by Irmgard Keun
Alexi seems nervous, and I say to him: “Child, you have to relax. Let’s go to a spa.”
“It’s okay, it’s okay, these are hard times,” he says, and is talking all night long — that’s how nervous he is.
“Why don’t you consult a doctor, dear,” I suggest, but he won’t listen to me.
The apartment is so elegant, the chauffeur is so elegant, everything is fabulous. I stroll through the apartment. And there’s dark red wallpaper, so incredibly elegant, and oak furniture and walnut. There are beasts on it with eyes that glow and you can turn them on electrically, and they start to eat smoke. And easy chairs with ashtrays attached to them like wrist watches — that’s the kind of apartment it is.
And then I do something phenomenal. Clad in my negligée that surrounds my feet with its silky touch, I move forward, slowly lifting my lace-covered arms — and on my feet I have pink slippers with fur — and then I lift my arms as if I were on stage and I push open the big sliding doors and then I am on stage. In my opinion, sliding doors are the epitome of elegance. And so I close them again and then I go back and open them again — I’m a stage at least ten times every morning.
What a life! What a life!
I see a purse made of genuine crocodile — and I’ve already bought it.
I’m overwhelmed with myself.
All of a sudden, I can relate to Rannowsky’s women and that Hulla with the bandaids on her face. What’s the use of having all that money just for yourself? And when all you get are men that aren’t any — just automatons, and you want to get something back from them — just get something and you throw yourself into it — eventually you want one who isn’t just an automaton, whom you give something to. I’ve gone back to reading a lot of novels.
I bathe a lot.
As soon as the Gouda’s wife comes back from her trip, I’m going to have to leave the apartment. What’s a society? Am I society now? I have white silken gloves by Pinet at 40 marks and I can say olala — c’est ça in a way that makes everyone think I speak perfect French.
So he tells me: “Dollface, be true to me. You’re going to have to be by yourself tonight.” Tilli wasn’t home. I went to a couple of bars. My fur. I tried to be tired, but I couldn’t. Dear Mom, yesterday was Sunday, and you probably made red cabbage as usual. Did the house stink from vinegar again? But my mother uses only the best vinegar.
My head felt like an empty swirling hole. I created a dream for myself and rode up and down the streets of Berlin for hours on end, all by myself. I was a movie and a weekly newsreel all by myself.
And I did that because usually I get to take taxis only with men who want to smooch — and I would be with those whom I found disgusting, and then I needed all my energy to distract myself — or with those whom I liked, but then it was a sofa on wheels with wine and not a taxi. Just for once, I wanted a real taxi. And I occasionally had taken a cab by myself, if a man gave me the money to take a taxi home — but then I would sit on the edge of my seat and stare at the meter the whole trip. But today, I rode around in a taxi like rich people, leaning back in my seat and looking out the window — lots of cigar stores on the corners — and movie theaters — The Congress Dances — Lilian Harvey is blonde — bakeries — and lit-up street numbers on houses and some without — and tracks — yellow trams gliding past me and the people inside could tell that I was a star — I’m leaning way back in my cushions and I don’t watch how the fare is adding up — I won’t allow my ears to hear the click — blue lights, red lights, millions of lights — shop windows — dresses, but no models — sometimes other cars go faster — bedding stores — a green bed that isn’t really a bed, but more modern. It’s flipping around itself, feathers whirling around in a large glass — people on foot — the modern bed turning.
I would so much love to be happy.
Thank God I was able to salvage the crocodile purse plus the white silk shoes plus a suitcase with at least some of my things, besides the fur. When his wife returned unexpectedly in the morning, I was still in bed. Later I told my lady-in-waiting that the opened bottle of cologne I had left behind was for her. I went to the post office to call the Gouda at the office. He’s been arrested. Why? I’m sure it’s because of money. Nowadays, the finest people end up in jail.
I went to Tilli and gave her the white silk shoes. She doesn’t appreciate them enough, but she still would have taken me in even without them. That’s why I gave them to her in the first place! And now what? Tilli’s hard Albert is on the dole. Tilli cleans at Ronnebaum’s.
I had to sell the crocodile purse way below cost.
Always the same. Always the same.
I run into the bandaid lady on the stairs. I have this desire in my gut to be liked by everybody. That always happens when nobody likes you.
Sometimes Albert takes my arm. Tilli loves him. She has to leave in the morning. Her eyes don’t love me any more. Men are all the same. The hard guy is bored. Tilli is gone. I’m there. And new, so to speak. Sometimes my head wants to rest on his arm. That’s why I get up really early and leave the house with Tilli and then I go for a walk.
It’s almost Christmas.
They’re always fighting. “No,” Tilli tells me, “don’t iron Albert’s shirts.” And then we’re both all tears and kisses.
But I just talked to her. Dead. But she was nice. Hulla is dead. At the hand of Rannowsky. He got out of prison this morning. The main goldfish Lolo died because Hulla had retained a scar on her mouth from Rannowsky’s beating, and it will never go away — that’s what the doctor said. So she goes to the fish tank and takes out Lolo and puts him on the floor. She comes downstairs calling for me. So we both go up together. I say, “But Miss Hulla!”
That Lolo is lying on a piece of newspaper. She throws herself on the ground and screams: “Put him back in the water, bring him back to life, put him back in the water!”
I put him back in the water. His belly is up.
She says: “I didn’t want that.”
She’s shaking her head — we never want that sort of thing. There’s something there that makes sure that what we lied about wanting, but didn’t really want, happens. We cried for that creature. We smoked a cigarette and then we cried some more.
“I fed him,” says Hulla, “and last night a guy asked me, what’s that on your face, are you sick? I fed him. So he asks, are you sick? I was asking for three marks, I needed new stockings — ”
She shows me the runs in her stockings. And then she says: “We had agreed on 3 marks, and then he gives me 2.50 — and all I wanted was 3 marks — and three years ago, one man gave me 3.40 — it’s unfair!” I agreed. “And then I go to the doctor: ‘You’ll never get rid of that,’ now my face looks like I’m sick and I only get 2.50 — so I hated him, and since you can’t get to the ones you hate, you ruin those you love, because you can get to them.” And it’s Rannowsky she hates — it’s him.
And the fish continued to swim belly up. Three others hit him with their snouts. The dead fish’s tummy was pale. And that overweight Hulla was kneeling on the floor praying. And she’s terrified — “take care of my beloved fish, woman …” He’s so brutal. And I say to her: “Hulla, I’ll get us some cognac!” — after all, she was completely shaken up.
And Tilli wasn’t there. So I say: “Albert, give me the bottle, please!” He’s drunk and he grabs me. I say: “No — Albert, please, the goldfish!”
Why is it that God gave him this aura that I like — and I was so excited anyway. His eyes. Only for a moment. All that running on the staircase. Tilli — Hulla! And as I come upstairs, there’s lots of people there. And Rannowsky. And Hulla jumps out of the window, the moment he enters the room.
Sometimes there are mirrors that make me look like an old woman. That’s the way it’s going to be thirty years from now.
“But I’m not telling you to leave. I’m not telling you. Why don’t you stay,” said Tilli. So I left. Since I’m a thorn in her side and she’s been so decent to
me. I took a furnished room for a few days — as long as I can afford it.
The landlady’s a bitch and the hallway is a pigsty and there’s no light in the toilet, which is also the broom closet. To call this a furnished room! That’s some way of being alone. But I don’t care anymore. I’m putting all my eggs into one basket now. There are so many men, why shouldn’t there be one for me for a change? I’m so sick of it all. Whenever they have money, they have stupid wives and get themselves arrested, is that fair? There’s got to be something else in this world.
I tell old Reff about my landlady. “Frau Briekow,” I say, “what do you mean, where are my handkerchiefs with the embroidered M on them?”
I stole them myself and don’t have to have them stolen again by this stinky lump of horsemeat of a landlady. I can feel new energy in me. I just can’t register. For my part, I have to say that I haven’t had much fun with the police so far. I have to begin to consider all my options.
It’s freezing in here. That crazy Albert! All trouble comes from those dumb jerks. On the other hand, you do need them. It’s disgusting. Well, I could still try film. Then I can sit in the film café from morning till night, all year round. Some day they will discover me as a starved corpse to use as an extra. Dirty pigs.
Five pfennigs extra for a tiny pot of hot water, that Briekow is asking. Very soon she’s going to position herself in the bathroom and take a penny each time. I could try bartending. The other night I was at a bar with the caterpillar. He latched on to me at the Café des Westens — plaid suit with a dotted tie, on his head more oil than hair and two cherry brandys and me with my genuine emu leather shoes for 40 marks! Girls were sitting on their barstools like plucked chickens on a ledge, looking as if they would have to go to a spa first before they would ever be able to lay another egg. And in front of them guys — like sensual rabbits sitting up on their hind legs groveling. And the way they talk! You really have to have been there. For a tip of three cents they talk for eight hours in front of a glass of eggnog — all lies of course. Then they tease you — and you have to listen to their jokes, too! If I were a bartender, I wouldn’t laugh unless they gave me one mark. I would have the proper outfits. But unfortunately, I have no elegant evening gown. I’m going to the post office now to call Lippi Wiesel, who loved me back then. He’s one of the intellectual elite but not that poor, because he’s got a steady job at the newspaper and he’s right where things are happening.
So I call Lippi Wiesel, who looks like one too, by the way. And I had a plan, because I had the reputation of being elegant in that group.
And so I say in a calm voice: “Hi, Lippi — how’s it going — well — tell me, do you know Sweden?”
And he says “Yes.”
Me: “That’s where I had wanted to go at first. Do you know Greece?”
And he says “Yes.”
Me: “I had considered going there too.”
So I’m thinking what other countries are there where that son of a bitch might not have been, because I had my plan and had to impress him. So I ask: “Do you know Bulgaria?”
And he says “No.”
And I’m thinking: Thank God! — and now I start my story: “So I was in Bulgaria. My father has a secret connection with the government there — yes, I just got back a little while ago — no, my father is still there. I had something going with the secretary of acquisitions — very uncomfortable — you know, if you step on a man’s toe down there, it means that you’re serious about him — I had no idea, I did it by mistake. So my father tells me I have to suffer the consequences and leave, or else I would ruin his business negotiations — and he smelled from rubber, they all do down there — it’s a beautiful country, they have gilded tables in the cafés and waiters dressed in red velvet who immediately ask you: carabitchi — that means: your name, please — and you tell them and they bring you a coffee pot with the guest’s initials lit up on it.
That’s the way you get to Lippi Wiesel’s kind, because they need an international impression. I’m meeting him later.
I’m staying at Lippi Wiesel’s. He believes that my father is with the government because that’s the only sexual attraction I have for him, since his usual politics is blonde, and for men, politics and eroticism often go hand in hand because of race and conviction. I’m just glad that I got away from that Briekow woman. So they have courses teaching you foreign languages and ballroom dancing and etiquette and cooking. But there are no classes to learn how to be by yourself in a furnished room with chipped dishes, or how to be alone in general without any words of concern or familiar sounds.
I don’t really like him all that much, but I’m with him, because every human being is like a stove for my heart that is homesick but not always longing for my parents’ house, but for a real home — those are the thoughts I’m turning over in my mind. What am I doing wrong?
Perhaps I don’t deserve better.
It’s Christmas. The snow is making people drunk. Really drunk like wine. To be drunk is the only way not to get too old. So many years are crawling at me.
By way of Tilli, I sent Therese a bar of hazelnut chocolate, and I wish that her lonely wallpaper would develop many lips to give her passionate kisses.
To my mother, I gave a pot warmer via Therese by way of Tilli. For her, I wish that her husband, who is my father, would take her into his arms without being drunk.
I gave Tilli my own purple silk shirt and I wish that her Albert notices when she wears it, and that he finds work.
That Hulla was a whore. Maybe there’s no grave for people like that and sometimes you make life on earth hell for people, and that’s why it’s stupid to be praying for them when they’re finally happily dead. And when there’re no men who pay, there won’t be any Hullas — no man is allowed to say anything bad about that Hulla. I really wish her a heaven that has use for the good in her eyes. And when she’s become an angel, she should have wings without any bandaids on them.
For myself, I so much wish for a voice of a man that’s like a dark blue bell that says to me: Doris, listen to me; I’m telling you the right thing.
To my fur I give a waft of lavender perfume and wish that it won’t lose its hair. And I wish that to everyone.
For Lippi Wiesel, I embroidered three picture frames with different kinds of flowers and I bought a Christmas tree and decorated it and locked it up in the bathroom. And then I’m going to light the candles, and I wish that we would think of each other as people.
I’m at a restaurant. I did Christmas. Christmas Eve. It’s nothing but bullshit. I lit the candles and decorated the table with branches. And I’m waiting. And that Lippi doesn’t show. Because I’m the kind of woman whose men are invited to a family on holidays, where it’s boring, but they are on the same level and are considered society. And that’s where he’s celebrating, while my kind is waiting. And so I went to bed. There were candles on my tree and one of the branches went up in flames.
A great big red fire — I feel like having that kind of a fire — at school, there was Paul — we made a fire in the summer cottage, potato fire, and then we ate the burnt potato skins — Paul was the black bear, the sky was a steep gray mist — we built a tower out of one of the flames — I was the Indian with a chicken feather behind my ears, which stand out a bit but they hardly do that anymore now. Besides, there’s hair over them. I want a fire on crinkly hard earth.
“Forgive me, honey.” There he is — that son of a bitch is drunk. “Forgive me, the Brennings wouldn’t let me leave, I brought her fifteen marks-worth of orchids. Do you think that’s enough? Her husband has connections, you know — she got two young Scotch terriers that we’re going to feature in our photo section soon — unfortunately, they’re not housetrained yet — see the stain on my knee — can you wash that out tomorrow?”
“You could at least turn on the radio,” I say. Silent night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright — at school I was first soprano — si-hi-lent night —
�
�My dear girl, unfortunately I didn’t get a gift for you, times are hard y’know, my little bug, they’re cutting back everywhere. I didn’t even get my last paycheck yet — what’s Christmas anyway, all about business — but for you my child, I have a present for you, the most beautiful and the best I can give you — I give you me.” And so he jumps on top of the bed, still wearing his shoes and suspenders.
“Please keep your clothes on, Sir,” I say and I’m ashamed with rage.
“Our German Christmas,” he pants, gasping for air.
“What about a German Christmas!” And I get out of bed — sleep with a drunkard, no way — I get my suitcase — “Just a minute, dear, I’m coming, I’m just looking for something” — keys on the table, thank God, hurry, hurry — silent night, holy — where are the keys — silent … “I’m taking the soap, it’s mine — bye!” — he’s already asleep — be well!
And then I spent a winter night half-asleep in Tiergarten on a park bench. You can’t imagine what that’s like unless you’ve experienced it yourself.
3
A LOT OF WINTER AND A WAITING ROOM
I’m walking around with my suitcase and don’t know what I want or where to go. I’m spending a lot of time at the waiting room at Bahnhof Zoo. Why is it that waiters are so full of spite, when you just so happen not to have any money?
I don’t want to go home. I don’t want to go to Tilli’s. I don’t want to go go Lippi’s or to any of those other jerks — I don’t want to anymore, I just don’t want to. I don’t want any men that get themselves invited for Christmas. I want — I want — what do I want?
There are waiting rooms and tables. That’s where I sit. I don’t want to pawn the fur. I refuse to — besides, I don’t have any papers. Tilli knows a woman who would buy it. But I don’t want to sell. Sometimes my head just hits the tabletop in front of me, that’s how heavy it is with fatigue. I continue to write because my hand wants something to do and my notebook with its white lined pages has a kind of readiness to receive my thoughts and my tiredness and to be a bed that my letters can lie in. That way at least part of me has a place to lie down.
