Gilgi (9 page)

Gilgi runs into her room. Saturday of Carnival—the beginning of Carnival. The whole family is going to a masked ball. Gilgi dresses in very short blue velvet trousers, a white silk blouse with a blue tie, black patent-leather pumps. All right, ready. Gloomily, she powders her bare legs. Ach, she has absolutely no desire to go along, absolutely none. She sits down on the side of the bed and lets her mind wander. If people would just leave her alone tonight. Because she’s got something she wants to think about … “Are you ready, Gilgi?”

“Yes, yes—in a minute.” Pit says that she’s a superficial little thing, Olga—that she doesn’t love anyone. She cares a lot what Pit and Olga think. You shouldn’t care what anyone thinks. Perhaps she really doesn’t love anyone. And she doesn’t want to, either. Doesn’t want to feel empathy. Not with the Krons, not with Täschler, not with the pale unemployed woman. “A poor life,” Olga says. Poor? If you’re working—.—And then you wrap two sunbeams around your wrists, let yourself be drawn upwards—I want to stay down here, with my feet on the earth. You should probably talk to someone, but there wouldn’t actually be any point. Because she doesn’t have any words, to make herself understood.

How did you, pigeon—pigeon—pigeon / Get into our kitchen??? Ostermann’s pressing ornithological question is being asked everywhere at this year’s Carnival. Woohoo—What a night, what a night!… Oh, once upon a time—a faithful hussar … here we go, here we go—I’ll call you naughty Lola … “Waiter, a bottle of Moselle for me—Traben-Trarbacher Auslese—and some canapés …”

“But, Paul, you just ate at home—”

“So what? I gotta have a good foundation to put the alcohol on.”

“This’ll be a great evening.”

“That’s what it’s supposed to be.—Ya got a good seat, Hetty? Ya want a few more streamers, children?” Herr Kron is sitting with his loved ones around him, feeling proud and happy as someone who creates and sustains Cologne’s Carnival. “Who’s got the cloakroom check, Paul, you got the cloakroom checks?”—“Berta, stop yapping all the time, I got them in my pocket.” It takes a while to reassure Frau Kron. Young Gerda and Young Irene wriggle on their chairs, whoop happily when a man in a domino costume taps them on the head with a rattle, and throw streamers around rather awkwardly. You can’t ask more of the first half-hour. The Beckers and the Wollhammers are sitting at the table with them, as previously arranged. The little Becker daughter flirts girlishly with Herr Kron. Frau Becker is proud of the child. She’s engaged to a Daimler, though it’s not there at the moment, and its owner isn’t either. “A phenomenal car,” Frau Becker explains dreamily. Aunt Hetty looks a little envious, her maternal procuress’s expression appears: “Gerda dear, Irene dear—don’t sit so quietly at the table—have a bit of a scamper through the rooms, children!” The children scamper off.

How did you, pigeon—pigeon—pigeon … “A heavenly car,” Frau Becker says, sticking to the dream, she’s an ultramodern mother in her own way: Daimler, Daimler über a-halles … “The important thing is that a man is of good character,” says Aunt Hetty. Character, character! If he’s got a top-line car, that’s character enough, you would think. Frau Becker wipes out her wine glass with Herr Becker’s
handkerchief before the wine is poured. Aunt Hetty follows suit, except that she uses the tablecloth. She wishes that Young Gerda, at least, could be settled soon. Even if it’s only a motorcycle with a sidecar. The main thing is—that—you know. I see your daddy’s nice and treats you right, my sweet / You know, that’s just the kind of daddy that I’d like to meet … Everyone drinks, everyone links arms and sways back and forth, everyone dances, everyone calls everyone else by their first names. Herr Kron pats Aunt Hetty on the behind in Carnivalistic excess, Frau Kron thinks that such japes are only appropriate after midnight … Two by the Rhine / Two side by side / Your hand in mine … We’ll laugh and play / All through the day … Come with me to the Rhine … Here we go, here we go! Everyone is spending money, and wants something for it. If anyone doesn’t get their money’s worth, it’s their own fault.

Gilgi is sitting beside Herr Becker. He pinches her thigh, she kicks his shin with moderate force: “Hands off.”—“Go on, it’s Carnival!”—“That’s no reason for me to put up with your foolishness, Herr Becker.”—“Call me Karl, call me—Karl …”—“Pathetic.” Herr Wollhammer wants to dance with Gilgi. They’re separated in the crowd. Gilgi keeps dancing, with a domino who’s exuding a powerful odor of mothballs. Gilgi can’t help sneezing, once, twice, three times—“Have you got a cold?” the domino asks naively. Overcome by generosity, he drags her to the champagne bar. “Here’s to you, lovely lady!” You see, usually he’s rather earnest, tending to melancholy—just once a year—“there aren’t many people who understand me …” Gilgi stuffs confetti into her ears, but that doesn’t stop her hearing the profound conversation between the pair next
to her, an Indian dancing girl and a maharajah with padding over an already impressive stomach—

“And when you’re not at Carnival, what do you do?”

“Deal in oil and lubricants—but never mind that, child. Let me kiss your rosebud mouth.”

“If that’s what you want, I can lend you my lipstick—”

“It’s your mouth that I want—”

“Don’t be in such a rush—on one glass of Moselblümchen.”

“Do you want champagne, child?”

“Less talk—more action!”

“I’m glad you said that—”

“Keep your hands off me—I meant the champagne.”

“Stop playing hard to get, child—come on, it’s Carnival—it only comes once a year …”

“What about my champagne?”

“How can you think of that now? Stop being so cold—come on, it’s Carnival …”

“You think that makes you better looking?”

“You’ve got no style—”

“When you look in the mirror, you’ll see why …”

“I know I’m not handsome, child, but I have a gentle heart—my soul …”

The dancing girl gets up: “The ones who yap about their soul and their heart are the biggest pigs, and cheap on top of it all.” And on that line, she exits. The maharajah-lubricants guy folds his hands on his double stomach, as his faith in humanity shatters.

The domino-mothball guy tries to clasp Gilgi to his manly chest, but she just sneezes, fends him off, and disappears into the crowd. The maharajah’s and the domino’s eyes meet. And as the domino is in the turpentine
business, it turns out that they have intellectual interests in common. “Ya wanna go get a glass of beer at the other bar?”

“Yeah, let’s go.”

How did you, pigeon, pigeon, pigeon … Gilgi pushes her way through the dancing couples. It’s not even midnight, and the family won’t head home until five in the morning, particularly with Young Gerda and Young Irene in the party. She doesn’t want to be here anymore. How did you, pigeon … Buzzing, scraping, screeching, laughing—you’d have to be drunk, and desperate to fall in love, to enjoy it here. Hell, the stink in a wild animal’s cage at the zoo isn’t as bad as this smell of humanity in the mass. You’re swallowing dust and smoke with every breath. An exuberantly tattooed youth grabs Gilgi around the waist: “Come on, dance with me.”—“Nah, don’t feel like it.”—“Why not—come on, it’s Carnival …” Come on, it’s Carnival, come on, it’s Carnival—stick it where the sun don’t shine. Gilgi brushes off the tattooed hand. Sets a course for the family table and gets Herr Kron to give her the cloakroom check: “Just want to get my compact out of my coat pocket.”

A few minutes later she’s standing on the street. Now what? What does she actually want? She makes her way over the rain-dampened pavement towards the New Market. Her hands are buried in the pockets of her black sealskin coat. Her bare legs are rather cold. She walks with unwilling, ambling little steps. Where is she going?… how did you, pigeon … She’s uneasy, sour, depressed for no reason. New Market, Mittelstrasse, Rudolph Square—Aachenstrasse. A little
Konditorei
. Gilgi goes in and sits
down in a corner, has them bring her coffee and some magazines. It’s quiet here, so for the moment she’ll stay here. It’s good that the little cafés are open all night now during Carnival. Gilgi flicks through the magazines … For you too will betray me one day / You too, you too … They should turn the gramophone off, you can’t take that sweet schmaltzy stuff forever … For you too will betray … This is where we sat five days ago: Olga, me, and that Martin Bruck. And two days ago I waited here, and that idiot didn’t come … For you too will betray …

“That’s nice, little girl, finding you here. I figured you were kind of a regular here!” Martin Bruck is standing at Gilgi’s table, well-dressed, unruffled, self-confident. “May I join you—or are you waiting for someone?”

“No, I’m not waiting for anyone,” Gilgi manages to say, a fraction too quickly. But she promptly adds a friendly and conventional smile: “I’m pleased to see you: I have to apologize for not being here the day before yesterday.”

“Weren’t you? That’s good. I only realized yesterday that I had completely forgotten our appointment.” The boor, the graceless creep, the … Gilgi can’t make herself angry, she’s too happy. Martin takes her hand, suddenly finding this little one exceptionally cute with her shining gray eyes, her cheekily lipsticked mouth—he takes her hat off: “I like you even better like that.” Such a fresh guy! Gilgi has to laugh. No, she’ll keep her coat on.

He wants her to talk to him, tell him about herself, he’s interested in every detail. And Gilgi lays out for him the life of a very self-confident, very ambitious little girl. She tells him about Herr Reuter, about Pit, about the office, fat Müller, little Behrend. She even tells him about her search for her parents. About the Krons and Täschler. Oh, the
story hasn’t bothered her for ages, she’s not some sentimental goose, she doesn’t need anyone, she gets by on her own. She knows what she wants to do, and knows that she can do what she wants to do. And the whole time she’s telling Martin this, she grips his hand as though she was afraid that he could suddenly stand up and disappear, never to be seen again. He mustn’t do that, he must stay with her, for a long time yet … “Yes, and a girl has never been in love?” Martin Bruck frees his hand so that he can stroke Gilgi’s hair. Gilgi smiles patronizingly. Because in the end men always ask the same dumb questions. “Of course a girl has been in love—here and there—but a girl doesn’t take it too seriously, there are more important things. Men! They’re no big deal.” And she quotes Olga: “ ‘Love is nice and it’s fun, but you should never take it seriously.’ ” Martin thinks that really it’s him who should be saying that kind of thing, but at least such an uncomplicated way of looking at the world suits him just fine.

As they get into the taxi, Martin asks: “Should I get him to drive you to your masked ball, Fräulein Kron?” Gilgi doesn’t answer. It’s lucky for Martin Bruck that it’s dark, Gilgi would never forgive him if he saw how much she’s blushing.

Where are we going? I shouldn’t be doing this, I shouldn’t be in the taxi with him … he’s put his arm around her shoulders—a man! That’s no big deal.

A beautiful apartment. Thick carpets, bright cushions, soft lighting. “All this belongs to you, Herr Bruck?”—“To me?” He laughs: “Nothing in the world belongs to me, everything here belongs to a friend, he’s gone to Russia for two years, I’m supposed to keep an eye on things here, you might say I’m a kind of superior concierge. I don’t think I’ll
be able to stand two years of it.” He has to stand two years of it, he has to—Martin takes Gilgi’s coat off: she stands in front of him like a slim boy, a Gainsborough painting come to life. “I like you, little Gilgi.” Martin runs around busily. “What would you like to drink, young lady?”—I’m in luck! Life always has nice little surprises in store for its old friend Martin. What a figure the girl has! The legs just the right fraction too long, broader in the shoulders than in the hips. “Sit down, little Gilgi.”

Gilgi stands motionless. He’s already calling me Gilgi. How confident he is, how well he knows … If he’s confident, I’ll be even more confident. Gilgi is pale to the lips, makes an imperious little gesture with her hand: “You can save yourself the trouble, Herr Bruck. You don’t need to tell me that you’ve brought me here to look at an interesting book or to taste a particularly old Scotch …” Martin swallows her words like an especially bitter pill. “Little one, we have to follow the rules for a short while, at least!” Gilgi walks to the table with unsteady little steps, takes a glass—“Silly little thing,” Martin says softly, steps up behind her, strokes her shoulder gently and tenderly—“little girl, don’t try so hard to cover your nervousness with boldness, I really like it when women are nervous.” Klirrrr—Gilgi’s glass falls to the floor. She wants to push away the hand that’s stroking her shoulder, but doesn’t even have the strength to lift her arm—it’s all too fast—too fast—Fast? When you’ve been waiting for this for five long, long days?

MARTIN BRUCK IS WALKING THE STREETS, GOING nowhere in particular. Crappy weather, damp that sticks to you. If you look up: cloudy, dirty gray—if you look down: grubby pavement slippery with damp. The illuminated advertisements on Hohenzollernstrasse peer gloomily through the fog. Urban’s Restaurants—Café Vienna. Jazz hits wash towards the entrances in little waves, which break on the shivering doormen. Inside, a few bored visitors from the provinces are dotted around on the red plush seats. Given the slightest opportunity, waiters talk about how bad business is, a married couple makes a great show of leaving one café because it serves coffee in nothing smaller than a pot. Top-quality head waiters have already been brought so low that they wear out the obsequiousness previously reserved for elegantly dressed regulars on mere passing trade. Only a cute little cigarette boy bolstered by inviolable self-esteem and class-consciousness is left to represent the Ringstrasse’s claim to be a match for Berlin’s Kurfürstendamm.

Martin drinks his coffee. Drops a two-mark coin on the table, without troubling—as he never troubles—to wait for his paltry eighty pfennigs change. Thrilled, the waiter accompanies this unusual customer to the door, believing him (despite all protests to the contrary) to be an American, promises him—from an urgent need to
reciprocate his generosity—better weather next week, and recommends Dahmen’s motorized city tour.