Gilgi (18 page)

“Only a little influenza, Martin! There were times when I went to the office with a temperature of 39.4.” Gilgi speaks
as though it had been great fun to go to the office with a temperature of 39.4. And Martin isn’t satisfied until she’s in bed. “And do you really feel warm?” Right—and now he’ll go to the drugstore and pick up some aspirin, and some elderberry tea or something like that—and he’ll make the elderberry tea when he gets back. And Gilgi wants him to buy his shoes at the same time, too—“you know how it goes, Martin! If you put it off, all of a sudden we’ll be out of money again, and you need shoes sooo badly. And go to Schilderstrasse—you know, where we saw that pair for nineteen marks, they looked verrry smart. And make sure that the soles are good and tough and …”

Martin has been gone for five minutes when the doorbell rings. So what is it now? Gilgi crawls out from under the carefully stacked pillows and blankets, pulls on her black silk kimono with the big yellow sunflower pattern, smooths her hair …

Oh God! She got out of bed for this! A door-to-door salesman, sales representative, traveling salesman—with a dusty little suitcase—“What? Floor wax? Don’t need any.” Gilgi hesitates: it’s terrible to slam the door on such a pleading voice.

“Just let me show you, madam … but wait a minute …”—the man looks at Gilgi in amazement, becomes embarrassed and nervous—“aren’t you Gil—madam, aren’t you—”

“Ooooh, Hans, is it you? She holds her hand out to him. Looks at him: this hardened, waxy face was once so young and fresh and shining … “I didn’t recognize you, Hans, you’ve changed a lot.” Gilgi blushes a fiery red, she’s said something tactless. Wants to make up for it immediately: “Come in, Hans—come … here—sit down, Hans.”

The man lays down his hat with its grease-spotted band beside him. Sits stiff as a board on the extreme edge of the armchair. “Oh, what a wonderful place you have here, Gilgi—but may I still call you Gilgi? Shouldn’t I say ‘madam’ and …”

“What nonsense, Hans—old friends like us!” Gilgi is standing before him—a pampered, well-groomed, well-rested little woman, completely enveloped in expensive embroidered silk … and he’s still got those faithful eyes, old Hans, except they’ve become tired and sad—now a little spark of genuine happiness kindles in them—“I’m so pleased that at least things are going well for you, Gilgi.”

And now they look at each other and don’t know what to say—after all, they haven’t seen each other for so many years. “Wait a second, Hans—I was just about to have breakfast, so shall we eat together?” Gilgi runs into the kitchen. She has to sit down for a moment. What have just a few years done to the boy? By now he’s—yes, by now he’s—maybe thirty—that was four years ago when we … Four years! That’s hardly an eternity, four years! That makes you think a bit. Such a lively, cheerful boy, old Hans! You could have fun with him—you could laugh! He had such blond hair and flashing blue eyes and wonderful muscles. Yes, he was always very proud of his muscles. We were together in the swimming club, it started when he wanted to teach me the Australian crawl—he could do the Australian crawl very well—really well. And I was so upset about Jonny—well, I suppose the first man is usually a dud. And I was so utterly sick of Jonny, but it’s always the way that you still can’t bear it when a creep like that — — — I would’ve been quite happy at the time if Jonny, that combination of Douglas Fairbanks and a mailman, if he’d jumped off
the roof of the club—because of me. It never occurred to him—he took up with Hilde, the redhead with the curls—and Hans was so nice, we were such good friends—just good friends—and if we hadn’t done that two-week trip in the Hunsrück hills together, we’d probably have stayed “just” good friends too. Anyway, none of it was a big deal—then I went to Frankfurt for five months, because Mayer & Rothe were opening their new branch there—yes, so then I forgot him. It’s funny—how long ago it all is. You just can’t believe that all of it was real once. The guy looks quite starved. Gilgi spreads a few bread rolls—and there’s a half-bottle of Tarragona left over …

“Right, Hans, now tell me a little about yourself.”

“Not much of it’s good, Gilgi.” They both fall silent—the memories they have are—filtered by the passing of the years—still bright, cheerful, light-hearted ones. Were they really so young back then? And now? Surely they must have grown terribly old to be wondering so skeptically about how young they once were.

“And, Hans, do you remember how I stood up there on the ten-meter springboard at the pool and trembled like a blancmange that’s about to be eaten?”

“Yes, and then you dived just the same.”

“And do you remember how we capsized in the canoe?”

“And a Rhine steamer fished us out …”

“God, and they thought we were so interesting—”

“And we thought we were a thousand times more interesting than that.”

“Do you remember how Heinz always took his gramophone onto the boat and played ‘Valencia’ a thousand times?”

“Yes, Gilgi, and then you threw the record into the
water while he wasn’t looking. And do you remember how that cute one, Ruth, sang sooo badly to the mandolin that it almost sounded good again!”

“Of course, Ruth! The one who thought she was so beautiful that she couldn’t waste herself on any man, and I suppose that every time she looked in the mirror she was sorry that she couldn’t be a guy as well as a girl and start a relationship with herself.—And how you made that fabulous profit with the Dutch cigarettes!”

“Yes, and when we celebrated in the boatshed that night it wobbled like a nutshell on a storm-tossed ocean—we were having so much fun. And that fat guy, Conny, was so drunk that he was determined to go diving for coral in the Rhine …”

“God, yes, I spent a half-hour hanging onto his leg—otherwise he’d probably still be lying down there now among the broken beer bottles and the tin cans—”

“And he wouldn’t have been one of those corpses that look so peaceful when they’re fished out of the water!” — — —

Do you remember, do you remember, do you remember. And now? That poor gray-faced guy there was once the liveliest of the bunch.— He’s no longer the same at all—and—his life now … you can hardly ask.

But then he starts talking about it of his own accord. Because they’re not very inhibited at all, the guys. God, yes, they don’t say anything—until the need and the opportunity to say something happen to coincide. “… of course back then I was working for my uncle in the transformer factory, and working hard—and everything was going well—and I had quite a clear, straight path laid out before me, which went upwards gradually, but reliably.
And then there was Hertha—you remember, Gilgi …” Gilgi thinks—oh yes, pretty blond Hertha with the soft, motherly hips—“of course I remember—she was very good at the breast-stroke—and a lovely girl …”

“Yes, she is,” Hans agrees whole-heartedly. “We got married. You know, she had such funny parents, they always kicked up a fuss when she came home a bit late at night …”

Gilgi nods: “I know—the usual!”

“Yeah, so we just got married. And I was very happy, too, about having our own apartment and everything—everything was wonderful—and as a young guy you thought you were really something when you could say: my wife. And Hertha was a secretary with Brandt & Co., of course, with quite a good salary—not to mention my salary—! We got by really well. And Hertha wanted to keep her job for another two years, until I was earning enough for both of us. But then the first child came along, and she had a nasty chest complaint for a long time. And then our firm went bust—I was running around for months before I got another job. And we had to give up the apartment and moved into a back attic in Friesenstrasse. And Hertha was so good, Gilgi!—never complained, never moaned. And the most difficult time was also the nicest—that’s when I learned what it means when someone really belongs to you.—Then I found something in an insurance company, as an agent—it didn’t suit me at first, you have to talk at people so relentlessly and intensively—but in our times you really can’t afford to say that something doesn’t suit you. I tried terribly hard—but just when I was starting to get the hang of it I was fired again. And Hertha had the second child. But we love each other so much. It’s just
terrible, Gilgi, how you only bring each other bad luck when you love each other. Hertha would have got on by herself, and I would have got on by myself too. And together you’re lost, finished. But you belong together come what may, and if you wanted to go your separate ways—it would kill you. Shouldn’t be such a thing as love in the world, Gilgi.”

“Shouldn’t be such a thing as love in the world, Hans.”

“So I ran from pillar to post, helped out in a garage, and as a waiter in a garden restaurant. I addressed envelopes and delivered newspapers. Once I got a good offer for the Dutch East Indies—but of course I couldn’t accept it. Then I was a sales representative again for an underwear factory—then a welfare recipient again for a while. One time I was onto a good thing as a branch manager—if I could’ve paid a surety of four thousand marks—which of course I didn’t have. Then I went from door-to-door again with vacuum cleaners—and now with floor wax.—Gilgi—anyone who hasn’t gone through it themselves doesn’t know what it’s like. Like a criminal, that’s how they treat you, like the worst kind of common criminal. You get the door slammed in your face—you get such angry, hostile looks—and you walk and walk and walk, and often the day’s earnings wouldn’t even pay for the wear and tear on your shoes.—But—damn it, it’s your duty—not to lose heart, isn’t it?” The corners of his mouth are trembling hopelessly—“and it should get better one day, shouldn’t it?”

And he looks at Gilgi, wants to read a Yes in her face—and suddenly his head falls forward onto the table-top, and his shoulders are trembling, his whole body is shaking—he’s crying, my God, he’s crying—a rasping, sobbing
sound is coming from his throat—you can’t listen to that, you can’t look at that—a man who’s crying. And the sobbing—my God—Gilgi has leapt up, she’s leaning on the arm of the chair, chalk-white—stop it, stop it, I can’t listen to that—he’s sobbing so brokenly—it’s driving me mad, I’ll jump out of the window if he doesn’t stop … And now he lifts his head, the whites of his eyes are veined with red — — — “it—will—never—get—better again, Gilgi—I can feel that it will never get better again. And I can’t stand it anymore—just can’t—stand it—anymore—when I walk along the street—and see such plump red-cheeked children, and then think of my own two—so pale and miserable—up there in the stuffy attic. If I was only responsible for myself I’d never, ever lose heart—but I can’t stand it anymore—I don’t know what to do now—can’t go on now …” Tears run down his face, but he doesn’t turn away, he’s not ashamed—once you’ve ended up where he has, you’re not ashamed anymore.

“Hans, dear Hans,” Gilgi says. Because this is one of her group. And you ought to stick together, you ought to stick so closely together. That’s much more important than any ideas about being in love: we young ones ought to stick together. We shouldn’t let all these things happen to each other, we should all, all of us be such true friends …

“I’d better get on, Gilgi,” Hans says, and stands up.

“It’s raining outside.”

“Yes, it’s raining outside.”

“You don’t have an overcoat?”

“Couldn’t redeem it from the pawnbroker.”

“Would you like to leave seven tins of floor wax here for me, Hans?” They’ll cost the exact amount of her unemployment benefits.

“Yeah, you see, Gilgi, I wasn’t used to talking anymore. And you shouldn’t talk, either—it doesn’t make things better, it just makes everything more vivid. See you, Gilgi. It’ll work out all right. Has to work out, doesn’t it? Hey, Gilgi, I’ll write down my address for you—visit Hertha sometime, would you? It’d cheer her up—she’s always so alone—we have no friends at all …”

“Yes, Hans, I’ll visit her. Goodbye, Hans.”

Gilgi watches him as he staggers down the stairs with his little case—then slowly closes the door of the apartment. Walks around as in a dream, clears the crockery away and takes it into the kitchen. Goes back to bed. What’s being done to people? What? What? You ought to help each other—that’s so important—and there are pale little children who don’t have enough to eat—and at the labor office—and—yes, when you love each other you only bring each other bad luck. I’d get on without Martin, and Martin wouldn’t run up so many debts without me. And anyway, love isn’t important at all—as long as there are people who want to work and aren’t allowed—as long as there are people who are prevented from earning money—as long as there are little children who don’t have enough to eat … and always this buzzing desire in my limbs, the sweet repellent desire—I can’t stand it anymore, I want to die—I don’t want it anymore—I don’t want—it disgusts me to be so powerless against my body. And if I could talk to Martin about it! But I can’t do that—whatever I say, I’ll never strike to the heart of it, I’ll just give a fuzzy outline—because words which pass the lips never reveal, they only conceal. And Gilgi thinks of the impoverished, hardened young man and longs for Martin—and she feels ashamed that her thoughts of other people’s misery are interrupted
by her longing for Martin—and a tiny droplet of hostility flows into the longing—and she feels ashamed because her longing for Martin is paralleled by such a profound sympathy for someone else, another man—and feels guilty—in her own eyes—other people’s eyes—everyone’s eyes—her thoughts go round and round — — — peace, if she could have some peace for once. You probably don’t find peace until renunciation forces you into its gray prison—when you’ve become old and undesired and undesiring … I’m so tired …

Crack—goes the front door—and then Martin is standing in the room, swinging his shoebox cheerfully. “Did a great job getting everything, you’ll be happy, sweet girl … but what’s the matter with you?” He sits down next to her—“Why are you looking like that—so white and—have you been crying?”

Oh, his dear face and his kind voice! “It’s just my cold, Martin.” So tired—you have to dig every word out of yourself.

“I’ll make you some tea, little Gilgi—and you must stay in bed today—hey, tell me, what are all those yellow tins out there in the hallway?”