Gilgi (15 page)

Gilgi lies down in bed again. Pushes the letter from Christoph under the pillow—it rustles. You ought to make
a decision. When Martin comes, you’ll say to him, you’ll say to him: quite calmly and sensibly—Martin, my darling, you have to understand—if you like me even a little bit, then you’ll want me to feel well and contented, and that’s why I’m going to Badstrasse tomorrow, to the labor office—about the benefits and about a new job—later. I’m going to—we’re going to—share the household expenses, and after this we won’t talk about it anymore. And if this is just a passing mood on my part—well, then there’s nothing you should respect more than another person’s moods, especially the ones that make life easier for you. I’ll say to him—when he comes, when he—my God, why doesn’t he come!

And Gilgi waits. Minutes pass so slowly, slowly, the darkness is oppressive and sad, and the silence hums with that disturbing absence of sound that hurts you and makes you afraid. And I’ll say to him … I—my God, he has to come, he has to, he has to, he has to. And there’s a magic lantern in the room, images flicker in the dark, imaginings—you don’t want to look at them, must look, precisely because you don’t want to. Images, images … Martin in an accident, Martin dead … And you feel like a criminal and burn with shock because you can imagine such things, and it’s like how as a child you were suddenly seized by the idea that your mother had died, and the only reason you can imagine something like that is because you’re incapable of believing it. And the smell of Martin’s warm healthy skin on the pillows, so much life on the pillows, whispered words and you and me and longing and … angular images in the dark, and you want to see them, want to hurt yourself. Sooner a hard pain than this soft creeping longing, sooner—Craccck! goes the door. A step and a breath, you
fall into the sound. “Ah, there you are!” You can say it quite calmly at the same time as you’re overwhelmed with joy, and beneath that joy there’s just a very tiny, contradictory feeling of shame and disappointment because this excess of blood-chilling fears was so unnecessary and ridiculous.

There’s a rainbow round my shoulder … Martin whistles and sits down next to Gilgi on the side of the bed. The pale light from the lamp on the night-table brushes over his hands, hands full of tenderness and love for life. And he tells her all about where he’s been: at the Rhine harbor, on a freighter with an old Dutch sailor, drinking toddy and playing cards and sinking thousands of meters below sea level under the weight of the man’s tall tales …

Martin—is sitting beside me, with his hat on his knees, it’s a kind of miracle that he’s here now. And suddenly the waiting seems to gain a purpose. It’s so nice to have waited for a man you love. Waiting made you so pleased to see him. And now he’s here, that means so much. So much light. And he’s speaking with his lips, his shoulders, speaking—and every word is a little human being, has legs, walks around the room—walks up to you, is round and tangible, you can put your arms around it … speaking with a quiet, soft voice, very melodious, a little hoarse—a little red drop of blood in the word. Bright light in dark eyes. I suppose they have to be dark, his eyes, to show such a silver light. And young dark hair, pressed into funny little curls at the back and sides by the hat-brim. He speaks: “The smell of fish and tar—an enchanted river—smooth water, unyielding and dark. Reflected lights—silver streaks—shimmering promises. Air like cool silk. Tired blue sky—like the eyes of a woman who knows herself so well that she becomes guileless again. An insistent
smell of tobacco—and soft, curly clouds of smoke—fairy tales breathed into the air. A little Frans Hals child. An old salt—always drunk as a matter of principle, his nose—a permanent state of euphoria. A little geranium with sweet, silly flat leaves, entrancingly unconscious of their severity of form, every single leaf a professor of mathematics, and their blossoms—so shamelessly red, as carelessly red as a little Mexican hooker—sweet little hooker—a pure red—a color unadulterated by any mish-mash morality. A great, round nocturnal silence—a circle—a shrill yell falls from the bank — — the secret of contrasts, my little Gilgi. A secret in a thousand boxes—when you open the first box, you find the second one hidden inside it—and so on, forever—you know a little bit more each time and—a great deal less.”

He’s rather drunk, Martin—there’s a rainbow round my shoulder …

Gilgi puts her hand on his chin, presses his head down towards her—“Oh, Martin, my darling …”—teeth which are so hungry for life, probably wants to eat up the whole world! He’s so in love with life, loves everything, everyone—that has nothing to do with milksop-tolerance and rolled-oat-kindness—just loves everything because he simply can’t do otherwise. And you understand that, maybe it’s the only thing you agree about: Life is a fine thing! Its comforts and burdens, its sadnesses and joys. Life is a fine thing. You’ll never let anyone say anything different. Never. Anyone.

There’s a rainbow round my shoulder … Old Dutch sailor! You don’t quite understand what it was about him that Martin liked so much. Not that it matters at all whether you understand everything, the main thing is
that Martin enjoyed it. Why? Who cares why. You have a sacred responsibility. To respect what the other person enjoys. People are quite happy to see others in trouble, then often they’re pleasant and sympathetic—and mostly they’re so mistrustful and intolerant of the unfamiliar little joys of those who think differently. The letter rustles under the pillow—you were going to say something—labor office … “it was so beautiful down there tonight, little Gilgi, I wished so much that you’d been with me.” Labor offi … every word gets stuck in your throat … wished so much that you’d been with me … another second and you’ll bust out crying for sheer happiness. It would be silly, anyway—there’s simply no point talking about such things to Martin. Quite suddenly, your eyes are opened a little to the way he’s made. You understand a little about Why and Because. You feel the spell of his refusal to be worried, his refusal to be weighed down, his lovable eagerness to take pleasure in everything, a pleasure which makes everything worthwhile, and his eagerness to find everything more important than himself. With his intellect, he has completed a journey in three stages—from the simple, via the complicated, to simplicity again. Is clever enough to have stopped engaging in clever talk, doesn’t need to say everything he knows. Isn’t witty—they’re so annoying, witty people—and of course anyone who really possesses wit has no need to be witty.

He’s a proper human being, is Martin—pas grand chose—but genuine and real, and he’s wonderful just the way he is, you wouldn’t want him to be different, not the slightest bit different.

“But you’re not even tired, Martin! Please, do me a favor, fetch me that big orange from the dining-room … Peel it
for me, would you? I always hate doing that. — — — Hey, Martin, you know, really people talk such terrible nonsense—for example, if a woman loves a man, she wants to be proud of him and admire him! That’s quite untrue. If you love a man, then you don’t want to be proud of him, then you just are proud of him, terribly proud—it’s impossible for you to be anything else—regardless of whether it’s the ex-emperor of China or Willy Fritsch or a hunchbacked guy who sells radishes on a street corner. And admiration! Nah, that won’t make a woman look up from her magazine. What good would the most fabulous, most learned university professor be to me if he didn’t know how to kiss properly — —”

A miracle comes to pass: Martin works for three days straight—day and night. Gilgi moves around the apartment on tiptoe. Cooks his lunch, puts it silently on his desk—disappears again. A few sentences on the handwritten pages become illegible, because they’ve got spinach stains on them—so tomorrow you’ll cook cauliflower.

Gilgi is left to her own resources. It occurs to her that she doesn’t have a thing to wear anymore. She’d rather string herself up than run around sloppily dressed. Her spring and summer wardrobes must be overhauled. It’s a good thing you have time for that. In the afternoon she goes to the savings bank, withdraws five hundred of her twelve hundred marks. Firstly you have to buy material, shoes, a hat—gloves—God, suddenly you need all kinds of things. Bath salts, a little perfume, face-powder … “first come powder and perfume—then food,” Olga always says. This statement contains profound wisdom. And also you’re
going to contribute to the household expenses, Martin needn’t notice. You’ll see if you can’t straighten things out a little after all, secretly, quietly, and softly.

That evening, Gilgi works like a madwoman at the sewing machine—half the night: a dress like this has to be made quickly, otherwise you lose interest. And the next morning she makes her planned visit to the labor office. You’ll get a little over thirteen marks a week. You don’t mind taking that! “Don’t you see, Martin?—more than fifty marks a month for nothing, nothing at all! That’s worth the trouble of picking it up!”

“Well, if it’s a kind of pension …” Martin once knew an army officer’s widow who also … There’s no point in explaining the purpose and significance of social welfare to him—he just doesn’t get it—so you won’t even try.

“Gilgi, I’ve gotten a friend to send me two thousand marks, shall we go away somewhere?”

Gilgi is shocked. “No.”

“But why not?”

“I can’t do that, Martin—you have to understand—I mean, everyone has something they can’t do. I can’t set off into the blue from one day to the next on borrowed money. I’m not a Philistine, and I’m not a coward, either, but I must be able to keep a grip on the things I do, and to take responsibility for them. I can’t be completely dependent on someone, even if it’s the person I like most in the world—maybe then least of all.

“Send the money back to your friend—or let’s pay debts with it—to please me, Martin …”

A thousand objections from Martin, a thousand more from Gilgi—and there’s a thousand-and-first objection too—maybe there is—you can’t talk about that one yet.
Great God—this happiness comes at a high price! There’s no possibility of holding onto it, none …

“Martin, be nice, be reasonable. No-one can change who he is. Look, I wouldn’t love you as much if I was being towed along helplessly in your wake. That’s a good reason, that is—isn’t it? Do you want me not to love you as much?” No, he doesn’t want that, he must like the little one more than he thought, because he goes cold all over just at the thought of that happening.

“I do want to respect all your crazy ideas, Gilgi, I swear to God—even when I don’t understand them. But as it turns out that your independence complex is incurable, then—why don’t you go to your mother—to the one who has so much money—she’s shown no interest in you her whole life long—there’s every reason why she should give you a few thousand marks—my God, it’s the most obvious thing in the world: anyone with money to spare gives it to people who are close to him—and who don’t have any at the time. I’ve always done it like that. Because having money is no fun at all in itself and …”

“No, no, no, Martin, I won’t do that—go there.” Gilgi is offended. “I won’t do that, I can’t do that, I don’t like the idea”—the exalted tone in her voice is making her angry, she throws her arms around Martin’s neck—“let’s just stay here, let’s just stay here, for God’s sake. And I don’t like that, I can’t ask anyone for money—can’t ask anyone …”

“But, my little Gilgi—of course I’d be a thousand times happier if you didn’t go. What’s the matter? There’s no reason for you to get so upset. I just thought that if relying on me a little disturbs you so much …” There’s almost a trace of bitterness in his words. What a terribly stupid man! They’re all the same. Their minds make them
logical, sometimes—their feelings make them illogical, always. “You men develop textbook cases of claustrophobia as soon as we become completely dependent on you—it’s your deepest fear: an obligation which deprives you of your freedom—all right, fine, it’s understandable. But then suddenly we’re supposed to rely utterly on you anyway, and if we don’t want to, then you’re even more annoyed …”—“My little Gilgi, they don’t suit you at all, these speeches in the plural: We women! You men! Come on, be nice and sweet. Will you be happy if I say: we’ll stay here, for God’s sake?”

“Yes, Martin, yes—and, we’ll pay some debts now, won’t we?”

“Yes,” Martin says. It sounds rather lukewarm, that Yes, and could just as well mean No. Nonsense—pay some debts! There’s still plenty of time for that. It’s so marvelous to have two thousand marks in your pocket, you simply hadn’t realized before how marvelous it is.

And that very afternoon, Martin goes to Olga. He wants to buy a beautiful fur coat for Gilgi—so Olga has to help him choose it—and material for a violet-blue dress, and dark amethyst jewelry in old silver settings to go with it. He saw it the other day at an antique dealer’s near the cathedral: ring, bracelet, necklace. That’ll be pretty—such a feather-light, pale little girl with such heavy jewelry. Olga is blazing with enthusiasm. Shopping is one of her passions, quite regardless of whether it’s for her or someone else.

“Ach, Martin!” Gilgi’s face trembles on the verge of tears as Martin, beaming with pleasure, spreads his treasures out before her that evening. If I start crying now … no, no, no—it made him so happy, and now I’m happy,
too, I’m so happy—so happy today, and tomorrow … yes, yes, I’m happy. He’s so good to me, so nice and so good.

The violet-blue material is duly made up into a dress the next day. Turns out really well. “I’ve never had such a beautiful dress, Martin!” He’s amazed: “You’re so good at this, little Gilgi! It’s a dream by Paul Poiret, a—what can I say …” And Gilgi’s cheeks glow with pride and joy. And it’s so cute—there’s no other way of putting it—so touchingly cute, the way these men look at a woman’s dress—with one eye for what’s in it, and the other for the dress itself—sort of semi-understanding things. And he’s so terribly proud of this semi-understanding—holding a bit of the silk in his hand almost reverently, anxiously, as though it could burst into flame between his fingers.

“Right, little Gilgi, we’re going out tonight—in the best style—and only eating and drinking things which are appropriate to the dress.” And Olga has to come with them, she chose the material with such a sacred passion.