by Irmgard Keun
“Just take a seat, Gilgi, I’ll be with you shortly.” He presses her hand quickly, firmly, and lets it go … Love Song From Tahiti … Gilgi lets her fur coat slip half off her shoulder. She looks exquisite, very beautiful and elegant. She’d completely forgotten that she looks like that—she only remembers again because the waitress asks her so respectfully what she would like to order. She’s almost a little ashamed when she looks at Pit—she finds her elegance so false. She’s ashamed because she loves this false elegance so much. She even has to give the ring an extra polish, arrange the folds of her dress more attractively. “Madam.” The waitress with the hopelessly ravaged face sets the glass of port before Gilgi—you stupid fool, you—stop grinning so obsequiously! If I was sitting here in my battered trench coat, with the smell of work about me, I wouldn’t impress you! Hey, aren’t you ashamed to be so stupid, so terribly stupid … I suppose I should go to the doctor tomorrow—tomorrow or the day after or—whether it’s true—the … Love Song From Tahiti … Gilgi closes her eyes, she never did that—before. When she shut her eyes, she saw nothing—nothing—now she sees a great deal behind the closed lids.
“Don’t fall asleep, Gilgi!” Pit is sitting opposite her. “Well, you’ve made a good job of your clothes—you could be Al Capone’s moll, about to set off for the Metropolitan Opera.”
Gilgi is so tired that her eyes stay open. “Give me your hand for a moment, Pit—hold on to it hard—harder—so that it hurts—I’ve got to feel right down into my heart that you’re holding my hand.” Pit presses Gilgi’s fingers—if she says a word like “heart,” then there’s something badly wrong with her … the pulse beating in her fingers, the bare white shoulder, the tilted-back head—a little red patch on the white throat … “it’ll be like giving me a gift, Gilgi, if you let me help you.” He’d been looking for her, wanting to talk to her, been looking for her—her kind little friend, and now …
“Pit”—Gilgi’s voice comes into the room from a long way away—“I’m starving for brutal honesty—Pit, I wanted you to hold my hand differently … you can’t help me by doing something for me, you can only help me because you’re there. Be tough and angry and clear, Pit, I need that.” Gilgi isn’t looking at Pit, her glance is stuck somewhere in the jungle of red and white paper streamers on the ceiling—but she knows that it’s Pit and no-one else that she’s speaking to. “Maybe you already know that I don’t have a job now, that I’m living with a man …” Pit sits leaning forward, looking at Gilgi’s arm: a diagonal, stiff, white line which flows into his hand. The corpse-like indifference of that line suddenly becomes a vicious, brutal insult to him. His hand feels like digging all five nails into her soft, pale shoulder, and dragging them down the diagonal line—scoring five bloodied furrows into the unmoved and unmoving white. His brain wraps itself around Gilgi’s words. “I don’t have a job anymore, I’m living with a man …”
“Do you like him?”
“Since when do you ask superfluous questions, Pit! I’d pick out someone to live with that I don’t like! I’m giving you some facts just to set the overall picture. Facts don’t scare me, facts are something I can deal with. I might be having a baby—this kind of thing happens all the time—to any number of girls. If that’s the case, I’ll deal with it as well, no reason to go all sentimental or lose my head. No, what’s scaring me is something different. Usually people don’t talk about it, or if they do, they lie about it and wrap it up … and that’s why you don’t know whether you’ve suddenly become completely different from everyone else, you don’t know whether it’s normal and everyone gets through it, or if you’re alone with a sickness …”
“What—do you mean?”
“Just let me talk, you’ll catch on soon enough, catch on to what I mean. You know that I’ve had boyfriends—two—three … we liked each other, we had fun together, and our skins said Yes to each other. That was natural and comprehensible, it caused absolutely no pangs of conscience and no unease. I always felt clean and clear, I was sure of myself and knew what I wanted and the limits I had set, which made such good sense that you didn’t need to think about them. And now — — — that I love someone—really love someone, for the first time in my life, so that I feel good and honest and capable of anything—everything should be fine—and right and—but …” Gilgi’s head falls forward, she grabs Pit’s wrists with both hands—her mouth a garish narrow line, her words—falling slowly, unemphatically, mechanically: “I don’t know what my limits are anymore or what I want, I can’t be responsible anymore for what I might do from one day to the next. I thought that my love had made me infinitely safe and protected—now it’s made me defenseless, completely exposed—how is that possible, Pit??? I’m at the mercy of everyone and everything—of a hand which brushes the back of my neck as it’s helping me into my coat—of a glance, a voice … I had no idea that I could be like this—I’m burning up—I have an agonizing physical connection to everything—when I close my hand around the edge of the table, when I see a flower—when I stroke this fur coat … I find myself unspeakably disgusting. Nothing is clean and clear and simple anymore, not even my previous life. Maybe everything the previous Gilgi did and wanted was just a means of running away from—from her own desire. Maybe nothing has value in itself, maybe everything is untrue, and everything is driven purely by that running away … Where will it end? What’s happening with me? It’s stretching on into eternity—I’m scared, Pit.”
Pit’s face is distorted, his voice hoarse and broken: “Why are you telling me this—you! That’s why you came to me—that’s why … just to tell me …”
Gilgi looks at him. “I see, Pit!” Dull mockery appears at the corners of her mouth. “Well, you’re right—every man for himself … neither of us can complain of a shortage of egotism. And thank you, Pit—maybe the best way for you to help me is by showing me—another glass of port, Fräulein—quickly … by showing me that each one of us can rely only, only, only on himself.” Gilgi jumps up, stands behind Pit, grips him firmly by the back of the neck. “I believed in you, young man—in your capacity for fairness.—To hell with you and all your Socialism and your schemes for improving the world if you’re one of those men who hold it against a woman if, by God knows what accident of biology, she doesn’t want to sleep with them. You guys know exactly how to make a woman furious!” Gilgi’s hand moves slowly and angrily over Pit’s ear, creeps into his hair—“don’t flinch, young man—I’ve known for ages that men and women are animals by nature, I also know that we have a sacred duty to make something different of ourselves, and I still believe that we have the strength and the chance to be more than we are. Through ourselves? Despite ourselves? Doesn’t matter, I still believe …”
Gilgi is standing on the street. Leaning on the gray wall of an apartment building. Haze in the street—hookers screeching. I’m so mean! Better to find yourself mean than to lie to yourself. Gilgi walks, walks—each step an unspeakable exertion—chewing on her disappointment. Stops again. Twists her pale hands together—avoid one thing at all costs: never be cowardly, never be dishonest. That would be the worst thing: attributing your own guilt to other people … and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those … tear the Lord’s Prayer to pieces with your hands, tear it to pieces with your teeth—it lies, lies, lies, and deceives. Instill knowledge in our blood, instill belief in our blood—one thing, one thing above all: teach us to believe only in our own guilt—not: as we forgive those … that doesn’t make sense—we have nothing to forgive, nothing—never—no-one. No-one has trespassed against us, there is always and only our own guilt. Yes, that’s how it is—Pit didn’t make me furious—he only proved to me how angry and hateful I really am. Dear God, what’s happening to me … I want to go home—I want to go to Martin. The elegant young lady Gilgi hails a taxi—“this one’s a cutie,” the driver thinks, winking with his right eye—she collapses onto the shabby upholstery. Lets her hands hang down over her knees, her head loll forward, has her lips half-o
pen—Martin, my darling, what have you turned me into? Such longing. Longing for you—longing beyond you—longing—you—you’ve kissed away the firmness in my legs.
It’s late at night. Gilgi’s head is lying on Martin’s chest, she’s buried her hands in his armpits. “Martin,” she says quietly, “you’re much smarter than I am, you know much more than I do—you must make sure that love doesn’t destroy my love for you. It mustn’t ever happen that one day you’re only a man to me—you must always be Martin to me.” She lifts her head — — — no answer. Quick, regular breaths. He’s asleep. Her unsatiated lips feel their way up his chest, his throat—as far as the mouth—my darling, it would be so nice if you always knew everything that was in me without me needing to talk about it. That would be so nice. But I suppose one shouldn’t ask too much.
A functional consulting-room. Shining instruments. Smell of nothing. Self-conscious asepsis. Gilgi sits on the narrow, cool, slippery chaise longue and manages to put a neat, firm knot in her tie despite the absence of a mirror. The little blond doctor stands at the wash-basin, drying his thin, pallid gynecologist’s hands with irritating slowness.
“For crying out loud, spit it out, Doctor—what can you tell me? Am I having a child or not? What? In seven months? I see.—Fine, that’s all I wanted to know. — — — Please say what you have to say in German, I don’t understand Latin.” The little blond doctor doesn’t know whether to be surprised or offended. In the end he conceals his indecision behind patronizing goodwill.
“You’re as fit as a fiddle, young lady. Marvelously constructed hips—”
Gilgi interrupts: “What do you mean, Doctor, marvelously constructed hips.” As always when confronted by difficult and unalterable circumstances, she’s completely enveloped in ice-cold rationality. You need a strong dose of street-urchin manners for self-protection. No fear of words, no fear of ideas—plain speaking. She feels a fierce and unjust anger against the harmless little doctor. Don’t make yourself so important, you pathetic medical-school Mickey Mouse, you … “What do you mean, marvelously constructed hips! I don’t want a child.”
The little doctor places his hand paternally on Gilgi’s shoulder. —“Young lady …”
“Enough of the cozy granddaddy routine—I don’t want a child.”
“You mustn’t get so excited now, dear young lady—it would be best if you got married.”
“I’d say that knowing what’d be best is somewhat beyond your area of expertise, wouldn’t you? And anyway, that’s the last thing I’m worried about. I wouldn’t have the least hesitation in bearing five healthy children as an unmarried mother, if I could support them. But I can’t. I’ve got no money, the father has no money—I mean, it’ll cost less to dispose of the matter promptly. Can you do that?”
“What do you think I am!” The little doctor is shocked, half in earnest, half not. Oh, for God’s sake—do you want me to put on the act, you pint-sized idiot! All right, so we’ll put on the act. Gilgi stares into space for several seconds, lost in her pain, then seizes the doctor’s hand—the script would consider some low moaning appropriate at this point—oh well, perhaps it’ll be enough to say: “Help me, Doctor! I feel so safe with you (every doctor likes hearing that), I don’t know what—I mean—you see, I—”
Nonsense, it’s too ridiculous, I can’t do this. Surely you can talk sensibly with someone like this. And Gilgi speaks quite calmly and quietly: “Listen, Doctor, there’s nothing more immoral and unhygienic and absurd than making a woman give birth to a child which she can’t feed. And there’s absolutely nothing more immoral and absurd than making a woman have a child which she doesn’t want …” And they talk back and forth—for a solid half-hour. Gilgi’s aggressive energy is already slackening. Ach, none of it makes any difference, just let whatever has to happen come to her.
“So you’ll come back in three weeks, young lady, and quite often these things come right by themselves — — — and, well—and in a case like this things could perhaps be helped along.” Gilgi nods wearily. Yes, she’ll come back in three weeks.
Slowly she goes down the staircase. Suddenly feels so limp and shattered that she has to sit down on one of the steps for a moment. She thinks back over the doctor’s final words—what exactly did he mean by them? Maybe a veiled promise. Must have been. What else? Or — — — he wants to string me along until it’s too late … which would mean that I should try someone else—ach, once was enough. I’ll come back in three weeks. Three more weeks! Three more long weeks. Three more short, short weeks. Gilgi lets her head sink onto her knees. You won’t tell Martin anything—not until there’s absolutely no other way. In the meantime you won’t say a word. Maybe something will be broken if he finds out. Maybe he’ll take it terribly lightly—you couldn’t bear that. Maybe he’ll be helpless and completely out of his depth—you couldn’t bear that. Maybe he’d feel that he had obligations and was forced to rearrange his whole life—that’d make him desperately unhappy, and me as well. The whole thing is revolting. Yes, if you loved Martin just a little less, then everything would be much simpler. But instead you’re senselessly and insanely afraid that something could destroy this love, this love that you depend on unconditionally, that you want to keep at any, any, any cost. And you’d bear any difficulty sooner than take the slightest risk that could endanger this love.
Gilgi shakes her head: you still can’t really believe it—and you almost want to laugh: at the idea that Martin, the damned fool, has made me pregnant. And doesn’t have a clue that right now—he thinks I’m in my room. And he himself is having a great time at that film about Africa. Oh, dear, foolish, clueless Martin, if I wasn’t so tired I’d be really angry with you — — — Three more weeks—for the next three weeks I just won’t think about it at all.
“Come on, Martin—get up! It’s your turn to make the coffee today!” Gilgi punches Martin in the side—without result. He has no intention of opening his eyes. “Old lazybones.” She bends over him, gathers a few strands of hair and brushes them over his face. Doesn’t work either. So you have to apply “the guaranteed method”: tickling the soles of his feet—he can’t stand that. Gilgi crawls to the foot of the bed. “Damn it! Gilgi, would you stop that!”—“Kukirol’s Plasters Work the Fastest!”—“Gilgi, I’ll murder you …”—“Good idea, Martin, commit a little crime against passion, why don’t you?”—“Gilgi, you’re playing with fire …”—Gilgi is already sitting upright in the bed again.—“The gentleman is awake at last? May I respectfully suggest that the gentlemen be so good as to make the coffee at last?”—“Tell me, Gilgi”—Martin rubs his eyes—“and I’m asking quite seriously, tell me, my sweet clever girl, exactly why does the German public have the idea that anyone who stays in bed in the morning is of bad character?”—“How should I know, my darling?”—“They have quite a few curious ideas here. For example—as a child, I was only ever allowed to eat things which I found disgusting, quite unconsciously people had this vague feeling: food that tastes good is sinful.”—“Listen, Martin—if you imagine that I feel like philosophizing with you right here and now, on an empty stomach—then you’re mistaken—and if you don’t get up right this minute, I’ll fetch some cold water—get up, you—I think the weather will be beautiful today.” Gilgi jumps out of the bed, runs across the room. She’s wearing pyjamas of light-blue silk embroidered with little dark-blue swallows. She opens the curtains: “Look at the sunbeams, Martin! You can reach out and take them in your hands!”
At midday Gilgi is standing in the kitchen, wielding a frying pan very expertly and importantly. “Martin, please—you’ve got no business in the kitchen at the moment.”—“Oh, Gilgi, I don’t like it when your hands and your hair smell so much of the kitchen afterwards.”—“Let me be now, Martin.” Gilgi is concentrating devoutly on her fried potatoes. Sunlight flows in through the kitchen window, lies in wide gold stripes on the blue-gray slate floor—and Spain has become a republic, and there’s always something happening in the wor
ld—really great things are happening, but nevertheless the fried potatoes are the most important thing at the moment. And outside the kitchen window there’s a chestnut tree—it’s very proud of its brand-new green leaves and doesn’t quite have the confidence to blossom yet, a plump blackbird with an orange-yellow beak is singing in its branches—yes, it’s spring now, and—I suppose I’m crazy, but actually I’d like to have the child … the frying pan slips just a little to the side, Gilgi cries out because hot fat has spattered her leg, and Martin starts going on as though a bomb had exploded—“completely ridiculous, all this fooling around in the kitchen”—and carries Gilgi into the living-room, peels her stocking off: tiny red spots on the white skin … Then suddenly the whole apartment is full of smoke, they’re almost suffocated. And the fried potatoes have become as hard and black as heating coal—that’s the end of lunch. And right now they’re completely out of cash again—it would be nothing short of sinful to eat at a restaurant. But the smoke is intolerable. So they make some sandwiches, like the pettiest of the petty bourgeoisie, and set off, strolling for ages along Aachenstrasse—and in the end they take luncheon on a bench in the city forest.
“Oh God, Gilgi, this terrible sandwich paper! All that’s missing now are some hard-boiled eggs, straight from the third-class car on the passenger train …”
“Oh, Martin, are you an aesthete? May I point out to the gentleman that there is a corn on the third toe of the gentleman’s left foot? They don’t fit so well together—being an aesthete and—” Gilgi often fails to finish her sentences now, she’s simply too lazy to bother. Oh, how lazy she is. She’d like to put her arms behind her head—much too much effort. Hasn’t a bit of strength left in her joints. Lets her arms lie limply in her lap, blinks up at the sun—is so wonderfully tired, completely enveloped in a twilight cloud of sweet, soft indifference. Doesn’t want to break out of the cloud yet—not yet, not yet—because something has to happen, something has to be done, when you break out of it. Decision—action—oh, the words hammer too loudly.