An Inventory of Losses

by Judith Schalansky

  The window displays of the fashion houses weren’t as tasteful as they used to be. Where the devil could she get hold of a mauve carpet? And where was it again that she’d seen that painted furniture? But what’s the point? Her apartment would still be boring as hell even with that in it. A shithole with a view of Central Park. There was nothing in it she liked. God, what a nightmare. She would have to move again. A vagabond existence, a life on the run, on the fringes. Always lonely, all on her ownsome. Going to bed with the chickens. Theater hardly ever, the movies only when there was no line. There was nothing for her to do. Virgos are said to be good at mending things. But the only thing she was good at was moving apartments. C’est la vie. No, it wasn’t life. It was her. Cecil was right. She was wasting her best years. If only someone else could live for her, nourish her with their blood. But who could it be? Even Jane’s patience had run out last night. Then of all times! And to have the nerve to tally up in front of her the number of times she’d already called! Ten times? So what if she had! First Cecil’s grotesque accusations, then the realization that she didn’t have an ounce of energy left to wash her hair today. And then Jane’s coldness towards her. Cecil, meanwhile, had gotten so clingy, it was just pathetic. Nearly as bad as Mercedes. Except that the old crow brought her bad luck to boot. That chiropractor she’d recommended. Dr. Wolf—his very name was a bad omen! She’d only actually had a problem with her wrist. But then he’d gone and started crunching away at her back and her hips as well. He’d pushed her whole bone structure out of place! Once he’d finished, not only were her hips out of joint, her mouth was lopsided as well. He’d almost done her in.

  Should she get a coffee? But where? She was already too far downtown. Ah, dammit. Shame she hadn’t thought of it sooner! Oh, and she had to go to the health food store! She was meant to go last week to pick up her nettle tea. How could she have forgotten something so important! Typical. So she did have something to do, a destination, after all. The health food store on the corner of Lexington Avenue and 57th Street. She was sick, after all. Maybe the funny-looking little brunette would be there. Not exactly a beauty, but so nice and trusting. Everything would be fine. What a marvelous idea. She could let her have some more Kleenex as well, and possibly mix her up a vitamin cocktail. After that she would call Jane and summon her to lunch at Colony’s. Give her another chance. Or simply go to the Three Crowns on her own and eat smorgasbord. No deadly dull steamed vegetables, no grilled chicken for once. Afterwards treat herself to a nice whiskey at the Peacock Gallery and smoke her way through a pack of Kent Gold. She could go to the tailor’s and have some new pants made to measure. Yes, she could even call Cecil and ask him to track down a sweater in dusty pink. He would probably manage it too. He was so vivacious and so tremendously capable and so terribly interested—in things and in people. So why the devil he wanted to spend time with her was a mystery. She knew better than anyone how unbelievably boring she was. After all, she was the one who had to put up with it the whole time. Couldn’t just hang up when it got too much for her. Couldn’t get away from herself. Sadly that wasn’t an option. Ah, how she’d love to have a break from herself. Be someone else. That was the good thing about all the damn filming. It was handy when there was a script. Schleesky wasn’t a particularly gifted writer, of course. But better a bad master than none at all. And there had been a fair few men. Into double digits, certainly. The women didn’t count. They were on a different page. Perhaps Cecil was too. She liked him, at any rate. Who else could she say that of? A crime that he hadn’t simply grabbed her by the scruff of the neck and led her up the aisle. Instead the fool had waited for a yes. That he hadn’t realized she had to be forced into happiness. That all she needed was a kick up the ass! That she’d simply forgotten how to say yes. Of course she wanted to make movies. But she was entitled to wait for decent offers. She owed herself that, after that disaster with the bathing costume. It’s just it wasn’t that easy to judge what was a decent offer. Madame Chichi in “The Magic Mountain”? Marie Curie and her X-rays? Her intuition had deserted her. Just like that. And that devoted creep Schleesky, sure, he was good at getting her a car and a bottle of vodka in the middle of the night, but where roles were concerned he was anything but helpful. He was a bloody tyrant, obviously. That was the glorious thing about him. For a small man he had very big hands. He could order everyone around with them. Without even raising his voice. And everyone was shit-scared of him. A Cerberos or Cerberus, or whatever its name was. But someone who at least knew what he wanted. The way he looked at her sometimes. With cold fish eyes, as if she wasn’t even there.

  There it was now, next to the automat. Her destination, her lighthouse, her beloved health food store. And she was in luck. The little brunette was there. And she already had the tea in her hand. You could count on her. The white coat really suited her as she leaned forward. But why the strange expression on her face? “My goodness, Miss Garbo, you don’t look at all well.” What the hell? “What? Have I changed that much?” A look of horror. “No, no, not at all.” Now she was playing it down, trying to erase what had been said. But she knew what she’d heard. Oh God, she had to get out of here right away. Take the tea. It was already paid for anyway. And out. What a nightmare. Shit. She obviously looked a wreck. Worse than usual anyhow. She had to see for herself. Where, though? A mirror in the store window. Shit. What a sight! It was true, she looked hideous, just awful. Red eyes, red nose, wrinkles, more of them than ever before. Her neck all saggy. Lines everywhere that would be wrinkles in no time. Furrows, more like, deep crevices around her mouth from the goddamn smoking. Ones that no mask-maker could disguise. The marble was crumbling. The firm contours she still had would soften and be gradually lost. The role of the death mask would’ve suited her well. If you died young you at least had that consolation. She’d actually kept Murr’s mask.

  The lengths she’d gone to for this face. Had her hairline straightened, her teeth fixed, her hairstyle and hair color changed. No wonder the bastards imagined it belonged to them. She only need blink an eye and the whole world was interpreting it. Her smile, mysterious. Her eyes, prophetic. Her cheekbones, divine. What complete bullshit. Adoration always spelled the beginning of the end. After that you just became an effigy or a martyr. Christ. So much for goddess. A tarted-up ass, that’s what she’d been all these years. Somebody’d missed a good man in her. Nice and tall with broad shoulders, huge hands and feet. But they didn’t want that body. In fact they’d taken to their heels when they’d seen it half-naked. An oversized pedestal, a support system for this goddamn face of hers! That was her true enemy. So much for marble. Nothing but a mask, an empty vessel. They were so hell-bent on finding out what was behind it. Nothing was behind it. Nothing!

  But now it occurred to her: it wasn’t the bathing suit! That hadn’t been the problem, as she’d always thought. It wasn’t the bathing suit but the damn bathing cap! That blasted strap under her chin which left an imprint on her skin. Her flesh was already soft there, a little bit slack. Aging started early. Basically at birth. It was all too late now anyway. To hell with it! Who cares. A cigarette would be good now. Bring them on, those little sticks of death! Father always used to say tomorrow will be better. And then he’d died. The last ten years had been difficult enough. The next ten would just be horrendous. She was so tired of everything. Even tired of being tired. Others had husbands, children, or memories. She had nothing besides her accursed fame and her lousy money that condemned her to not having to go to work on a Monday in April, to some office downtown, to some dusty studio in Culver City, to anywhere. The truth was her life was over. So much for a woman with a past. A woman without a future, that’s what she was. A rudderless ship, always alone. Poor little Garbo! A hopeless case. Once a crowd puller, now a stray dog roaming the streets of Manhattan day in, day out, that cesspool of a city that reeked of trash even in April. But where the hell was she meant to go? Her face was known the world over. She could hide under a fishing hat or
wrap herself in a full-length seal-fur coat, it made no difference; sooner or later she was discovered. There were vultures everywhere. It was only ever a matter of time. No, she was glad it was over. That it had been her decision. The time comes when you have more to lose than to gain. She’d worked hard. Never used to have any time. Well she had plenty now, just not the foggiest fart what to do with it. The East River was too filthy for anyone to want to drown themselves in it. A lot of women lost their mind. Not her, unfortunately. She just got sick. Or perhaps she’d been crazy for ages and simply hadn’t noticed. Or dead even? Who knows, maybe for years now. Had she ever even been young? She couldn’t remember. She could never remember anything. Except the sense of having already seen and experienced everything: the mountains of mail, the hum of the spotlights, the flash guns, the whole damn circus. Los Angeles was one long nightmare. There was no place on earth more boring. A godforsaken city without sidewalks. For crying out loud! How often had she had her chauffeur drive her the five hours up to Santa Barbara, just to have a bit of a stroll around, only to realize that she couldn’t stop for a cup of tea anywhere there either. That there too the hounds were lying in wait everywhere. All she wanted was to be left in peace. But how come she had no one to take care of her? How come she didn’t have a husband and children? All the people she loved died. And the ones who still admired her were old. As old as she was. She should’ve done like Murr. Sold everything and disappeared for good. It didn’t necessarily need to be the South Pacific. It was coming back that spelled the end for him. A truck coming in the opposite direction, an embankment. All the others were uninjured, the chauffeur and the little Filipino who’d been at the wheel. The German shepherd had just run off. It was probably still roaming the valley to this day. The back of Murr’s lovely head completely crushed. There was no sign of that, though, when he lay there in the funeral parlor, in his gray suit, his proud, noble face plastered with gaudy makeup like some old Berlin faggot. A stick-thin, dolled-up corpse surrounded by wreaths and crosses crafted from gardenias. Here, even the dead were made up as if for Technicolor. And all around, masses of empty garden chairs with those waxy, brightly patterned chintz cushions, which no one wanted to sit on. Only a handful of old fools turned up anyway. The last of the faithful. Fire or earth, that was the question. She hadn’t even made up her mind on that. Ah, what she would give to be able to turn back the clock! And rather than missing the boat, to get married or even make another movie! She’d wanted to, after all! She’d even done screen tests. She’d recited her lines nicely in La Brea, the wind in her hair from the machine. Weren’t they all delighted? And hadn’t James said to her, “Miss Garbo, you’re still the world’s most beautiful woman?” And he really meant it. That wasn’t even all that long ago. Two or three years. So close. What was it again? A duchess who was unlucky in love and became a nun. Whatever. She was living the life of a nun now anyway. Although it had been nice with Cecil. Queers were simply better lovers. The way he’d grabbed her by the hair and pulled until it hurt. Sometimes he just knew what she needed. She’d come so close. She’d have played any old nonsense. She’d worked her ass off, even done upper-arm workouts. But no, whenever she thought it was about to happen, something got in the way. It was like she was jinxed! Schleesky was always saying she was like Duse. She’d hidden herself away for eleven whole years too, and then returned to the stage. Notched up triumphs like never before. What year were they now again? 1952, dammit. So her eleven years were up. It was eleven lousy years since all the world had seen her in the pool and laughed at her. And now, what was she now? A woman with nothing to wear. An out-of-work actress. A living fossil. A ghost who wandered around midtown in broad daylight on the lookout for dusty-pink cashmere sweaters and some kind of meaning! A zombie, buried alive in these ravines, these dreary straight streets of towering red-brick buildings. To think of all the things she’d tried! Astrology, theosophy, even psychoanalysis—with Dr. Gräsberg, the only Swedish psychoanalyst in the whole of West Hollywood. How he told her after a few weeks that she was suffering from narcissistic personality disorder. Genius! And as she walked out, there was that poster of her plastered above the highway, larger than life. With that, how could you not have a disorder? She’d never gone back. In any case she didn’t like to see her soul laid bare. In fact, Cecil doubted she even had one. He was probably right. She was probably really just a bad person. Yes, that’s what she was: a bad person with bad manners. She wouldn’t change now. Had he ever really believed she could play his wife? An offer of a part, all the same. Her last one. Now it was too late for anything. How long had she been old, though? It couldn’t be that long. When had it started, this blasted aging? When she started getting excited about the spring. In the past it had always left her cold. She only used to miss the winter. That single withered dead tree in the backyard of her apartment on San Vicente Boulevard, her winter tree. How often had she imagined that the cold had made it leafless, and that soon there would be snow on its branches. But of course it never came. How could it? In friggin’ California! Instead what you got was the rain after Christmas, when it pissed down until the canyon overflowed. You could leave everything behind: your parents, your language, your nationality, just not the climate of your childhood. But then: roses blooming in April, the sweet scent of orange blossom. The damp, foggy days in Mabery Road, mornings on the beach, the only place you could go for a walk. In the end, all her attempts to get away were defeated by the climate. And where had she wound up? In this crummy city that stank of formaldehyde, sweat, and garbage. When she came here for the first time she’d been a youngster, still wet behind the ears. It was summer, so scorching hot that you couldn’t go out. She thought she would die. At night she didn’t get a wink of sleep because of the noise of the garbage being crushed in the yard. Just lay there listening to the vile chomping of the infernal machine, the sirens of the fire trucks, the honking of the cars, that nerve-shattering din. She could’ve happily drowned herself in the bath, only the room didn’t have one. And now? Now this hole of a city was the only home she still had. She wasn’t dead. The dead didn’t catch colds, as far as she knew. No, she was alive. She was still alive. And that was the problem. California then? Or Europe after all? Staying here wasn’t an option. Perhaps start small. One step at a time. First go home, make tea, call Jane, wash her hair. Then maybe California. With a detour to Palm Springs. Then in summer over to Europe. Nice is supposed to be such a lovely island.

  Lesbos

  The Love Songs of Sappho

  * The songs of Sappho were composed during Greece’s Archaic period in around 600 B.C. on the island of Lesbos in the eastern Aegean.

  † Although Sappho’s songs were probably written down immediately after her death on Lesbos in such a way that they could be performed again, nothing remains of the notation of the musical accompaniment. It may already have been lost long before Alexandrian scholars in the third and second centuries before Christ published her known work, which at the time was split between various Athenian editions and anthologies, in complete editions with critical commentaries. A comment by Philodemus of Gadara from the first century suggests that, in his day, hetaerae would sing Sappho’s songs at banquets and during love play.

  Her poetry is presumed to have been lost at some point during the Byzantine era—by an effective combination of sheer neglect and willful destruction. The philosopher Michael Italicus, writing in the first half of the twelfth century, refers to Sappho in a way that implies he was familiar with her work. Yet the scholar John Tzetzes, writing around the same time, mentions that her poems are lost. Some believe they were burned in the year 1073 under Pope Gregory VII or obliterated in the sack of Constantinople in the Fourth Crusade in 1204; others speculate that her texts were destroyed on the orders of Bishop Gregory of Nazianzus back at the end of the fourth century, while still others hold that it must have been even earlier, as her poems were not quoted by any of the later grammarians.

  Studies of numero
us albeit fragmentary papyri have uncovered a considerable number of additional texts in recent years.

  As Nebuchadnezzar II is plundering Jerusalem, Solon ruling Athens, Phoenician seafarers circumnavigating the African continent for the first time and Anaximander postulating that an indefinite primal matter is the origin of all things and that the soul is air-like in nature, Sappho writes:

  He seems to me equal to the gods that man

  whoever he is who opposite you

  sits and listens close

  to your sweet speaking

  and lovely laughing—oh it

  puts the heart in my chest on wings

  for when I look at you, even a moment, no speaking

  is left in me

  no: tongue breaks and thin

  fire is racing under skin

  and in eyes no sight and drumming

  fills ears

  and cold sweat holds me and shaking

  grips me all, greener than grass

  I am and dead—or almost

  I seem to me.

  But all is to be dared, because even a person of poverty . . .

  Buddha and Confucius are not yet born, the idea of democracy and the word “philosophy” not yet conceived, but Eros—Aphrodite’s servant—already rules with an unyielding hand: as a god, one of the oldest and most powerful, but also as an illness with unclear symptoms that assails you out of the blue, a force of nature that descends on you, a storm that whips up the sea and uproots even oak trees, a wild, uncontrollable beast that suddenly pounces on you, unleashes unbridled pleasure and causes unspeakable agonies—bittersweet, consuming passion.

  There are not many surviving literary works older than the songs of Sappho: the down-to-earth Epic of Gilgamesh, the first ethereal hymns of the Rig Veda, the inexhaustible epic poems of Homer and the many-stranded myths of Hesiod, in which it is written that the Muses know everything. “They know all that has been, is, and will be.” Their father is Zeus, their mother Mnemosyne, a Titaness, the goddess of memory.