Gilgi (6 page)

The marabou-bird said / The wise old marabou … she taps him on the shoulder with her index finger: “I’d like to talk to you, I’ll wait till you’ve finished.” Pit’s face betrays neither surprise nor pleasure … My dear girl, when you kiss / He does not need to look at … “might be two o’clock,” he grunts, without taking his fingers from the keys for so much as a second … The marabou-bird said / The … Gilgi sits down at a corner table.

What a depressing joint! Red-and-white paper streamers are hanging down from the ceiling, a few lanterns with red paper shades are swaying back and forth over the piano. A fat bald man is stretched out at the bar, two traveling salesmen are sitting in the corner opposite to Gilgi, one with a girl on his lap … The marabou-bird … Both the traveling salesmen are shouting with laughter, probably because that’s part of the experience, and because tomorrow they’ll want to tell themselves and everyone else what a great time they had. Two battered sample-cases are lying neglected beneath the table.

A girl comes out from behind the bar, and asks Gilgi more or less pleasantly what she’d like. “Cup of coffee.” They don’t serve it. The cheapest thing she can order is port wine. Fine, port wine. It’s terrible how much money she’s spending today! She starts to feel uneasy, what’s she supposed to do here while she’s waiting? Three more hours! She digs some sandwiches out of her bag and starts to eat, less from hunger than from boredom. Pit’s playing the Song of the Pigeon … How did you, pigeon, pigeon, pigeon … the two traveling salesmen are singing along, the waitress is singing too. One of the lanterns expires from enthusiasm, a breath of hometown pride wafts through the room.

You should be in your loft / Our kitchen’s not for you: Get lost! / Take off! Take off! Take off!… Gilgi is writing in a little notebook. Income—Expenditures. You have to be orderly. Especially in financial matters. “Like a sweet little shopkeeper!” Olga says on those occasions when Gilgi ponders for a half-hour about a fifty-pfennig purchase she can’t remember. Olga never has a clue what she’s spent her money on. She has no system, and no ability to organize
one. Whenever Gilgi thinks of Olga’s finances, she feels faint. And whenever she hears Olga talking about money, she feels downright seasick. Income—Expenditures.

Bang! The door is thrown open, a multi-colored being sweeps in, alights next to Gilgi’s table: “You don’ mind, do you, Frollein?” and calls over to the bar: “Gimme a schnapps and five Ova cigarettes!”

The multi-colored being looks depressed. Gilgi offers it a cigarette. She packs her notebook away in her bag, chews on her sandwich and looks over the bright little hooker. Who sighs: “Nothin’ happenin’,” and Gilgi doesn’t quite know if that means in general, or only in the bar.

“How did you end up here?” Gilgi doesn’t answer. The hooker is wearing a coral necklace, her knitted jacket is mended neatly at the elbows—could she have done it herself?—she’s put lots of polish on her broad, grubby fingernails, and she has no face, just as Fräulein Täschler had no face.

Maria, Maria, listen—do … What are these people to me, Gilgi thinks. Everyone is in the place where they belong. If their lives end up in the crapper, it’s their own fault. “God, I almos’ forgot again,” the hooker laughs, “I was goin’ to put my elbow on the table again, but that always ruins the mend in my jacket.” She places her arms carefully on the table, like a well-behaved child in Sunday School. “ ’S cold outside,” she says.

Gilgi nods. “D’you want a sandwich?” she asks, friendly but uncertain, and points to the packet in front of her.

“God, if you’ve got enough of ’em.” The hooker takes one, and Gilgi puts the next one in front of her, too, the hooker touched it with her finger, and Gilgi can’t bear that. A girl as pretty as you / Deserves a real Prince Charm-ing too …

The hooker chews, which she can only do on the left side, she has a big hole in a molar on her right. “Haven’ been able to get it done yet, yeah, it’s a lousy job I’ve got.”

“So why’d you choose it?” Gilgi asks.

“I didn’ actually choose it.”

“So find a better one now.” Gilgi feels vaguely that a girl who mends her knitted jacket neatly doesn’t have to earn her living on the street. The hooker shrugs her shoulders: “God, I’m in it now, what’m I supposed to do?” Gilgi can’t find an answer to that. Just don’t stick your nose so high in the air, just don’t always think it’s so completely your own doing if you’re something better. Say the Krons hadn’t adopted her, say she’d been brought up by Täschler, back there in Thieboldstrasse, say she—better not to think about it at all — — —

“ ’Lo, Gilgi.” Pit gives her his hand and sits down at the table, clapping the hooker on the shoulder: “Well, how’re things, little Lena?”

“How d’you think they are? They’re crap.” Lena gets up. “S’long, Pit—s’long, Frollein—gotta go.”

“Pit,” Gilgi begins after a pause, “Pit, you never told me what kind of man your father is, and what’s your mother like, and—Pit, I’d like to tell you about — — —”

Pit jumps down her throat. “Why are you butting in on me here, what do you want? Since when have you been interested in conducting psychological studies?”

“Don’t talk such garbage, Pit!” Gilgi looks pale and
tired: “You’ve got so angry recently, Pit.” That’s politics for you, she thinks, it makes people so unpleasant, really nasty.

“Yes, I know, Gilgi.” For a moment, Pit looks like a woebegone schoolboy. “Oh, you can’t find me anything like as disgusting as I find myself. I’m so full of bitterness and hate, all I can see is injustice and prejudice.” And then he starts with his Socialism again, and all the things that have to be changed, and Gilgi sits there on the lookout for a moment when she can interrupt him and tell him about the things which are more important to her, and have more to do with her, just now. All right, private capital can be abolished for all she cares—and the anti-abortion law—it should have been repealed ages ago, of course, though maybe she owes her life to it—and the whole economic system, yes—. Why do people who talk about politics always have to make it so utterly complicated and confusing—and the revolution after the war was messed up—“oh, Pit, I can’t go on anymore!”

“What, you—you just go your way without caring, without getting involved, Gilgi, did you actually read those books about political economy which I gave you?”

“I don’t understand them, Pit. I’m not terribly clever, and when I start thinking about that stuff I lose my footing, I need whatever brains I’ve got for myself and my career—”

“Your self-importance is disgusting!”

“Well, for crying out loud, who should I find important if not myself! I just don’t believe, I think it’s a damn lie when someone says that he thinks of the community first and himself second. Who is the community, anyway? It has no face, it’s not a human being you can love, and therefore want to help. Shut up, Pit, I’m talking! You’re so
terribly vain, you guys, you think that you’re something special and that you’re doing something special. You always see yourselves as heroes, and believe that the world couldn’t run properly without you. And to be heroic, you need something which challenges you, which you can fight against, and if it doesn’t exist you just invent it—”

“You can keep that lecture for those Nazi people.” Pit stands up. “I’m sorry for you, Gilgi, if you can’t understand that we won’t find any peace until—what’s the point of trying to explain it to you, you superficial little thing, you.” Pit sits down at the piano again—Maria, Maria, listen—do …

That’s Pit for you! Is it some kind of crime if you want to go your way quietly and decently and keeping well away from politics? And what exactly is there to stop him finding any peace? Maybe Pit’s right after all—about this and that. Maybe you should—oh, it’s better not to think about it, you don’t know where it would lead if once you started. Gilgi rests her head on her hands. Red letters: What are you letting happen to your life?… Two by the Rhine / Two side by side / Your hand in mine … One of the traveling salesmen has fallen asleep, he’s snoring, his head is wobbling, the red lanterns are wobbling, the piano is wobbling, the bust of Dante on it is wobbling. Dante in a dive like this! How did you, pigeon … With the tip of her tongue, Gilgi licks up a tear which has rolled down her face at the speed of a slow-motion film. She’s surprised at herself for not being surprised at herself, and she’d think about that if it wasn’t too complicated for her. Why is Pit so horrible to me? He’s my best friend, after all! She still hasn’t told him her story yet, but now she doesn’t want to. The whole atmosphere here, the semi-darkness—she can’t stand it anymore.

Gilgi pays for the port. Without giving Pit another glance, she walks past him to the door. Onto the street. She’s going home. Home?

Anyway, Gilgi has other things to do besides looking for her parents. She decides not to worry about the matter for the moment. No doubt she’ll find an opportunity to make the acquaintance of the Greif family sooner or later.

Gilgi is as gentle as a turtle-dove with the Krons. She’s postponed her decision to leave home until after Carnival, and she’s resolved to be as nice and pleasant as anyone possibly could be while she’s still there. She takes her mother to the movies and the
Konditorei
. Doesn’t complain when a film is sickeningly sentimental, and watches fearfully but silently as the massively overweight Frau Kron heedlessly devours whole mountain ranges of cream slices, chocolate cupcakes, and fruit tartlets.

They’re expecting a visit from Frau Kron’s sister and her two daughters from Hamburg. Their relatives want to experience Carnival in Cologne—and of course they haven’t seen each other for ages. The three ladies from Hamburg will stay with the Krons. The house is bursting with excitement. A bed and a divan are moved into Gilgi’s room—for her two cousins. Everything is turned upside down. An orgy of cleaning begins: “Hetty is so finicky,” and Frau Kron wants to do honor to her household. When Gilgi gets home after work, she races through the rooms with the vacuum cleaner, hangs new curtains at the windows, waxes the parquet floor in the parlor. And she loves doing all of it. She has a heartfelt desire to make herself useful. But then she has to accompany her mother to the
station, to fetch the relatives, and she doesn’t think that’s so useful.

Aunt Hetty and Young Gerda and Young Irene tumble onto the platform with clamor and screeching and “No!” and “Wow!” and a frenzy of embraces. Grown up so much! And the children! Yes, who would’ve thought it—after such a long time—and you’re looking so good, Hetty!—But not as good as you, Berta! When Aunt Hetty gives her a juicy kiss, Gilgi feels like a cat which has been rubbed up the wrong way. She’d very much like to wipe her mouth, because it feels so wet above her top lip, but they’re always watching her.

“No, we can take the streetcar, Hetty.” Frau Kron is a little overcome by it all, but she’s still thinking economically.

“Of course, we’ve always wanted to see the Rhine—but the War! And then the Occupation! You poor dears, how you must have suffered.” Aunt Hetty whispers, and looks fearfully all around. Of course, the English troops have left, but she’s still not quite sure—you can never know … Frau Kron’s eyes express pain: “Yes, they were difficult times for us, Hetty.” Frau Kron enjoys being commiserated with.

Then they stop outside the cathedral. “Wow, isn’t it big!” Young Gerda is full of admiration. “You don’t miss much, do you, Gerda dear?” Gilgi says amiably. No, Young Gerda and Young Irene don’t have jobs, they help at home a little—and they’ll probably get married soon. Aunt Hetty isn’t in favor of the new ideas, though she picks out the ones which suit her: for example, Young Gerda is twenty-six and Young Irene is thirty, and before the war that would have been old for an unmarried woman, but it’s not anymore.

Gilgi sits at home with her delightful relatives for the
whole evening. Young Irene and Young Gerda show off their Carnival costumes. Young Gerda skips around the room in her pixie costume—her legs are rather thick, but on the other hand she’s quite small up top—and Young Irene wriggles cheekily on the arm of the green plush sofa, admiring her cute Pierrot outfit. While the girls aren’t as beautiful as Aunt Hetty says, they’re not quite as washed-out and unattractive as Frau Kron privately believes.

It’s really time to go to bed, but they want to stay up until Herr Kron comes home. Aunt Hetty is lying on the sofa. She’s been exhausted by the journey, her feet have swollen up—“quite takes it out of you, a train trip like that.” Frau Kron is tired too. Young Gerda and Young Irene are still hopping around rather listlessly in their costumes. Gilgi borrowed a travel book from the library that morning—she’d like to read, but that would be considered impolite. Everyone is getting on everyone else’s nerves a little, everyone would like to do something other than what she’s doing just now. But everyone keeps smiling, preserving the impression that they have lots and lots in common.

Gilgi is kept awake half the night. Her cousins are overcome by the need to talk which usually arises when young women are lying in bed. Gilgi is on the chaise longue. There’s a bed on her right—and a bed on her left. Young Gerda is lying on her right—and Young Irene on her left. The two silly cows fill the space above her with their mooing—chatter about dancing and men and maybe-they’ll-get-engagedments. Whenever Young Irene mentions a certain Arthur, Young Gerda squeaks like a frog that’s in the middle of being run over. Gilgi is vouchsafed confused
explanations: well, Arthur is—and Arthur was—and Arthur will—“no, no, no, Renie, don’t tell!” Gilgi tosses from one side to the other. Holds her nose: before Young Gerda went to bed, she made liberal applications of an anti-freckle ointment which is now polluting the whole room with its stink.

In the morning, Gilgi staggers out of her temporary bed, tired to death. Frau Kron had tapped on the door. Gilgi had turned off her alarm, because of course Young Gerda and Young Irene aren’t to be woken. They’re to have a nice long sleep in. Gilgi does her exercises. Now and then she casts baleful glances on the two sleeping beauties, with their knotted straw-blond hair, pasty faces, and slightly oily noses. Layabouts! An incitement to class hatred! These people who don’t work, ambling so idiotically, frivolously, dozily through their lives—Gilgi can’t stand them.