Malina

by Ingeborg Bachmann

  Ivan says: Let’s hope it’ll be a book with a happy ending.

  Let’s hope so.

  * * *

  I’ve cut the meat into even pieces, diced the onion very finely, measured out the paprika, because today I’m making pörkölt and even eggs in mustard sauce before that, I’m only debating whether apricot dumplings might be too much after everything else, perhaps just some fruit, but if Ivan should be in Vienna on New Year’s Eve I want to try krambambuli, where you’re supposed to burn the sugar, and not even my mother did that anymore. I can guess from the cookbooks which dishes are beyond my range of possibilities and which ones are still within, what might appeal to Ivan, but there’s too much talk of setting aside, whipping, stirring and kneading for my taste, of top heat and bottom heat which I don’t even know how to obtain in my electric oven or whether the number 200 on the oven dial is applicable for my recipes from Old Austria Invites You to Dine or from the Little Hungarian Kitchen and so I just try to surprise Ivan, who is in despair over the hundredth roast or tenderloin or tafelspitz with horseradish sauce and the eternal palatschinken for dessert offered in the restaurants. The things I’m cooking for him aren’t on the menu, and I try to riddle out how to mix the good old days of lard and sweet and sour cream with the sensible new age of yogurt and lettuce lightly sprinkled with oil and lemon juice, dominated by vegetables rich in vitamins which are not supposed to be cooked, where carbohydrates, calories and moderation all count, without spices. Ivan has no idea I’m already up and running around in the morning indignantly asking why there isn’t any chervil anymore, where can I find tarragon and when can I find basil, since the recipes call for it. As always the grocer has only parsley and leeks, the fish market hasn’t had any brook trout for years, and so what little I do find I sprinkle at random on the meat and vegetables. I hope the onion smell won’t stay on my hands, I keep running to the bathroom in order to wash my hands and wipe out with perfume all traces of any odor and to brush my hair. Ivan is only allowed to see the result: the table set and the candle burning, and Malina would be amazed that I’ve even managed to chill the wine in time, warm the plates, and between whisking and toasting the rolls I apply eye shadow and mascara in front of Malina’s shaving mirror, pluck my eyebrows to their proper shape, and this synchronized labor which no one appreciates is more strenuous than anything I’ve ever done before. But for it I will receive the highest reward, since Ivan will come as early as seven and stay until midnight. Five hours of Ivan would be enough to give me a few days’ confidence, a shot in the arm, get my blood going, aftercare, preventive treatment, a cure. Nothing would be too much trouble, nothing too far-fetched for me, too strenuous, in order to snatch a piece of Ivan’s life: if Ivan mentions during dinner that he used to go sailing in Hungary then right away I’ll want to learn to sail, first thing tomorrow morning if possible, in the Old Danube as far as I’m concerned, in the Kaiserwasser, so that I’ll be all set to accompany him if he goes sailing again some day. For it is not in my power to keep Ivan chained or shackled. Because the dinner is ready too soon, I stand in the kitchen keeping guard over the oven, pondering the reasons for this disability which has taken the place of so many erstwhile abilities. Chains imply restrictions, tactics, strategic withdrawals, what Ivan calls the Game. He challenges me to stay in the Game, because he doesn’t realize that it no longer exists for me, that the Game is up. I think about my Ivan-lesson whenever I make excuses for myself, whenever I wait, for Ivan thinks that I should begin by calmly letting him wait, that I shouldn’t make excuses. He also says: I should be the one to run after you, you better not ever run after me, you’re in bad need of some private tutoring, who was it that failed to teach you the basics? But because Ivan isn’t even slightly curious he doesn’t really want to know who didn’t teach me, I quickly have to sidestep and distract him, surely someday I’ll succeed in producing a perfectly inscrutable smile, a mood, an annoyed air, but none of this ever works with Ivan. You’re too transparent says Ivan, I can see what’s going on with you every minute, you have to play the Game, so play something for me! But what should I play for him? The first attempt to reproach Ivan for not calling back yesterday, for forgetting my cigarettes, for still not knowing what brand I smoke, ends in a grimace, because before I’ve even reached the door, when he rings the bell, my reproaches have all evaporated, and Ivan immediately reads the weather report from my face: clearing, sunny, a warm front, cloudless skies, five continuous hours of beautiful weather.

  * * *

  Why don’t you go ahead and say it

  What?

  That you want to come over again

  But!

  I won’t permit you to say it

  You see

  So that you have to stay in the Game

  I don’t want any game

  But without a game it won’t work

  * * *

  Thus, because of Ivan, who wants the Game, I have learned a set of swearing sentences, I’m still very shocked at the first swearing sentence, but now I’ve almost become addicted and expect them, because it’s a good sign when Ivan starts to swear.

  * * *

  You’re a little bitch, yes you, what else?

  You always get me to change my mind, that’s right, you

  Because it’s true, please be so kind as to laugh

  Don’t give me those icy eyes

  Les hommes sont des cochons

  You’re bound to know at least that much French

  Les femmes aiment les cochons

  I’m going to talk to you any way I want

  You’re a little beast

  You do whatever you want with me as it is

  No I’m not trying to wean you off, it’s about learning more

  You’re too dumb, you don’t understand anything

  You have to become a really big beast

  It’d be great if you became the biggest beast ever

  Right, that’s just what I want, what else?

  You have to change completely

  Of course with your talent, you know, you must admit

  You’re a witch so why not take advantage of it for once

  They’ve really spoiled you completely

  That’s what you are all right, don’t get so upset over every word

  Don’t you understand the rules?

  * * *

  The swearing sentences are the sole property of Ivan, since I don’t respond with any answers, only outcries, or very often with a “But Ivan!” which is now no longer meant to be taken as seriously as it was in the beginning.

  What does Ivan know about the rules which apply to me? but I’m still amazed that rules can be found in Ivan’s vocabulary.

  * * *

  Despite all our differences, when it comes to our names Malina and I share the same reservations — Ivan is the only one whose name fits him completely, and since it is completely natural to him, since he identifies with his name, it is also a pleasure for me to pronounce it, to think it, to whisper it to myself. Ivan’s name has become a source of pleasure, an indispensable luxury in my poverty-stricken life, and I see to it that Ivan’s name is heard, whispered, and quietly thought about throughout the city. Also when I’m by myself, when I’m walking through Vienna all alone, there are many places I can say, I’ve walked here with Ivan, I waited for Ivan there, I had dinner with Ivan in the Linde, I drank espresso with Ivan at the Kohlmarkt, Ivan works on the Kärntnerring, this is where Ivan buys his shirts, over there is Ivan’s travel agency. He won’t have to run back off to Paris or Munich again! Also the places where I haven’t been with Ivan: I say to myself, some time I’ll have to come here with Ivan in the evening and look down on the city from the Cobenzl or from the Herrengasse high-rise. Ivan reacts immediately and jumps up when his name is called, but Malina hesitates, and I hesitate the same way in my turn. That’s why Ivan’s clever not to call me by name all the time and inste
ad use whatever pejorative comes to mind or simply say “my fräulein.’’ My fräulein, we’re letting it show again, what a disgrace, we’ll be wanting to wean ourselves off that very soon now. Glissons. Glissons.

  * * *

  I can understand that Ivan isn’t interested in Malina. I also take care they don’t encroach upon each other. But I don’t fully understand why Malina never talks about Ivan. He doesn’t mention him, not even in passing, he very adroitly avoids overhearing my telephone conversations with Ivan or meeting Ivan in the stairwell. He acts as if he still doesn’t recognize Ivan’s car, although my own car is very often parked in the Münzgasse, just behind or just in front of Ivan’s, and in the morning when I walk out of the house with Malina to drive him the short way to the Arsenalgasse so he won’t be late for work, you’d think he’d have to notice I don’t view Ivan’s car as just another traffic obstacle, rather I greet it tenderly, caressing it with my hand even when it’s dusty or wet and I’m relieved to discover the number has stayed the same overnight: W 99.823. Malina climbs in as I await some cathartic, mocking word, some embarrassing observation, a change of countenance, but Malina torments me with his impeccable self-control, his imperturbable trust. While I so tensely expect the great challenge, Malina pedantically explains to me what he has planned for the week, today they’ll be filming in the Hall of Fame, he’s having a talk with the weapons expert, the uniform expert and the medals expert, the director is away giving a lecture in London, and because of this Malina has to go by himself to an auction of weapons and pictures at the Dorotheum, but he doesn’t want to make any decisions, the young man Montenuovo will receive his certification, Malina has to work this Saturday and Sunday. I’d forgotten it was his turn to work his week, and surely Malina must see that I forgot, since I said the wrong thing and showed too much surprise, but he continues to deceive himself as if there weren’t anyone or anything else, as if it were just he and I. As if I were thinking about him — as always.

  I’ve already looked for excuses several times and postponed the interview with Herr Mühlbauer, who used to be with the Vienna Daily News and then switched without any scruples to its political competition, the Vienna Evening Edition, but Herr Mühlbauer always attains his goal thanks to his tenacity, his “Küss die Hand” phone calls, at first everybody thinks, as I do, I’m just doing this to get rid of him, but what’s said was said and all of a sudden the day has arrived. Whereas years ago Herr Mühlbauer still had to take written notes, he now uses a tape recorder, smokes Belvederes and doesn’t refuse a glass of whiskey. If it’s true that all interviewers ask the same questions, in his dealings with me this Mühlbauer can claim credit for having carried indiscretion to an extreme.

  * * *

  1st Question: . . . . . . ?

  Answer: What I’m doing right at the? I don’t know whether I’ve understood you correctly. If you mean today, then I’d rather not, at any rate not today. If I may understand the question differently, at the moment in general, taking one moment to mean all moments, then I’m not qualified, no I want to say that I’m not an authority, my opinion is not authoritative, I don’t have any opinion at all. Earlier you said we live in a moment of greatness, and of course I wasn’t prepared for any great moment, who could even imagine such a thing in kindergarten or the first school years, later on of course, in high school as well, or even at the university, people talked about a surprising number of great moments, of great events, great people, great ideas . . .

  * * *

  2nd Question: . . . . . . ?

  Answer: My development . . . Oh, you mean my spiritual development. In the summer I used to take long walks on the Goria and lie in the grass. Excuse me, but this is part of development as well. No, I’d rather not say where the Goria is, otherwise it will be sold and developed — the thought is unbearable to me. On my way home I’d have to go over the railway embankment which didn’t have any crossings, sometimes it was dangerous since you couldn’t see the train coming from the opposite direction because of the hazelnut bushes and a stand of ash trees, today there’s no embankment to deal with, you simply walk through an underpass.

  (A slight cough. Strange nervousness on the part of Herr Mühlbauer, which makes me nervous.)

  On the subject of this moment of greatness, or great moments if you prefer, something does occur to me, but I won’t be saying anything new to you: history teaches but has no pupils.

  (Friendly nodding from Herr Mühlbauer.)

  When a development does indeed begin, you will admit that . . . Yes, I wanted to study law, I quit my studies after three semesters, five years later I started once again and quit again after one semester, I couldn’t become a judge or public prosecutor, but then I didn’t want to become a lawyer either, I simply wouldn’t have known whom or what I would have been able to represent or defend. Everyone and no one, everything and nothing. You see, dear Herr Mühlhofer, excuse me, Herr Mühlbauer, what would you have done in my place, since we’re really all stuck in the same set of rules, the same law that no one understands, since we’re incapable of conceiving how frightening this law really is . . .

  (A nod from Herr Mühlbauer. A new disturbance. Herr Mühlbauer has to change tapes.)

  . . . Fine, as you wish, I’ll express myself more clearly and get right to the point, I’d only like to add that there are these warning signs, you know which ones I mean, since justice is so oppressingly near and what I’m saying does not exclude the possibility of its being no more than a longing for an unattainable, pure greatness, that’s why it is simultaneously both oppressive and near, but in this nearness we call it injustice. Besides it pains me every time I have to walk down the Museumstrasse past the Palace of Justice or by chance I wind up near the Parliament, around the Reichsratstrasse where I cannot avoid seeing the Palace of Justice, just consider using the word “palace” in connection with justice, it’s a warning signal, not even injustice can really be administered there, let alone justice! In a development nothing is without consequence, and this daily burning of the Palace of Justice . . .

  (Herr Mühlbauer whispers: 1927, July 5th, 1927!)

  The daily burning of such a ghastly palace with its colossal statues, with its colossal deliberations and pronouncements they call judgments! This daily burning . . .

  (Herr Mühlbauer stops and asks if he might erase the last bit, he says “erase” and is already erasing.)

  . . . Which experiences have contributed to my . . . ? Which things have made the most impression on me? I once thought it very strange that I was born right on top of a geosyncline, you realize I don’t know too much about those things, but where people are concerned a certain geotropism is inevitable. It really does affect our sense of orientation more than anything else.

  (Perplexity on the part of Herr Mühlbauer. Hasty signaling to stop.)

  * * *

  3rd Question: . . . . . . ?

  Answer: My thoughts on the youth of? Nothing, really not a thing, up to now anyway I haven’t given it any thought, I have to ask you to be patient with me since most of the questions you are putting to me, in fact very many of the questions people put to me in general are questions I’ve never asked myself. The youth of today? But then I’d have to think about the elderly of today and about people who are no longer young today but aren’t yet old, it’s so difficult to imagine all these categories, these specialized fields, these compartmentalized subjects — youth and old age. You know, maybe abstraction isn’t my strong point, immediately I start to see all these mass accumulations, like for example children in playgrounds, granted, an agglomeration of children is particularly horrifying to me, but it’s also completely incomprehensible to me how children can stand being together with so many other children. It’s all right for children to be divided up among adults, but have you ever been inside a school? No child who is in his right mind or who is not utterly spoiled — although most of them probably are — no child could possibly want to live in
side a hive of children, having other children’s problems and having to share things other than a few diseases, for example a development, if you please. Thus the sight of any sizable agglomeration of children is enough to cause alarm . . .