The Artificial Silk Girl

by Irmgard Keun

  And it will do me good to be writing without commas for a change, and real language — not that unnatural stuff from the office. And for every comma that’s missing, I have to give that old beanstalk of an attorney — he has pimples too, and his skin looks like my old yellow leather purse without a zipper, I’m ashamed to have it on me when I’m in decent company — that’s the kind of skin he has. Anyway, I don’t think much of attorneys — always money-grubbing and talking big with nothing behind it. I pretend not to notice, since my father is out of work and my mother works at the theater, which you also can’t count on these days. But I was talking about the beanstalk. So I put the letters in front of him, and for every missing comma, I give him this sensual look. And I can smell trouble already, because I’m getting tired of it. But I’m sure I can keep him off my back for another four weeks; I always tell him that my father is so strict, and I have to go home right away. But when a man gets wild, there’s no more excuses — I know what I’m talking about. And he’s bound to get worked up in time, considering my sensual looks at every missing comma. True education has nothing to do with commas! Not that there’s anything going on between him and me. As I’ve been telling Therese, who also works at the office and is my friend: “There has to be some love involved. Otherwise, what about our ideals?”

  And Therese told me that she too has ideals, because she’s faithful to a married man who doesn’t have a penny and is not even thinking of divorce and has moved to Goslar — and she’s all dried up and turned 38 last weekend — although she only admits to 30, but looks like 40 — and all because of that Mr. Boring. Well, I’m not that much into ideals. I can’t see the point of it.

  And I bought myself a thick black notebook and cut some doves out of white paper and stuck them on the cover, and now I’m looking for a beginning. My name is Doris, and I’m baptized and Christian, and born too. We are living in the year 1931. Tomorrow, I’ll write more.

  I had a good day, because it was my last one and getting paid just does one good, even though I have to give 70 of my 120 — Therese gets 20 more — to my father, who just gets drunk on it, because he’s unemployed right now and has nothing else to do. But I immediately bought a hat for myself with the 50 marks I had left, with a feather and in forest green — that’s this season’s fashion color, and it goes fabulously well with my rosy complexion. And wearing it off to the side is just so chic, and I already had a forest green coat made for myself — tailored with a fox collar — a present from Käsemann, who absolutely almost wanted to marry me. But I didn’t. Because in the long run, I’m too good for the short and stocky type, particularly if they’re called Käsemann. But now my outfit is complete, which is the most important thing for a girl who wants to get ahead and has ambition.

  And I’m sitting in a café right now — a cup of coffee is something I can afford on my own today. I like the music they’re playing: The Gypsy Baron or Aida — it doesn’t really matter. There’s a man with a girl sitting next to me. He’s something more elegant — but not too — and she has a face like a turtle. And she’s not all that young anymore and has boobs like a swimming belt. I always listen in on conversations — that always interests me. You never know what you might learn from it. Of course I was right: they only just met. And he orders cigarettes at eight marks, when he usually only orders at four, I’m sure! The jerk. When they order those at eight, you know immediately what’s on their minds. If a man is respectable, he only smokes those at six when he’s with a lady, because that’s the decent thing to do, and the change later on is less noticeable. I was once with an old fart who ordered at ten — what can I say, he was a sadist, and I would be embarrassed to put on paper what it was that he wanted from me. From me of all people, who can’t tolerate even the slightest bit of pain. I already suffer immensely when my garters are too tight. I’ve been suspicious ever since.

  Now I’m really stunned: the turtle orders Camembert! I have to ask myself: Is she really that innocent or is it that she doesn’t want to? It’s just so like me to have to think about everything. So here’s what I’m thinking: if she doesn’t want to, then eating Camembert is a safeguard for her, because she’ll be inhibited by it. I’m thinking of my first date with Arthur Grönland. He was so good-looking and had style. But I said to myself: Doris, be strong — especially someone with style is ultimately impressed by respectability. And I really needed a wrist watch, and so it was better not to give in for the first three nights. But I know myself after all and I knew Arthur Grönland would order Kupferberg — and there was music too! So I attached seven rusty safety pins to my bra and my undershirt. I was stone drunk — like 80 naked savages — but I did not forget about the rusty safety pins. And Arthur Grönland kept pushing. And me: “But Sir, what are you thinking of me? I’m shocked. Who do you think I am?” And he was really impressed. Of course he was mad at first, but then, being a man of noble sentiment, he said that he liked a girl who was in control of herself even when she was soused. And he respected my lofty morals. I merely said: “It’s my nature, Herr Grönland.”

  And when we came to my doorstep, he kissed my hand. I just said: “I still don’t know what time it is — since my watch has been broken for so long.” And I was thinking, if he just offers to give me the money to have it fixed, I will have been disappointed once again.

  But the following night he arrived at the Rix Bar with a small golden one. I acted so surprised: “How on earth did you know that I needed a watch? But you’re insulting me, I couldn’t possibly.…”

  So he turned all white and apologized and put the watch away. And I was trembling and thinking: “Now you went too far, Doris! So I said, with tears in my voice: “Herr Grönland, I can’t bear to hurt you — please put it on for me.”

  So he thanked me and I said: “You’re welcome.” And then he thrust himself on me again, but I remained strong. And when we were at my front door, he said: “Please forgive me, you innocent creature, for having been so pushy.”

  And I said: “I forgive you, Herr Grönland.”

  But actually I was pretty mad at those safety pins, because he had the sweetest black eyes and such style, and the small gold watch was softly ticking away on my arm. But ultimately I’m too decent to let a man see that I have seven rusty safety pins stuck on my underwear. Later on, I would do without them.

  Now it occurs to me that I too could eat Camembert whenever I feel I want to keep my reins on.

  And the guy is squeezing the turtle’s hand under the table, and he’s staring at me with goggle eyes — that’s men for you! And they have no idea that we see through them better than they see themselves. Of course I could — he’s just starting to tell her about his wonderful motorboat on the Rhine with such and such horsepower — my guess is it’s a high-end dinghy. And I can tell that he’s talking at the top of his voice, so I can hear him — no wonder! I’m wearing my elegant hat and the coat with the fox collar, and the fact that I’m starting to write into my dove-covered notebook undoubtedly looks very intriguing. But just now the alligator smiles at me and that always softens me up. I’m thinking: there’s hardly ever anything out there for you, you poor turtle — perhaps you’re eating Camembert tonight but who knows about tomorrow? And I’m much too decent and too much into women’s Lib to take your questionable balding boat owner away from you. It would just be too easy to do, so I’m not interested. Plus his water sports and her swim belt bosom make such a great combination. And there’s a man with fabulously clean-cut features, like Conrad Veidt when he was at the height of his career, wearing a diamond ring on his pinky, who’s looking at me from the other end of the room. Usually, there’s not much behind faces like that. But I’m intrigued just the same.

  I’m walking on air and I’m so excited. I just came home. I have a box of chocolates next to me — I’m eating them, but I only bite into those with the creamy filling to find out if they have nuts in them — if not, I don’t like them — so I press them back together, so they will look like new
— and tomorrow I’ll give them to my mother and Therese. I received the box from the Conrad Veidt type — his name is Armin — actually I hate that name, because they once used it in a magazine commercial for a laxative.

  And every time he got up from the table, I had to think: Armin, did you take Laxin this morning? And I had this idiotic laugh, and he would ask: “Why do you laugh this silvery laugh, you sweet creature?”

  And me: “I’m laughing because I’m happy.”

  Thank God men are far too full of themselves to think that you could be laughing at them! And he told me he was an aristocrat. Well, I’m not so dumb to believe that live noblemen are running around in the streets these days. But I thought to myself: do him a favor, and so I said that I had been able to tell immediately. But he had an artistic touch and we had an exciting evening. We danced really well and had a good conversation. That’s hard to come by these days. He did tell me that he wanted to get me into the movies — well, I pretended not to hear it. They just can’t help themselves. It’s a male sickness to tell every girl that they are the top executive of a film studio or at least that they have great connections. All I’m asking myself is if there are still any girls left who fall for that.

  But none of that is really important now. What really matters is that I saw Hubert, just as he was leaving. And he has been gone for an entire year — God, I’m so tired now. Actually Hubert was pretty nasty, but I became kind of reserved with the laxative guy nonetheless. But he was only in town on business anyway. I’m sure Hubert didn’t see me, but it still hit me like a bullet — his black coat from the back and his fair neck — and I had to think of our outing to the Kuckuckswald, where he lay on the ground with his eyes closed. And the sun made the ground hum and the air was trembling — and I put ants on his face while he was sleeping, because I’m never tired when I’m with a man I’m in love with — and I put ants in his ears — and Hubert’s face was like a mountain range with valleys and all and he would pucker his nose in a funny way and his mouth was half open — his breath came out of it like a cloud. And he almost looked like a looney, but I loved him more for his sleepy face than for his kisses — and his kisses were quite something, let me tell you. And then he would call me “squirrel” because I have this way of pushing my lips up over my upper teeth — and I would always do that because he thought it was funny and it would make him happy. And he thought I didn’t know I was doing it — and of course you let a man believe that.

  So now I’m dog-tired and I wish I didn’t have to take my dress off — when I was with Gustav Mooskopf, I got so tired once, I stayed over — just because I had a long way home and he could help me take my shoes off and whatnot — and here men always think it’s love or sensuality or both — or because they have such great aura that makes you swoon and go wild — but what they don’t know is that there are a million reasons for a girl to sleep with a guy. But none of that is important. Just quickly jotting down my thoughts, actually because I’m too tired to get up — thank God I’m wearing pumps and they’re already under the table — I should put them on shoe trees because suede.…

  I’m writing at the office, because the pimply face is in court. The girls are wondering what it is that I’m writing. Letters, I tell them — so they think it’s got something to do with love, and they respect that. And Therese is eating my chocolates and is glad that I had another adventure. She’s such a good sport, and since she herself doesn’t have a life anymore because of her married guy, she partakes in my life. I love telling her about everything, because she has this great way of being surprised — even though it’s always the same thing, really — but if I didn’t have her to listen to me, I wouldn’t feel like having such fabulous adventures.

  I’m trying to figure out where it is that Hubert lives around here. Whether he’s staying with family and that it would be best not to see him ever again. Because I started the relationship when I was 16 and he was my first, and very shy, despite the fact that he was in his late 20s already. And at first he didn’t want to, not for moral reasons but because he was a coward, because he was thinking that he would be indebted to me, such an innocent girl. And I was innocent. But of course it never occurred to him that he was just a chicken but thought of himself as so noble, so he would have done anything except for that one thing. But I think getting a girl all worked up is the same thing as doing the other thing, and then I was thinking, there has to be a first time and it was important to me that it would be the real thing, and I was in love with him, with my head, my mouth, and further down. And then I got him to do it. But of course he thought he had seduced me and made a big to-do about his bad conscience, but he really wanted to have one and feel like he was a helluva guy — and you don’t destroy that belief in a man. And we were together for an entire year and I was never with anyone else, because I didn’t feel like it when I could only think about Hubert. And so I was what they call faithful. But then he finished his Ph.D. and was done with his studies, physics or something like that. And he went back to Munich, where his parents lived, to get married — a woman of his standing, the daughter of a professor — very famous, but not as famous as Einstein, whose picture you see all over the newspapers and still don’t have much of an idea. And every time I see a picture of him, with his cheerful eyes and his mobhead, I’m thinking if I ran into him in a café, wearing my coat with the fox collar and elegant from head to toe, perhaps he too would tell me that he was in the film industry and had incredible connections. And I would simply tell him: H2O is water — that’s what I learned from Hubert, and he would be stunned. But back to Hubert. So I didn’t have a problem with him marrying for money and what have you — out of ambition, to get ahead — I always understand. Despite the fact that those canned sardines in his dumpy apartment tasted a lot better than any fancy schnitzel I had with Käsemann in a posh restaurant. As far as I’m concerned, sardines are good enough. But as I mentioned, I adjusted to Hubert’s ambition. That’s when he got really mean. First of all, he wanted to leave three days before my birthday — and he didn’t even have a present for me. That had never been his thing, all he ever gave me was a little plastic frog that I would float down the river just for fun. I used to wear it on a velvet ribbon around my neck, under my blouse, that’s how dedicated I was to him, even though the plastic legs dug into my neck — and I have very sensitive skin, as I mentioned. Which is an advantage — when you’re dealing with men. But not when you have a sunburn. So he leaves three days before my birthday. I had to take that personally, because I had saved up for a polka dot dress that I was planning to wear on that day — for Hubert of course. And then I ended up all by myself in my new dress at a music bar with Therese. And I was crying my eyes out, and had to wipe my nose with my genuine suede gloves, because I didn’t have a handkerchief, and Therese had a heavy cold. And my tears fell on my new dress — and all I needed was for the dots to run and ruin my salmon-colored outfit. But at least that didn’t happen. That was one of the nasty things he did. The other one was that he shared this moral double standard with me. We’re sitting in a restaurant, and all of a sudden he starts talking about that bitch from Munich. I just nod, still working on my emotional adjustment: he’s got his reasons, I’m thinking, but he really loves only you.

  So he gets all red in his face and embarrassed, and that already gets me up in arms. “When a man marries, he wants a virgin, and I hope, my little Doris …” and he was talking as if he had licked out an entire can of cold cream: “My dear child,” he said, “I hope you’ll become a decent girl, and as a man, I can only advise you not to sleep with a man until you’re married to him.…”

  I have no idea what else it was he wanted to say, because something came over me as he was blowing himself up, so impressed with himself, with his chest pushed out and his shoulders pulled back, like a general talking from the pulpit. To tell me that! To me who had seen him in his underwear and less almost 300 times — with his freckled belly and his hairy bow legs. At least he could ha
ve told me as a good friend that he wanted money and that’s why he didn’t want me. But to wallow in his own morality, not because I’m too poor but because I’m not decent enough, because I … well, I simply couldn’t stand for that. In situations like that I just lose my mind and something comes over me. I can’t really explain why I got so angry, suffice it to say that I slapped his face in front of all those people, which is something I do only rarely. And it made such a noise that the waiter thought I was asking for the check.

  Right now I’m sitting in a restaurant. I’ve eaten enormous amounts of liverwurst, despite the fact that I could hardly get anything down, but it went down after all and I can only hope that it’s not going to harm me, given how upset I am. Because I’ve been fired and I’m shaking like a leaf. And I’m terrified of having to go home. I’ve come to know my father as an extremely unpleasant man without any sense of humor, when he’s at home. It’s not at all unusual — men who’re all Italian sunshine when they’re with their buddies at the bar, and who’ve got a big mouth and are entertaining everybody — and at home with their families they are such sourpusses that looking at them after they’ve spent a night with the bottle is like eating a pickled herring.