by Irmgard Keun
“I should go,” Gilgi says, and stands up. The woman wants to rise, too, suddenly becomes even paler than before, falls backwards—in one movement Gilgi is at her side. Puts the slack head on the arm of the chair—holding the little heap of glittering stones firmly in her left hand … she’s fainted — — I’ve—never believed that people really faint—I’d never have thought such a thing possible … what are you supposed to do—? Water—yes, water—water—water — — — aach, it’s all too much—Gilgi sinks to her knees—strokes the thin, bare arm which is hanging down slackly and lifelessly. The little magazine-lady is my mother—I shouldn’t have come to see her. But she’ll be all right again soon—she’s got a Diddy and a reliable husband whose adultery is so lucrative for her—he’ll probably turn sixty soon, and then he’ll really start having affairs, and then she’ll get lots of nice new rings—Gilgi presses the little hand briefly, it’s so bare after all it’s given away … Magda, little magazine-lady—things aren’t so bad for you, Magda—but Hertha—poor Hertha—Hertha! The money! Martin! Gilgi leaps up, runs out of the room—encounters the maid in the hallway—“Madam feels ill, go to her—at once.”
Half past six. Hans has until seven to pawn the rings, or sell them. You can be in Friesenstrasse in ten minutes at the latest. You’re not going out of your way if you drop in on Martin first. Just to tell him quickly that he doesn’t need to worry. You’ll explain later. That all seems very calm and sensible. Gilgi sets out with quick, sure steps. All the emotions and events which she has experienced have been extinguished for the moment, only one thought remains: I’ve done it.
She’s hardly even touched the bell before Martin tears the door open. Fear and rage are burning brightly in his eyes. “Where were you? My God—almost seven o’clock—I’ve been looking for you everywhere …”
“Oh, Martin, this is hardly the first time I’ve been out so long.”
“Yes it is, and you’ve never gone out without saying a word, either.”
“Don’t look so angry, Martin—give me a kiss, do—quickly—I just have to pop out again now—I’ll explain afterwards …” He pulls her into the room, holding her wrist in a hard, angry grip. And he’s got every reason to be angry. Oh, my God, he’s been so afraid. Once he started waiting, he fell ever more deeply and agonizingly into fear and uncertainty. He thought about thousands and thousands of things which might have happened, all kinds of things, all mixed up chaotically—sad, horrible, terrible—things which finally all combined into a torturing certainty. And suddenly you realize how much the little girl means to you—a hard nut, this realization, by no means entirely pleasant. A dubious benefit—to find out all at once that your own happiness and well-being are dependent on someone else. And you stand there like a helpless idiot, no longer the master of your own joys and sorrows. Purely because this ill-behaved little girl takes it into her head to spend countless, endless hours running around town in a downright irresponsible manner—yes, running around town—you have to endure the torments of hell—yes, I’m really angry with you, because I love you so much. “Damn it all, talk to me—where have you been?” Of course—to be completely in the right now, she’d have to be dead—thank God she’s alive. “Where have you been?” The little girl is standing there in front of him—all pale and upset—no hat—her hair tousled—worn-out, looking guilty—has an angry, defiant look about her mouth—
“Let go of me, Martin, I have to go out now …”
“But, little Gilgi, I was worried about you, I presume you have a few minutes for me now.” He lets go of her wrist, strokes her hair—Gilgi surrenders immediately to the gentler voice and the softer touch. She puts her arms around his neck, opens her hands without thinking—the rings fall onto the floor—the blue sapphire, the green emerald, the two diamonds, the big pearl … Martin picks them up one after the other … “what’s all this—where did you get these from?”
“From my mother.”
“Which one?”
“The magazine-lady—she fainted—she’s quite alien to me. The rings still have to be sold, or pawned—but will they bring in five hundred marks? Martin—I said, I have to go—they’re waiting for me …”
“Who’s waiting? — — — Come along, Gilgi, rest for a while and then you can tell me …”
Gilgi goes into the dining-room with Martin—look how nicely he’s set the table—and he hasn’t touched anything—only the bottle of Hennessy, which was still full yesterday, is half-empty now. Gilgi drops tiredly onto a chair—“I’ll eat and drink something quickly”—yes, drink a lot—then telling the story is sure to be much easier. Gilgi drinks—several glasses hastily—everything is so confused—more and more of her words are sliding back inside her. Ach, if she could just sleep now. No, she can’t eat anything, she doesn’t want to, the smallest bite becomes huge in her mouth—you have to swallow a hundred times before it goes down. She’d rather drink, and—“a cigarette.” The rings are lying on the table, sparkling a little, glittering … “Martin, do you think they’ll bring in five hundred marks?” Gilgi’s eyelids are dropping with tiredness. Such a heavy scent in the room. Three round black vases with white hyacinths. Martin loves them so much, those flowers, and Gilgi loves them, too, because Martin loves them. Martin gets up from the table, walks restlessly around the room, sits down on the divan, smokes … The scent of the hyacinths becomes mixed with the smell of Virginia tobacco—a combination which for Gilgi is connected inseparably with Martin. — — Drink another glass … then you’ll probably be able to talk. But really everything’s quite clear, and there’s nothing to be tragic about. Really, it’s laughable that you suddenly make the simplest things in the world so complicated and … “Martin, you don’t have to look so angry—no reason at all — — I was at Pit’s and at my mother’s—to get money—otherwise a friend will go to jail.”
“What kind of friend?”
“A guy I used to know. Things were going so badly for him—he was here once—” What Gilgi is saying becomes obviously confused. Now she’ll have to admit that she lied the other day, that’s probably the worst thing there is. She hasn’t lied so very often in her life—but when she did—the fate of the world could have hinged on it—then you’d have stuck with the lie. And of course Martin’s sure to think that she’s done really terrible things, because she’s so red and uncertain and embarrassed. Although everything’s so simple—laughably simple. Hans and Hertha, they’ve got real problems … Gilgi jumps up, reaches for the rings—“I have to go now, Martin …”
“Stay where you are, little Gilgi—do you think I’d let you go out like that now! If you want to take the rings to someone—well, I can take them there for you later. Come here …” Obediently she sits down beside him, lets her head fall into his lap … “So who is supposed to get the rings? What kind of friend is he?”
“I used to know him—he was here the other day—with floor wax—so poor—and the wife—the children …”
It’s hard to work out the right meaning from the confused things Gilgi says—it’s all too easy to work out a wrong meaning … “So this is what I understand now—an old boyfriend of yours was here, and you concealed that from me. My little girl, if someone conceals something, then something’s not right, then there’s some feeling or other … or are you such a stupid child that you think I’d be upset because you didn’t wait for me—to be the first one? What do you take me for, little one? Don’t misunderstand me, little Gilgi, if I asked stupid questions sometimes recently, it was because … well, if you love a woman very much, then you become childish, then you’re not smart, or superior, or perceptive. Then all the stupid primal feelings well up in you, then you’re inclined to torment yourself—ideas and images force themselves on you, and it torments you to think that all the dear, sweet caresses have also been given to … then the evil male urges are awakened, the brutal instincts of the possessor and the ruler … My silly little Gilgi, my little Maori girl … how such a little woman can be untrammelled
by tradition—how I love you because you’re the way you are—ach, a man is a thousand times more tied to tradition, my little one …”
How I love you because you’re the way you are—how I love you because you’re the way you are … he’s never talked like that before, never like that. You’ve almost certainly done something wrong, to make a man talk like that. “Martin, Martin—I had lots of new caresses for you—and Martin, don’t forget that you’ve had a lot of women too. But even if a man has had a thousand women—how poor would a woman be whose kisses didn’t bring him to say at least one word that none of the others had heard—and that one word is what matters then—that—one—word—you—see”—presses her head more firmly into his lap, closes her eyes—Virginia tobacco—scent of hyacinths—a song, a song—music—the scent sings so that you feel it in your blood—the wakeful tiredness—the life behind closed eyelids—glittering stones, burning stones in your hot hand—but they don’t have life themselves, I give them life … “Martin, I didn’t ask my mother about my father—I simply forgot to, just think. But I don’t care—wanting to meet your family doesn’t get you much … yes, Martin, yes—I know I didn’t want to go to her that time—now I’ve gone—because Hans had to have money …” Gilgi leaps up—staggers—stands upright—“I have to go, Martin …”
He grabs her arm—he’s chalk-white, his voice is hoarse—“You did that for another man! Asked for money! How much you must love him.”
“God, Martin, Martin …” A merry-go-round spinning in her head—I shouldn’t have drunk anything—now I’m drunk—you have to explain, can’t explain—confused words which just make everything worse, even harder to understand … “I have to go out …”
“I want you to stay here, Gilgi—do you hear me, I want you to.”
“What you want doesn’t matter, Martin”—Hertha—the little children …
“Yes,” says Martin, and lets go of her arm—Gilgi walks to the door with shaky little steps … Martin watches her, his head resting on his hands—“You’re right, little Gilgi—what I want doesn’t matter—just go, little girl, just go.”
“No, no, no, Martin—I won’t go.” Gilgi rushes to him, has lost control. “You will understand—it’s all so ridiculous—Martin—I’ll stay with you, I’ll stay here—I love you—it’s none of my concern if Hans goes to jail, I hate him, Martin, if you’re sad because of him—you believe me now when I say that I love you, don’t you? You have to believe me …” You—the red, hot cloud—the sun—closer and closer—hyacinths, hyacinths in black vases—your hands on my chest—your lips—your eyes in the light, the loving pain in your eyes … you—the rings—have dropped onto the ground—leave them there—my hands—I need my hands for you now …
Thin gray morning light creeps into the room. Gilgi wakes up—raises her head. It hurts, feels like a thousand knives are stabbing into your brain. A glance at Martin—he’s asleep. Gilgi swings her legs out from under the covers with a quick and decisive movement. Feels tired and shattered. She goes into the dining-room—the rings are lying next to the divan. Gilgi picks them up, holds them in the palm of her hand for several minutes, looks at them silently and absently. Tries to find a connection to her eventful yesterday, without success. Feels empty and pumped dry. Sees the used cognac glass on the table and grimaces slightly with tired distaste. Feels herself to be ancient and half-dead, finds herself disgusting without knowing the reason—and is a thousand times too tired and indifferent to look for a reason. She yawns. Would like to drop onto the floor and stay lying there—forever—gives herself a shake suddenly and goes into the bathroom. Lets the ice-cold shower play over her for several minutes. Then gets dressed quickly, in under ten minutes. Goes to Martin, sits down next to him on the bed and runs her hand lightly over his face, very gently pushing the lids up over his eyes—“Wake up, Martin! Listen, darling, it’d be a good idea for you to get up soon—you’re due at the dentist’s at nine, and you wanted to go to the library afterwards.” She recites the words tiredly—a dull, constricting pressure on her chest almost deprives her of the power to breathe.
“Are you sad, little Gilgi, are you not well?” Martin asks—still half-asleep as he reaches for her hand.
“Ach, I have such a silly anxiety and a bad conscience, Martin—but it’ll be better soon. I’m going to Friesenstrasse now and taking the money and the rings—because I won’t feel at ease until I do. Do you see, darling, it’s got nothing to do now with sympathy and feeling and those things—it’s simply that I have to keep my promise—otherwise I’ll be ill. I insist and I want so strongly for people to keep their word to me—I wouldn’t like to lose the right to want that through my own fault …”
Martin sits up in the bed.—“Of course, little one—you should do what you think right. How stupid we were yesterday! I gave you a lot of trouble for no reason, didn’t I? I’ll get dressed quickly, and if you like I’ll come with you …”
“Don’t bother, Martin, I’d rather go right away—every minute might count now. And don’t wait for me, I’ll go straight from Friesenstrasse to the labor office. And be here punctually for lunch—I’ll make something really nice. Bye, darling—don’t fall asleep again—and don’t forget the dentist!” When she gets as far as the door, Gilgi runs back again, kisses Martin hastily on the neck and the throat and the eyes—“no, don’t hold on to me, darling—bless you—see you at lunchtime …!”
Friesenstrasse. Outside the building where Hans and Hertha live, people are standing around, evidently excited about something—talking, gesticulating—Gilgi pays no attention to them, opens the street door—a clump of women in the stairwell—a rattle of chatter … Gilgi stops, extracts a blue envelope with the seven hundred-mark notes from her handbag, takes hold of the rings—are they all still there? Oh, how happy they’ll be, the people upstairs! Two steps at a time, all the way up—how your heart’s beating, it’s cutting off your breath. But why am I sad? Such an aching sadness in every bone … I should have come here last night, then I wouldn’t need to feel so oppressed—ach, nonsense, that’s just exaggerated conscientiousness—now is still early enough …
The door of the attic room is half-open. A man she doesn’t know comes out of it—Gilgi almost collides with him. The man has a cap in his hand—the man looks at Gilgi—the man opens his mouth—words crawl out of black gaps between his teeth … “Are you here to see the people in there? They’re dead. They were taken away a half-hour ago. Dead. All four of them. Gas. The man wrote a letter—beforehand — — — he’d had enough. I’ll have had enough soon too. Good morning.” The man puts his cap on. His heavy tread on the staircase dies away slowly …
Gilgi’s grip tightens on the envelope and the rings … but you’re not allowed to have such dreams—that’s revolting—such dreams … She knocks on the half-open door—a kind of bony sound … tack, tack, tack … everything’s quiet up here. Someone said that I have to knock here for a thousand hours—tack, tack, tack—I’ve got red shoes on and my blue dress—how did I come to wear red shoes with my blue dress? Because I’ve never done that before—I have to knock for a thousand hours … why is there such a terrible lot of writing on streetcar tickets—I’d like to know what all that writing on streetcar tickets means … tack, tack, tack—have I knocked for a thousand hours now? The door-handle is dull and has dark spots—someone should see about cleaning the handle with … yes, what’s that stuff called that you clean handles with? What’s it called again … I know the name … now the dirty handle is calling out to my hand—I have to touch it … Gilgi goes into the room, closes the door behind her. The window has been torn open, the beds are in gray disorder. A disgusting, sweetish smell is crawling across the floor—up to your nose … I’ve got red shoes on—and there’s a terrible lot of writing on streetcar tickets … I know that I’ve got red shoes on … I know more than that … I know that they’re dead—Hans and Hertha and the little children—Hans—Hertha—but do dead people still have names? I’m not insane,
I’m quite alert and clear and cold and not sad at all—I’m not anything anymore. Gilgi steps over to the open window, leans out a long way … sees the street far below … you must decide — — — and you mustn’t run away … I know everything—everything—they’re dead—what’s that?—they’re dead because I didn’t come yesterday—I’ll have to think that right through to the end—I won’t be spared that—I must keep thinking about it—keep thinking—keep thinking—keep thinking—think very carefully—don’t leave anything out … they died here, while Martin and I … hyacinths in black vases … Gilgi leans further out of the window … the pavement down there, that finishes everything—that’s something—to know that everything can be finished—very nice to know that—very, very nice. You should picture that to yourself in detail: you fall downwards—through the air—a soft noise—an extinguishing pain, a very strong pain—a spread-out mush of flesh and blood and bone—everything flows out of you—all of the blood and the brain and the unbearable thing. That’s not disgusting at all—that’s very nice—such red blood on the dirty, gray pavement—and everything finished … You must decide—I’m not insane, and I won’t faint, either—I have every part of my free will—nothing is influencing me—from outside. Lean out a little further—then I’ll fall—then … I’m not at all afraid … my head is so heavy—it’s pulling me—down—there—my feet are so heavy—won’t lift from the floor—I’ve got red shoes on, red shoes—they’re nailed to the floor … Gilgi falls backwards, bumps her temple on a chair—blood trickles across her face—damp and warm. She remains lying there, not making a sound—her eyes wide open—for seconds, minutes. Then stands up. Hard and determined. Goes to the little mirror over the wash-stand—dips a handkerchief in the water-jug and wipes the blood slowly from her cheek and temple—the face in the mirror is gray and hollow. Gilgi looks into the estranged mirror-face for a long time. Presses her lips together in a narrow, hard line. Start again from the beginning, Gilgi! Four people are dead. The guilt that is mine … I’ll see how I come to terms with it. The guilt that isn’t mine—I’ll reject that, I won’t talk myself into it, I won’t carry that burden. The truth is difficult enough for me. And I know what I have to do—the most difficult thing. But I’m alive, and Martin’s alive, and the child’s alive … I want to live—and I’m happy that I’m living. Gilgi’s firm little steps die away on the staircase. Past the chattering women—along the street … It’s nine o’clock, and Martin will have left the apartment. As it should be.