Gilgi (22 page)

“That—I—am what?”

“My mother. At least to the extent that you gave birth to me twenty-one years ago.” Gilgi tells Frau Greif briefly and clearly what Täschler told her.—“Right, now you know everything.” — — —

There’s not a sound in the room—quiet, oppressive semi-darkness—a small, silent, white spot, the face of the magazine-lady. Somewhere a door slams, a car horn blares—noises which could help—you stretch out towards them—don’t reach them. Everyone is dead—I’m all alone in the world—I’ll have a child—I’m happy—I’m so sad with such happiness … A fly buzzes, buzzes, buzzes … I can’t move—the smell in the room here—a thousand ribbons which are winding themselves around my body and around my arms and around my head—there should be noises, I want to hear my voice, I want to be able to move my hand. So quiet—the woman over there … the light-colored spot, I can hear it thinking, that’s how quiet everything inside me is—I’m listening—I have to answer …

“You’re thinking that what I told you isn’t true! How can
I prove—maybe it’s blackmail—oh, don’t deceive yourself. You’re only trying to think that because it’s how you want things to be—but you felt quite clearly that everything I said is true—we always feel the truth. Why are you fighting it? You don’t need to torment yourself or feel any obligation to be shaken now or to have any kind of emotion for me. Don’t be surprised by your indifference—that’s not a lifelessness which has to shock you—we can’t just react by compulsion and immediately—that only ever comes later. — — — I beg you, say something—I can’t bear the way you’re sitting there like a dead woman—I feel like I’m dying along with you. And when you do speak—please don’t lie, and don’t try to talk familiarly with me—that would be so shameful and embarrassing, because you can’t feel at all close to me yet …” Gilgi falls silent, exhausted, little beads of sweat are forming on her pale forehead. An inexpressible physical exertion, every word of it. The white spot over there moves—a garish red mouth tries to speak—Gilgi leans forward—waits—for a word … I have to help her—it must be terrible for her, not being able to say anything—I feel how terrible that is for her. I have to re-establish her connection with her world for her …

“Maybe you’re ashamed and depressed now, because you’re simply afraid of scandal and mess in your life—there’s no need for that to depress you—it’s very natural for you to think about that. But you don’t need to be afraid—no-one knows anything, and no-one will know anything. Think sensibly and logically—there was no place for a child in your life at that stage—I was a minor mishap for you—and you removed it from your life, or had it removed, in a most admirable, energetic way—of course with some inner struggles and pangs of conscience. But there’s no
doubt that you did what corresponded most strongly and definitively with your wishes … Please don’t cry—you’ve shaped your life according to your own taste—don’t disown that now. As much as possible you sought out the things which you considered of greatest value …”

A tremulous groaning from over there—Gilgi reaches for a cigarette, lights it—holds it out to the little, pale woman—“There, take it—it’s good to do something normal right now.” I’ve done something terrible to her by coming here—I have to help her … Gilgi’s voice has an infinite softness: “You should keep on being honest and logical now. Don’t exert yourself to suddenly feel something more than indifference for me. Because nothing is changing in how you see life or what you want—and you don’t need to think that something should change now. You committed yourself to a particular idea of life and a particular idea of taste long ago. And you can feel quite satisfied and unburdened, too—my life has been very good—I enjoy being alive—and I’m very grateful to you for having given birth to me. It’s not every child who can say that to its mother, by a long way, is it? Beyond that you don’t have the slightest obligation to me, nor I to you. We’re not each other’s concern. I’m here for one reason only—I need money. But for heaven’s sake don’t think that I believe I have the right to demand it from you—I’m only asking it of you …”

Trembling fingers drop the cigarette—Gilgi stubs it out carefully in the ashtray.—

“People always want money from me, and never anything else,” a curiously empty, childlike voice says at last.

“That’s quite natural—other people ask someone to give what he has to give—what he has most of—love, sympathy, beauty, ideas, joy—or money.”

“And I only have money to give?”

“I can think of—nothing—else—that—you—could—give—me.”

“I’ll give you money tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow is too late.”

“I don’t have any money right now.”

“But I need it right now—my God—now—you must understand that it’s not for me—I would never have come here for myself, it’s for friends …” The woman grabs for Gilgi’s hand suddenly—Gilgi pulls it away hastily—“don’t touch me—please—it’s better for you never to touch me.”

“You must—tell me—about yourself—yes, you must come to see me—all the time—when?” Gilgi’s open hands are lying heavily on the table—you can’t lift them—you want to stand up and can’t lift your hands. The room is spinning around her—fog, fog—dancing shadows—yellow clouds—shimmering air—

“I’ll never come to see you again, I would only be a disruption for you—and you for me. And your world is alien and repugnant to me, I want nothing to do with it. I must go now—I’ve promised to help—I must keep my promise—I have no more time, I have to work out where I can get money.” Gilgi looks at the little, deflated woman—who’s raising her tired, empty eyes to Gilgi’s face—stretching out both her hands—pulling them back suddenly—and slowly she slips one ring after another from her slender, smooth fingers—puts one ring after another into Gilgi’s open hands—the blue sapphire—the green emerald—the two diamonds and the big pearl. A little heap of platinum and glittering stone in Gilgi’s hands.

“That was very good of you,” Gilgi says with trembling lips—“but—don’t you love the rings—I mean, weren’t they given to you by someone you love?”

The empty, childlike voice again. “My husband gave them to me—every time he cheats on me he gives me a piece of jewelry …”

“I should go,” Gilgi says, and stands up. The woman wants to rise, too, suddenly becomes even paler than before, falls backwards—in one movement Gilgi is at her side. Puts the slack head on the arm of the chair—holding the little heap of glittering stones firmly in her left hand … she’s fainted — — I’ve—never believed that people really faint—I’d never have thought such a thing possible … what are you supposed to do—? Water—yes, water—water—water — — — aach, it’s all too much—Gilgi sinks to her knees—strokes the thin, bare arm which is hanging down slackly and lifelessly. The little magazine-lady is my mother—I shouldn’t have come to see her. But she’ll be all right again soon—she’s got a Diddy and a reliable husband whose adultery is so lucrative for her—he’ll probably turn sixty soon, and then he’ll really start having affairs, and then she’ll get lots of nice new rings—Gilgi presses the little hand briefly, it’s so bare after all it’s given away … Magda, little magazine-lady—things aren’t so bad for you, Magda—but Hertha—poor Hertha—Hertha! The money! Martin! Gilgi leaps up, runs out of the room—encounters the maid in the hallway—“Madam feels ill, go to her—at once.”

Half past six. Hans has until seven to pawn the rings, or sell them. You can be in Friesenstrasse in ten minutes at the latest. You’re not going out of your way if you drop in on Martin first. Just to tell him quickly that he doesn’t need to worry. You’ll explain later. That all seems very calm and sensible. Gilgi sets out with quick, sure steps. All the
emotions and events which she has experienced have been extinguished for the moment, only one thought remains: I’ve done it.

She’s hardly even touched the bell before Martin tears the door open. Fear and rage are burning brightly in his eyes. “Where were you? My God—almost seven o’clock—I’ve been looking for you everywhere …”

“Oh, Martin, this is hardly the first time I’ve been out so long.”

“Yes it is, and you’ve never gone out without saying a word, either.”

“Don’t look so angry, Martin—give me a kiss, do—quickly—I just have to pop out again now—I’ll explain afterwards …” He pulls her into the room, holding her wrist in a hard, angry grip. And he’s got every reason to be angry. Oh, my God, he’s been so afraid. Once he started waiting, he fell ever more deeply and agonizingly into fear and uncertainty. He thought about thousands and thousands of things which might have happened, all kinds of things, all mixed up chaotically—sad, horrible, terrible—things which finally all combined into a torturing certainty. And suddenly you realize how much the little girl means to you—a hard nut, this realization, by no means entirely pleasant. A dubious benefit—to find out all at once that your own happiness and well-being are dependent on someone else. And you stand there like a helpless idiot, no longer the master of your own joys and sorrows. Purely because this ill-behaved little girl takes it into her head to spend countless, endless hours running around town in a downright irresponsible manner—yes, running around town—you have to endure the torments of hell—yes, I’m really angry with you, because I love you so much. “Damn
it all, talk to me—where have you been?” Of course—to be completely in the right now, she’d have to be dead—thank God she’s alive. “Where have you been?” The little girl is standing there in front of him—all pale and upset—no hat—her hair tousled—worn-out, looking guilty—has an angry, defiant look about her mouth—

“Let go of me, Martin, I have to go out now …”

“But, little Gilgi, I was worried about you, I presume you have a few minutes for me now.” He lets go of her wrist, strokes her hair—Gilgi surrenders immediately to the gentler voice and the softer touch. She puts her arms around his neck, opens her hands without thinking—the rings fall onto the floor—the blue sapphire, the green emerald, the two diamonds, the big pearl … Martin picks them up one after the other … “what’s all this—where did you get these from?”

“From my mother.”

“Which one?”

“The magazine-lady—she fainted—she’s quite alien to me. The rings still have to be sold, or pawned—but will they bring in five hundred marks? Martin—I said, I have to go—they’re waiting for me …”

“Who’s waiting? — — — Come along, Gilgi, rest for a while and then you can tell me …”

Gilgi goes into the dining-room with Martin—look how nicely he’s set the table—and he hasn’t touched anything—only the bottle of Hennessy, which was still full yesterday, is half-empty now. Gilgi drops tiredly onto a chair—“I’ll eat and drink something quickly”—yes, drink a lot—then telling the story is sure to be much easier. Gilgi drinks—several glasses hastily—everything is so confused—more and more of her words are sliding back
inside her. Ach, if she could just sleep now. No, she can’t eat anything, she doesn’t want to, the smallest bite becomes huge in her mouth—you have to swallow a hundred times before it goes down. She’d rather drink, and—“a cigarette.” The rings are lying on the table, sparkling a little, glittering … “Martin, do you think they’ll bring in five hundred marks?” Gilgi’s eyelids are dropping with tiredness. Such a heavy scent in the room. Three round black vases with white hyacinths. Martin loves them so much, those flowers, and Gilgi loves them, too, because Martin loves them. Martin gets up from the table, walks restlessly around the room, sits down on the divan, smokes … The scent of the hyacinths becomes mixed with the smell of Virginia tobacco—a combination which for Gilgi is connected inseparably with Martin. — — Drink another glass … then you’ll probably be able to talk. But really everything’s quite clear, and there’s nothing to be tragic about. Really, it’s laughable that you suddenly make the simplest things in the world so complicated and … “Martin, you don’t have to look so angry—no reason at all — — I was at Pit’s and at my mother’s—to get money—otherwise a friend will go to jail.”

“What kind of friend?”

“A guy I used to know. Things were going so badly for him—he was here once—” What Gilgi is saying becomes obviously confused. Now she’ll have to admit that she lied the other day, that’s probably the worst thing there is. She hasn’t lied so very often in her life—but when she did—the fate of the world could have hinged on it—then you’d have stuck with the lie. And of course Martin’s sure to think that she’s done really terrible things, because she’s so red and uncertain and embarrassed. Although everything’s so
simple—laughably simple. Hans and Hertha, they’ve got real problems … Gilgi jumps up, reaches for the rings—“I have to go now, Martin …”

“Stay where you are, little Gilgi—do you think I’d let you go out like that now! If you want to take the rings to someone—well, I can take them there for you later. Come here …” Obediently she sits down beside him, lets her head fall into his lap … “So who is supposed to get the rings? What kind of friend is he?”

“I used to know him—he was here the other day—with floor wax—so poor—and the wife—the children …”

It’s hard to work out the right meaning from the confused things Gilgi says—it’s all too easy to work out a wrong meaning … “So this is what I understand now—an old boyfriend of yours was here, and you concealed that from me. My little girl, if someone conceals something, then something’s not right, then there’s some feeling or other … or are you such a stupid child that you think I’d be upset because you didn’t wait for me—to be the first one? What do you take me for, little one? Don’t misunderstand me, little Gilgi, if I asked stupid questions sometimes recently, it was because … well, if you love a woman very much, then you become childish, then you’re not smart, or superior, or perceptive. Then all the stupid primal feelings well up in you, then you’re inclined to torment yourself—ideas and images force themselves on you, and it torments you to think that all the dear, sweet caresses have also been given to … then the evil male urges are awakened, the brutal instincts of the possessor and the ruler … My silly little Gilgi, my little Maori girl … how such a little woman can be untrammelled by tradition—how I love you because you’re the way you are—ach,
a man is a thousand times more tied to tradition, my little one …”