The Artificial Silk Girl

by Irmgard Keun

  I’ve thought up a surprise for him and purchased several candlesticks painted in ochre. Very subdued with a reddish floral-style pattern — and candles, also in muted colors and lots of them. Because he loves candles. I think that’s stupid because you have to use so many of them to replace electric light. I love it when a room is well lit, except when I look as ugly as I did four weeks ago. But not anymore. My cheeks have a first-class natural pink shimmer to them. Tomorrow I’ll prepare the surprise for him, together with vases full of cyclamen. I’ve saved up too, you know. With a great deal of effort I have refrained from smoking those ten cigarettes for six and have sold them to Herr Kreuzweisser at five, who then resells them together with his salmon at six. Apiece. And then I’m going to illuminate.

  I had also planned to embroider something, but it didn’t come out. I slightly damaged the cushion on the cork carpeting. He didn’t notice — which is the best part of it. If only he has patience — I’m getting an education — if he only has enough patience, for heaven’s sake.

  I’m at a fast-food restaurant at Joachimsthaler Strasse. It’s called “Quick.” That’s American. And everything is so fabulous and happy. In an hour, I’m going to pick him up at his office. I asked him: “Will this be bothersome to you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Are you sure?”

  And then he says: “I’ve always wanted to ask you to pick me up, but I thought it might be too much of an effort for you to go into town just for that.” And he doesn’t notice how much I want to. Could it be that that not noticing is love after all? When you’re in love like this, you’re no longer sure about yourself. And because you’re so afraid to do something wrong, you’re sure to be doing just about everything wrong. Or at least you’re completely different from the way you want to be, because you’re so full of love and anxiety — and you want to be a good person and the real you without any tricks or premeditation. And none of the usual bullshit, and you don’t want to think, just be nice and kind. And nothing else. Can a man take that? I’m going to dare show my love though.

  And I prepared everything. I put my letter to the fur lady and the tie that goes with his bluish-gray suit on the table. I did a tremendous job mending his shirts, but I won’t put them there. I love him so much now that I don’t care if he notices how much I struggled to fix his shirts. And perhaps that’s true love. And then the cyclamen — they’re a little cold but nice. And all of those new painted candlesticks with candles in them. I’m going to meet him at the door and say: “Just a moment please.” Then I’ll go and light them — and I say: “Please. I prepared a cold supper for you and have filled tomatoes with my own hands. They’re a bit smeared with mayonnaise on the outside, but still much cheaper than at the store. And brisoletts and an arrangement of rolls with something on them and a piece of useless parsley and a leaf of lettuce on the side. That’s for elegance.” How do I deserve to be this happy?

  And now I’m at Quick — I love those automatons so much. I pulled for myself shrimp and Westphalian ham — there are lots of dishes where the name tastes the best, because when you’re German that always gives you this air of traveled superiority, and I used to know men who grew taller, as if someone had shoved an invisible pillow under their butt, just because they would order Italian salad, just because of the Italian. I couldn’t even finish the sandwiches I had pulled — but what a fairy tale this Berlin is — that automaton. And then I sit here by myself and all I can feel is: I’m going to go home soon. I have to look at all the people that fill up the restaurant and — are you going home? Please, I don’t have much time. I’m going to meet someone any minute to go home. I’m a decent woman, and every word I utter is about my love for the man in my life.

  I had a cup of coffee and had the bathroom attendant curl my hair. Just in case. And I gave her an additional 20-pfennig tip — I’m going to tell him that. He gave me 5 marks — I want to return four of them to him. Otherwise I’d feel like I’m taking advantage of him. I never used to think about where men get their money from. I always had the impression that they just have it, from transactions and things like that. And then you don’t care. But when you know how someone makes his money and you watch him get up early in the morning and all that, that gives you some consideration. Dear God, thank you — I have to go.

  Berlin is all covered with snow. It makes you drunk. You wake up and everything is sugar-coated. It’s snow and you get it delivered for free. It’s so beautiful, it makes me tremble. Sometimes I would think that he found me disgusting. We had all those candles — and my letter about the fur. So he says: “Doris, are you doing this for my sake?”

  So I got angry. “Yes, of course — did you think it’s because of that fat old lady?” And then there was all that sentiment in the air and such terribly oppressive excitement, so you know in your bones: something’s happening. Things are starting to get all blurry.

  “No,” he says. “No, no, no — I like you far too much, little woman.” Like or no like — Herr Ern — I just couldn’t say his name — all the cyclamen were looking at me and the air was piercing — “You, Herr — I’m not innocent, you won’t be responsible for me, I have gratitude and lo — well, you know — and you don’t have to marry me and you can forget me again — and if — well, okay, you would be as much pleasure for me as I would like to be for you.”

  Those words were coming out of my mouth like an energetic prayer, but my arms and my heart were all weak and helpless. My voice was trembling and I had to cry, but I wanted to, because that sort of thing always gives a man reason to come closer. And then we comforted each other until we were terribly happy, and this morning we saw the snow together for the first time and woke up together.

  That’s not what love is all about, I’ll have you know, but it’s part of it, in a nice way.

  Spring. It makes me terribly uncomfortable, but he wants to buy me a coat on the 15th. I’ll take the cheapest they have. Until then, I’m going to keep the fur. Otherwise I couldn’t go outside. It’s still quite cold out. He told me about countries where they already have flowers this time of year.

  I don’t talk much. I’m very careful. For a woman it’s different. Once she’s all crazy about a guy, she doesn’t really care anymore. But with a man, you can destroy everything with one word that’s out of place. I’m very much afraid because of my lack of education. That really estranges you from each other, once things start to become erotic. Because you’ve known each other for so long before that. That gives you a feeling of embarrassment.

  He brought me lots of flowers. Life is so beautiful that it’s starting to become a religion for me for the first time in my life. I don’t mean to say that I’m pious — but it’s holy to me, because I’m so happy.

  Mother! I’ve fallen apart. Dear mother. It’ll pass. I can’t cry anymore. It happened tonight — my hand is lame, dear notebook — I’m just going to spill everything now. I’ve been unhappy many times, but it always passes. Does it really? What an ordeal. Perhaps I should take my own life. But I don’t think so. I’m much too tired to commit suicide and don’t really want to do anything with myself.

  I’m sitting at the Friedrichstrasse Station. This is where I arrived a long time ago together with the politicians and this is where I end — damn it, no, I won’t even think about it. I still have enough food in my stomach for another three days.

  Sometimes all sex is good for is so you can learn to say “du” to each other — and that’s always been difficult for me to do. But it was a sign. At seven o’clock tonight, he kissed me — very carefully on my arm — with a kind of love that was no longer sensual. I felt like praying — thank you God, thank you — is that really me? — so happy — “Dearest” — and that fear inside of me — is that how you kiss me? — there must be a mistake, and it was — “Hanne” — he says — “Hanne” — I got all tense and didn’t let on anything. I had love inside of me and anger that turned my face to stone. Then he starts to cry — it’s an outbur
st like that Trapper’s. I touch his hair and say: Dear, dear. Some of them only need a few minutes to make you feel a hundred years old. He loves her that much. There’s nothing you can do about it. I can understand, if he forgets me — I would have done the same thing for him. My pain was so immense, it didn’t hurt anymore and I had lost all my bright yellow. And it was my fault. After all, a decent man is a child, and the masculine responsibility falls on the woman. He’s good. I destroyed everything. With love. Life really is a bitch. But he was so unhappy. If I couldn’t be his love, I had to get him another one. I’m dizzy.

  So I say: “Just a minute.” I secretly take my suitcase and put it in front of the door. I forgot some of my things, which I couldn’t really afford to do. But I really can’t allow myself any feelings at all right now. And it’s nighttime. And on an envelope I wrote his address, which also used to be my address. And I put the letter from under the cork carpeting inside. And I sealed it with blood from my heart. “Do you have a stamp, Ernst?” I ask. “I just want to mail a letter — no, please let me go alone.”

  We’ll never go for walks again, I’ll never be frying kidneys for him again — and I really didn’t want to make much of a to-do about it, but I did want to kiss his hand just once: you gave me the most wonderful time of my life. Yes, I can get really nasty, but sometimes I can also be very decent. Even though it’s the stupidest thing you can do. I could have cut myself into pieces, if that had made you love me, I — oh my God. I’ll never see you again. I want to kill myself in front of your door tomorrow. Bullshit. Now I’m writing it all to you as in a letter — I’ll mail it to you, or maybe not — it doesn’t matter. But talking to you this way makes me feel better. What torture. But you experienced that too, because of your wife. But I don’t even know what I should live on. That’s a big difference. I’m still only the girl from the waiting room. I kissed your hand and your hand had such careful fingers that didn’t dare touch a woman, because they thought she would break if they did. And so I left. And I almost had to throw up on the stairs, that’s how miserable I felt.

  Here I am again. It’s all over. Over forever. I borrowed some money from the concierge, because I need some for what I’m planning to do. You’ll give it back to her, I told her. I didn’t want to take advantage of you, I swear. There’s still some of it left. For half of it, I bought myself something alcoholic. I’ll return the other half to you tomorrow. Unless I’m very hungry, then I don’t care what a man thinks of me. Now that whole rigamarole is starting all over again.

  And then I went to the address under the cork carpeting. It was a very elegant restaurant in the Westend. She was dancing there with her man. I sit there like a rock. And I don’t care about anything — the way the waiters stare at me and all that. I can see that Hanne. She looks like she had dance lessons and a good family and her mother gave her castor oil when she was little, and a piece of chocolate afterward as a reward. That’s the kind she is. When I was 10 years old, I had a friend for three days. Her name was Hertha with a th. She wasn’t allowed to talk to me, because I only went to the lower-level school and I knew where babies came from. But she was older than I and would always ask me.

  And that Hanne was dancing in a sweet way and waltzing and a blue Danube — and she was blonde. I was sitting there and I know my man and my apartment, which is hers. It was very strange. And she was wearing an ivory georgette dress with lots of little pleats and red straps and a red belt. Not very stylish, but so innocent. And she’s not even all that beautiful, just blonde. Her legs aren’t all that long either. And she smiles at her man like a stone in a graveyard that’s been hit by a ray of sun. The man is very elegant and has black oily hair, the kind that can never make you happy because it always shines for someone else. I’m drinking one cognac after the other, very quickly. There’s so much that’s broken in me. I can’t keep going like that. I’ll talk to her during intermission. It’s a tiny room where we sit, very narrow.

  “Your husband sends me. You should come back to him — please go now, now.”

  At first, I wanted to add: or else he’ll die — but then she would have become arrogant again right away and assertive and Ernst wouldn’t have had the upper hand anymore. She had dry wrinkles around her mouth and scared eyes like Tilli had sometimes and like she’s going to break into tears any minute. God, you really can’t take them seriously those girls, they’re such babies — especially if they’re blonde.

  I have enough money — I’ll have another cognac.

  I almost have to laugh now — she couldn’t get a word out. She must not have been doing too well! And that jealous way she looked at me — that pleased me, I guess it means I’m pretty again. I wasn’t jealous of her at all, because you’re just not with an old hag like that.

  So I just asked her: “You’ll go right away, won’t you?”

  And she says “Yes.” And talks to me as if she were dreaming, or else she wouldn’t have been that honest: “I can’t go on living like this — and a man with a stable income who loves you, and whom you don’t love too much, that’s still the easiest way to live, and it’s a nice thing too, if you can give someone pleasure.”

  I didn’t love him too much. And I wasn’t able to give him pleasure. But I’m not going to let on to that cork-carpet woman that I’m hurt. And then she says: “It’s so tough out here.”

  It sure is. As I leave and close the door behind me, I’m once again filled with sadness. Of course it’s difficult. So she wanted to become a star at her age, and still hasn’t managed to do it. And now everything is back in place and my candles are burning — I’m going to get — I — I still have enough money — I’m having another cognac — oh God.

  I had a conversation. A guy with a cardboard box comes up to my table. I wanted to be alone with my grief. But he’s on his way to Ohligs, which is near Cologne, that’s where his uncle lives who has a smithy and he needs help.

  “Why are you crying?” he starts up.

  “I’m not.”

  “Of course you are.” And so one word leads to the next.

  I say: “I’ve just witnessed the sad fate of a friend of mine.” And I tell him my story. He smelled from manure. That instilled confidence in me.

  He had a sister once who had the same sort of thing happen to her. And I was lucky that I got out in time. It only would have gotten more boring and I would have gotten older and didn’t have the right interests and I always would have lacked education, and he would have gotten sick of that some day. Especially those gentle ones, they want intellect — and there I would have been with my lack of knowledge — and would have wasted my best years. And he could relate to that kind of error, with a man who was something better, as a girl. Because times really are bad. But true feelings — you should have those only with your own kind, otherwise things don’t work out. But that’s exactly my problem, that I don’t have any of my own kind. I don’t belong anywhere. And they would just use you. But he certainly didn’t do that. He was a decent man. That didn’t matter, in any case, I was stuck in the mud and it was my own fault.

  And he had four ham sandwiches in his cardboard box — his mother isn’t doing so well, but she made those for him because of the trip and because it’s nighttime. He gave me two of them. I didn’t want to take them — but he said I shouldn’t insult him, because we were a chip off the same block and you had to start sharing at some point, and with him, I could allow myself to have feelings without any calculation. He didn’t mean feelings in an indecent sense. Out of curiosity, I asked him if he would marry my kind. So he said that there was a lot about my past that bothered him, and those educated types were more tolerant in that respect, but it would be a possibility. And we had a conversation. I asked him what I should do now, whether I should start turning tricks. He wasn’t in favor. And I told him about the office and the fur. He said it would be stupid of me to return it — better sell it and have my mother send me my papers, or perhaps have new papers made. He gave me an address of someo
ne who does that for people. He’s been through a lot too, but now he wants to have his peace and quiet. Perhaps start his own business with a friend — he thought my case was a tough one. But ultimately, the honest way was the best way to go.

  And there was so much I still wanted to ask him — but he had to catch his train. And he was biting his lip and said it really stunk that you couldn’t really help anyone these days if you didn’t have money, and he was all pale with fury. And we shook hands. I spit at him three times, I had learned that from our director at the theater — he says: “Stop it. That’s bullshit. What’s that supposed to mean?”

  I would have loved to have given him something to take on his journey, but all I had left were thirty pfennig and my spit. I did pull ten pfennig worth of roasted almonds for him from the vending machine. He says: “You’re crazy. Get on to your waiting room or else they’re going to steal your luggage that consists of nothing but bullshit.”

  That’s just the kind of thing Karl would say. Karl always wanted me. When I come back to my notebook, I find a one-mark piece stuck between the pages. Can’t believe I didn’t notice how he put it there! He had so little. I’m sending him a thank you, all red with shame. I would like to be good to somebody.

  At home my candles are burning, I had painted the candlesticks so decoratively. For several pages now, I’ve been trying not to think of it, but I have to think of it — if he were only to have one sad thought about me once in all his happiness, that would make me so glad. I would love to call him sometime — but what for? It’s possible I would disturb them in a situation, but a decent person wouldn’t do that. I wish I could think of him as a nasty person, that would make it easier — but he was decent. And it was beautiful. Pain is pain that destroys everything that could have been happy. But it can’t destroy what has been beautiful — can it?