and a diversion to him—now he loves her, and the stronger feeling brings uncertainty, doubt, and mistrust along with it. “Gilgi, what’s the matter—where were you today—don’t you love me anymore—am I too old for you—do you like someone else — — —”

“Don’t worry, Martin, don’t worry—oh, my God—how can you say such things?” He puts a hand on her arm—he only needs to touch her for her skin to start feeling like it’s burning—a sharp little flame springs up from every point of contact. She puts an arm around his neck—“but how can you doubt that I love you.” Something in the dark heaviness of her thoughts forces its way into him—he
defends himself against it—“I don’t have any peace anymore, little Gilgi, just can’t stick it out for so long in one place—let’s go away from here, Gilgi—”

“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.”