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Malina

Page 28

by Ingeborg Bachmann


  Malina:

  But we’re both sitting here right now, and I’m telling you one more time that I’ve never been to Stockerau with him.

  Me:

  How do you know that I was thinking about the road to Stockerau? Because in the first place I didn’t say a thing about Stockerau, I just mentioned Lower Austria in general, and only thought about that because of Aunt Marie.

  Malina:

  I really am afraid you’re crazy.

  Me:

  Not too crazy. And don’t talk like (piano, pianissimo) Ivan.

  Malina:

  Don’t talk like who?

  Me:

  (abbandonandosi, sotto voce) Love me, no, more than that, love me more, love me completely, so it will soon be over.

  Malina:

  You know everything about me? And everything about everybody else as well?

  Me:

  (presto alla tedesca) No I don’t, I don’t know anything. And nothing about anybody else! (non troppo vivo) That was only talk about picturing things, I didn’t want to talk about you at all, not specifically about you. Because it’s you who’s never afraid, who’s never been afraid. We really are both sitting here right now, but I am afraid. (con sentimento ed espressione) I wouldn’t have asked you for something a minute ago, if you’d ever been as afraid as I am.

  * * *

  I’ve laid my head in Malina’s hand, Malina doesn’t say a word, he doesn’t move, but neither does he caress my head. With his free hand he lights a cigarette. My hand is no longer on his palm, and I try to sit up straight and not let anything show.

  * * *

  Malina:

  * * *

  Why are you putting your hand on your neck again?

  Me:

  You’re right, I think I do that a lot.

  Malina:

  Does it stem from that time?

  Me:

  Yes. Yes, I’m sure of it now. I’m certain that’s where it started, and then more and more kept coming. It just keeps on coming. I have to hold my head. But I try my best not to let anybody notice. I run my hand underneath my hair and prop up my head. Then the other person thinks I’m listening especially carefully and that it’s a gesture like crossing your legs or resting your chin on your hands.

  Malina:

  But it can look like a bad habit, bad manners.

  Me:

  It’s my own manner of clinging to myself when I can’t cling to you.

  Malina:

  What did you achieve in the years afterward?

  Me:

  (legato) Nothing. At first nothing. Then I started clearing away the years. That was the most difficult thing, since I’d become so absentminded, I no longer had the strength to clear away even the accidental properties of my unhappiness. Since I was unable to reach the unhappiness itself, there were many incidental things I needed to remove: airports, streets, pubs, shops, certain dishes and wines, very many people, all types of chitchat and babble. But mostly, falsification. I was a complete fake, I was handed false papers, deported hither and yon, then reemployed just to sit by, to agree where I had never agreed before, to confirm, consent, concede. I was surrounded by ways of thought I had to imitate although they were completely alien to me. In the end I was one big fake, underneath which I remained recognizable probably only to you.

  Malina:

  What did you learn from that?

  Me:

  (con sordina) Nothing. I got nothing out of it.

  Malina:

  That’s not true.

  Me:

  (agitato) But it is true. I again started to speak, to walk, to feel things, to remember an earlier time which existed before the time I don’t want to remember. (tempo giusto) And one day things started going well for the two of us once again. Since when do we get along so well with each other?

  Malina:

  Since forever, I think.

  Me:

  (leggermente) How courteous, how nice, how lovely of you to tell me that. (quasi una fantasia) I’ve sometimes thought you were often — three hundred sixty days of the year at least — so deathly afraid on my account. You would recoil every time the doorbell rang, you would see a dangerous person hidden in every nearby shadow, the timber on the truck in front of you was especially menacing. You almost died if you heard steps behind you. If you were reading a book, the door would seem to open suddenly, and then you’d drop the book in mortal terror — because I was not allowed to read any more books. I thought you were so extraordinarily calm because you had died hundreds, no thousands, of times. (ben marcato) How wrong I was.

  * * *

  Malina knows very well that I like going out with him in the evening, but he doesn’t expect me to, he’s not surprised when there’s some reason for my refusal, one time because my stockings have a run, then of course it’s often Ivan who’s to blame for my hesitation, since Ivan doesn’t know, not yet, what his plans are for the evening, and then there’s a further difficulty in choosing a restaurant, because there are some Malina refuses to enter, he can’t abide noise, he can’t stand gypsy music or old Viennese songs, the poor lighting and stale air found in night clubs are not to his taste, he can’t eat unwisely like Ivan, for no obvious reason he eats in moderation, he can’t drink like Ivan, he only smokes occasionally, almost out of kindness to me.

  On the evenings when he’s gone to visit people without me, I know that Malina says little. He’ll sit there in silence, listening, he’ll get someone to talk and finally give everybody the feeling that at one point they’ve said something more intelligent than all the other sentences, that they’ve shown more substance, because Malina raises others to his own level. Even so he always keeps his distance — he is distance personified. He will never utter a word about his own life, never talk about me, but at the same time he won’t arouse the slightest suspicion he might be hiding something. And Malina really isn’t hiding anything, for in the best possible sense he has nothing to hide. He is not weaving his contribution into the grand text, expanding the texture of the network, the Viennese net has a few small holes solely thanks to Malina. That is why he is the extreme negation of anything that offends, of anything that provokes, anything that spreads or breaks out or vindicates — what would Malina ever do that would require vindication! He can be charming, he pronounces courteous, glittery sentences which are never too friendly, he displays a tiny bit of cordiality, which pops out of him whenever he takes his leave, for instance, then goes back into hiding right away, because he immediately turns and leaves, he always leaves very quickly, he kisses women’s hands, and whenever the situation calls for him to help women, he takes them by the arm for a minute, he touches them so lightly that not one of them can think anything of it and yet all of them must think something. Malina is on the verge of leaving, the people just look at him in surprise, they don’t know why he’s leaving, since he doesn’t say, embarrassed, why, where or how come right now. Nor does anyone dare ask him. It’s unthinkable that anyone would approach Malina with the same questions people are always asking me: What are you doing tomorrow night? For heaven’s sake, you’re not thinking of leaving already! You absolutely must meet so-and-so! No, that kind of thing doesn’t happen to Malina, he has a cloa
k of invisibility, his visor is almost always closed. I envy Malina and attempt to imitate him, but I can’t pull it off, I’m caught in every net, I induce all types of blackmail, from the very first hour I am Alda’s slave, by no means just her patient, although she’s supposed to be a doctor, I immediately find out what Alda is up to and what she’s going through, and after thirty more minutes I’m having to look for a voice instructor for a certain Herr Kramer, no, for his daughter, since she doesn’t want to have anything more to do with her father, this Herr Kramer — all for Alda’s sake. I don’t know any voice instructors, I’ve never needed one, but I’ve already half admitted to knowing someone who I’m sure does know, must know some voice instructors, after all, I do share a building with an opera singer, of course I don’t really know her, but there has to be some way to help Herr Kramer’s daughter, since Alda wants to help him or really his daughter. What should I do? A Doktor Wellek, one of the four Wellek brothers, the very one who hasn’t amounted to anything yet, now has his big chance in television, everything is riding on this, and if I might just put in a small word, although I’ve never put in even the smallest word to any of the gentlemen in the Austrian Television Network, then . . . Should I go to Argentinierstrasse and put in a small word? Can’t Herr Wellek live without me, am I his last hope?

  Malina says: You’re not even my last hope. And Herr Wellek will manage to make himself unpopular enough without you. If one more person helps him he’ll completely forget how to help himself. All you’ll do is kill him with your small word.

  * * *

  Today I’m waiting for Malina in the Blue Bar of the Sacher Hotel. He doesn’t come for a long time and then shows up after all. We enter the large dining hall and Malina confers with the waiter, but then I hear myself suddenly saying: No, I can’t, please not here, I can’t sit at this table! Malina thinks the table is quite pleasant, the small one in the corner I’ve often preferred to the larger tables, since I sit with my back to the protruding bit of wall, and the waiter agrees, he does know me after all, and he knows that I like this protected place. I say breathlessly: No, no! Don’t you see! Malina asks: What is there to see, especially? I turn around and walk out slowly, so as not to cause a scene, I greet the Jordans and Alda who is sitting at the large table with some American guests, and then a few other people whom I also know but whose names escape me. Malina walks quietly behind me, I feel he is simply following me and greeting in turn. At the coat check I let him drape my coat over my shoulders, I look at him in despair. Doesn’t he understand? Malina asks quietly: What did you see?

  * * *

  I still don’t know what I saw, and I reenter the restaurant, thinking that Malina is bound to be hungry and that it’s already getting late, I explain hastily: I’m sorry, let’s go back inside, I can eat something now, it was only for a minute that I couldn’t stand it! I actually do sit down at the that table, and now I realize it’s the table where Ivan will sit with someone else, Ivan will sit in Malina’s place and order, and someone else will be sitting at his right hand, just as I am sitting to the right of Malina. They will sit on the right hand, and one day the seating shall be rightful. It’s the table where today I’m eating my last meal before the execution. Once again it’s tafelspitz, with horseradish and a chive sauce. Then I can drink one more espresso, no, no dessert, today I want to forgo dessert. This is the table where it happens and where it will happen, and this is the way it is before they chop off your head. Beforehand you’re permitted one last meal. My head rolls onto the plate in the restaurant of the Sacher Hotel, spraying the lily-white damask tablecloth with blood, my head has fallen and is exhibited to the guests.

  * * *

  Today I stop at the corner of the Beatrixgasse and the Ungargasse, unable to continue. I look down at my feet which I can no longer move, then over to the sidewalk and the street crossing, where everything has become discolored. I know for a fact that it will be this important place, the brown discoloration is already wet and oozing, I’m standing in a puddle of blood, it is very distinctly blood, I can’t go on standing here forever, gripping my neck, I can’t stand the sight of what I see. I cry out, now softly, now loudly: Hallo! Please! Hallo! Would you please stop! A woman toting a shopping bag who has already passed by turns around and stares at me, questioningly. I ask in desperation: Could you please, please be so kind, please stay with me for just a moment, I must have lost my way, I can’t figure out where to go, I don’t know my way around here, can you please tell me where I can find the Ungargasse?

  And perhaps the woman does know where the Ungargasse is, she says: You’re already on the Ungargasse, what number did you want? I point around the corner, down the street toward the Beethoven house, I cross to the other side, with Beethoven I feel safe, and there from number 5 I look over at an entryway which has now become strange to me, marked with the number 6, I see Frau Breitner standing in front, I’d rather not run into Frau Breitner now, but Frau Breitner is a human being, I am surrounded by human beings, nothing can happen to me, and I look over at the other shore, I must descend from the sidewalk and attain the other shore, the O-streetcar runs ringing by, it’s the O-car of today, everything is as always, I wait for it to pass, and quivering with the strain I take the key from my purse and set off, donning a smile for Frau Breitner, I’ve reached the other shore, I saunter past Frau Breitner for whom my beautiful book is also supposed to be written, Frau Breitner doesn’t smile back, but she does greet me, and once again I have made it to my house. I didn’t see a thing. I’m home.

  * * *

  In the apartment I lie down on the floor, thinking about my book, it’s gotten lost, there is no beautiful book, I can no longer write the beautiful book, I’ve stopped thinking about the book long ago, there’s no foundation, nothing more comes to me, not a single sentence. But I was so sure the beautiful book existed and that I would find it for Ivan. No day will come, people will never, poetry will never and they will never, people will have black, dark eyes, their hands will wreak destruction, the plague will come, this plague which everyone is carrying, this plague which has infected all, this plague will snatch them up and carry them away, soon. It will be the end.

  * * *

  Beauty is no longer flowing from me, it could have flowed from me, it came in waves to me from Ivan, Ivan who is beautiful, I have known one single beautiful human being, nonetheless I have seen beauty, in the end I, too, became beautiful one single time, through Ivan.

  * * *

  Get up! says Malina, who finds me on the floor, and he means it. What are you saying about beauty? What’s beautiful? But I can’t get up, I’ve propped my head on The Great Philosophers, who are quite hard. Malina takes away the book and lifts me up.

  Me:

  (con affetto) I really have to tell you. No, you have to explain it to me. If someone is consummately beautiful and ordinary, why is he the only one capable of inspiring fantasy? I’ve never told you, I was never happy, never ever, only in a few moments, but in the end I did see beauty. You’ll ask what that’s good for. It doesn’t need to accomplish anything, it’s enough in itself. I’ve seen so many other things, but they were never enough. The mind doesn’t move any other mind, only ones of the same mind, I’m sorry, I know you consider beauty to be the lesser of the two, but it does move the mind and the spirit. Je suis tombée mal, je suis tombée bien.

  Malina:

  Stop falling down all the time. Get up. Go out, have fun, ignore me, do something, anything!

  Me:

  (dolcissimo) Me? Do something? Abandon you? Leave you?

  Malina:

  Did I say something about me?

  Me:

  No you didn’t, but I’m talking about you, I’m thinking about you. I’m getting up for your sake, I’
ll eat one more time, but I’m only eating to please you.

  * * *

  Malina will want to go out with me, want to distract me, he’ll force me, he’ll be forceful, up to the end. How am I to make him understand any of my stories? Since Malina is probably changing his clothes, I change as well, once again I can continue, I pull an appearance out of the mirror and smile at it dutifully. But Malina says: (Is Malina saying something?) Malina says: Kill him! Kill him!

  I say something. (But am I really saying something?) I say: He is the only one I cannot kill, the only one. To Malina I say sharply: You’re wrong, he is my life, my only joy, I can’t kill him.

  But Malina says in a tone which is both inaudible and unmistakable: kill him!

  * * *

  I’m trying to have fun, and am reading less. Late in the evening, with the record player on low, I tell Malina:

  In the Psychological Institute in the Liebiggasse we always drank tea or coffee. I knew a man there who always used shorthand to record what everyone said, and sometimes other things besides. I don’t know shorthand. Sometimes we’d give each other Rorschach tests, Szondi tests, thematic apperception tests, and would diagnose each other’s character and personality, we would observe our performance and behavior and examine our expressions. Once he asked how many men I’d slept with, and I couldn’t think of any except this one-legged thief who’d been in jail, and a lamp covered with flies in a room in Mariahilf that was rented by the hour, but I said at random: seven! He laughed surprised and said, then naturally he’d like to marry me, our children would certainly be intelligent, also very pretty, and what did I think of that. We went to the Prater, and I wanted to go on the Ferris wheel, because back then I was never afraid, just happy the way I felt while gliding and later on while skiing, I could laugh for hours out of sheer happiness. Of course then we never spoke about it again. Shortly afterward I had to take my oral examinations, and in the morning before the three big exams all the embers spilled out of the furnace at the Philosophical Institute, I stomped on some pieces of coal or wood, I ran to get a broom and dustpan, since the cleaning ladies hadn’t come yet, it was smoldering and smoking terribly, I didn’t want there to be a fire, I trampled the embers with my feet, the stench stayed in the institute for days, my shoes were singed, but nothing burned down. I also opened all the windows. Even so I managed to take my first exam at eight in the morning, I was supposed to be there with another candidate but he didn’t come, he’d had a stroke during the night, as I found out just before going in to be examined about Leibnitz, Kant and Hume. The Old Privy Councillor, who was also the rector at the time, wore a dirty robe, earlier he’d been given some award from Greece, I don’t know what for, and he began asking questions, very annoyed that a candidate had missed an exam due to demise, but at least I was there and not yet dead. In his anger he had forgotten what subjects had been agreed upon, and during the exam someone phoned — I believe it was his sister — one moment we were discussing the neo-Kantians, the next moment we were with the English deists, but still quite far from Kant himself, and I didn’t know very much. After the phone calls things improved a little, I launched straight into what had been agreed upon, and he didn’t notice. I asked him a fearful question relating to the problem of time and space, admittedly a question without meaning for me at the time, but he felt quite flattered that I had asked, and then I was dismissed. I ran back to our institute, it wasn’t burning, and went on to the next two exams. I passed all of them. But I never did solve the problem relating to time and space. Later it grew and grew.

 

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