by Irmgard Keun
“So it’s a poor life after all,” Olga says, shaking her head.
“But, Olga, it’s so beautiful to have your life laid out in front of you like a neatly solved arithmetical problem!”
“It’s awful.” Olga is becoming heated. “I look forward from one unforeseen thing to the next, I look forward to people that I haven’t even met yet. I long to be alone, and then I long again for someone that I can really care about. You’re so miserly with yourself, you heartless, egotistical little person—you don’t care about anyone—but I still like you. Do you want my fur coat, Gilgi? How egotistical and cold you are, not wanting to let me give you anything. Do you want my coat, Gilgi?”
Gilgi has to laugh. “Pay the coat off first, Olga—what an irresponsible girl you are! Anyway, you shouldn’t be talking to me when you’re hungover like this.”
“Yes, Gilgi, but you have to come to Maj … Majorca—that reminds me! I’ll have to get ready in flash—got a date at seven.” Olga rushes to her wardrobe. “You can come with me, Gilgi. What? Well—I met Martin Bruck in Palma two years ago. You don’t know him? No, he’s not particularly famous. Wrote two books, quite good ones. We laughed together so much that we didn’t have time to fall in love with each other. Anyway, the day before yesterday I ran into him unexpectedly in Komödienstrasse. He didn’t say: ‘Small world!’ and as a reward I promised to meet him tonight. Come with me, we’ll have a good time.”
“I’d just be in the way.”
“Don’t be silly.” Olga puts her hat on. “Don’t you see that I’m wearing my black dress? If I’m going to a rendezvous with immoral intentions, I appear in pink or sky-blue.”
Gilgi nods, Olga’s black dress is incontrovertible proof. “I was going to do some work, Olga.”
“Oh, come along, he’s a nice guy, is Martin Bruck.”
“All right, but for an hour at most.”
He’s already waiting for them outside the “Schwerthof.” Nothing special, Gilgi decides, looks quite amusing, oh well.
“You don’t exactly seem to be aiming at the elegance of Adolphe Menjou, Martin!”—“Not exactly, Olga!”—He laughs, slaps a battered little hat onto his thick dark hair, tries unsuccessfully to smooth out his crumpled overcoat, looks at his reflection in a shop window. “Don’t look at yourself for too long, Martin, it might depress you!” Olga pushes her hand under his arm. “You’d do better to look at my unusually cute little friend—and don’t pull a face as though you’d been tied to ten martyrs’ stakes at once! How old are you now? Forty-three? Well, of course, at that age a man is as dependent on flattery as an ageing beauty queen. But I’ll console you by saying that despite your ridiculous clothes you manage to look—if not elegantly dressed—then at least elegantly proportioned.”
Olga leads the way to a little Konditorei in Aachenstrasse: “Not in the mood for a café-with-orchestra today. If I hear the Song of the Pigeon one more time, I’ll go nuts.” Martin is happy with that. He really likes this kind of touching little Konditorei with its sagging plush sofas and the poor, bare little marble-topped tables.
One—two—three hours go by. Gilgi, who only wanted to stay for an hour at most, is still sitting there. What’s keeping her here? Her arms are lying on the cold marble top of the little table as though they’re frozen in place. She knows so many men, but this Martin Bruck is different, completely different. Why does she like him? Yes, why? As if it were so easy to give yourself the right answer to that. He’s not handsome, not big and strong, not elegant. He’s dressed as carelessly and indifferently as someone who’s finally accepted that he can’t run around naked. He has such thoughtful hands, thin, frail fingers. His face is narrow and fleshless, his forehead is high and angular, his hair needs trimming at the back. A sharp nose, a soft, sensitive mouth, regular teeth shining with health, each one seeming to join in when Martin Bruck laughs, and dark, lively eyes, their expression constantly changing, and their gaze constantly roaming. He’s of medium height, narrow in the shoulders and hips. His posture and gestures are sure and unconstrained. Nothing special, it’s a mystery why I’m looking at him so closely.
It occurs to Olga that Gilgi has powdered her nose four times in two hours, it occurs to Gilgi herself that she wishes Olga wasn’t sitting directly under the lamp, the light makes her hair glow even more than it already does. Tonight, at least, Olga shouldn’t look quite so pretty.
Martin is funny and entertaining, pleased to be sitting here with a couple of pretty girls. And he has stories to tell! He’s traveled even further than Olga has. Gilgi is amazed. “Yes, but home—where do you call home?”
Yes, this Martin Bruck doesn’t call anywhere home—this vagabond, this idler, this man with empty pockets. He’s always been a vagabond and an idler, his pockets have only been empty for a few weeks. Life was fun while they were full. He’d drifted around every continent, spent money on every continent. Everywhere was beautiful, everywhere had something new to offer, life everywhere was full of surprises. He’d only make himself unhappy for the sake of a change—so that he could be twice as happy again afterwards. In Stanleyville on the Congo he suffered a slight case of malaria, in Colombia a crocodile looking for change of diet chewed on his upper left thigh—both accidents which had no serious after-effects, and didn’t cloud his enjoyment of life for a moment. For four years he led something approaching the life of a normal citizen. He wrote two books, which were a success in literary circles. They didn’t earn him any money. But earning money wasn’t the point. Instead of building a literary career, Martin decided that he’d worked enough. He wasn’t ambitious. There would always be lots of other people who wrote much better books than he did. All right, then! It occurred to him that there were still countless countries, islands, rivers, and cities in the world which he hadn’t seen yet. The restless wandering began anew. Everywhere he found friends, people who liked him, women and girls who were made happy by his first kiss and sad by his last. So for another ten years he lived entirely as he pleased—then he ran out of breath. He put the remainder of his capital into his brother’s factory, and now he gets a monthly payment of two hundred marks. That means that he won’t starve. He’s never been a snob, he can do without luxury and elegance, he’s used to hardships—what can go wrong? So now he’ll wander around Europe for a change. Must still be enough interesting things here which don’t cost much. Maybe he’ll work again too. It’s possible. Not probable.
Now he’s in Cologne. A friend is letting him use his apartment while he’s away in Russia for two years. Martin has set up house: he’s hung a crumpled overcoat and two dusty suits in the elegant built-in wardrobe, and set up three huge crates of books in the library, where their rough light-colored wood is clashing discordantly with the prevailing notes of dark oak.—
Gilgi’s imagination was always a well-behaved child: it was allowed to play in the street, but not to go beyond the corner. Now the well-behaved child is venturing a little further for once. Martin talks, and Gilgi sees: oceans, deserts, countries—but that’s not the essence of what she’s seeing, she’d like to make an accounting to herself—as she always does—to record her feelings in her own words. Oh, my little, gray words! That someone can speak so colorfully! She’s sitting on a sphere that’s damp with rain—there’s a sun far, far away in the sky—with each hand you grab a sunbeam, wrap them around your wrists, quite tightly, let yourself be drawn upwards—how heavy you are! The sunbeams could tear—you’re getting closer and closer to the sun’s hot orange-red ball—it’s getting warmer and warmer … And somehow Martin Bruck’s fingers brush Gilgi’s hand, quite by chance—and even more by chance Gilgi’s hand moves past the cups and the little milk-jugs, and now it’s lying right there … lying well within reach of—after all, your hand has to be lying somewhere. And Olga’s eyes are shrouded in memory, she’s thinking of Franzi—Gilgi likes Olga very much, she doesn’t know Franzi, but she’s pleased that he exists.
You have to show your relatives the city. Frau Kron ha
s so little time. On the next day, Gilgi is picked up at the office by Aunt Hetty and the two silly cows. They inspect the Ringstrasse. “But the Jungfernstieg in Hamburg is nicer.” Church of the Apostles, Hohestrasse, Wallraf-Richartz Museum. That doesn’t interest them in the least, but if you come back from a visit to a strange town, you want to be able to say: we went to the museum.
Gilgi parts from these three delightful people at eight o’clock.
Kaiser Wilhelm Crescent. Greif. Magdalene Greif, née Kreil. Once more, Gilgi climbs a staircase. There’s no bad smell here. Behind the doors, it’s quiet. No yelling, no cursing, no stinking, twice-breathed air paralyzing your chest. Shameless, arrogant banisters—No Access For Messengers and Deliverymen!—a building for the upper crust. Sticky fried potatoes—lady without internal organs. For a few seconds, I believed that Täschler was my mother. Because I believed it, she was it, whether for a few seconds, two, three, four—days—weeks—doesn’t matter a damn. Magdalene Greif, née Kreil. High-class building—disgustingly high-class building. I don’t belong here. I don’t belong in Thieboldstrasse, either, but the stinking room there—that had something to do with me. Why? Dear God in heaven—Olga, Pit, mother—help me, I don’t want to think. So you wrap two sunbeams around your wrists—You, the one with the cheeky strong teeth, with the lively hands, the upright, unbowed neck—God, dear, dear, dear God, I’ve already been standing here for ten minutes in front of this ridiculous stained-glass window, I know that I’m standing here, I’m not crazy! There’s something wrong with me—wrong with me—wrong with me. You think in hit songs, feel with their rhythms, submerge yourself in them—tam-tam-tam-ta—those songs: help you run away and towards.
Gilgi climbs slowly—step by step. She doesn’t know yet what she’ll say, has made no plan at all. It’ll have to be whatever the moment suggests. Her hand presses the white doorbell calmly and firmly: a thin ringing. Sure to be one of those disgustingly fat little dogs. A maid: “Can I help you???”
“Like to speak to Frau Greif.”
“Madam is traveling.” Of course, it’s one of those unfriendly buildings where the maids get such a weird idea of their own social status, one which reflects their employers’ incomes rather than their own wages.
“When is she returning?”
“Not for at least two months.”
“So where is she?”
“In St. Moritz, and from there to Nice. Your name?”
“Isn’t so important.—I’ll come back in two months.”
Gilgi feels hostility welling up inside her. One woman in the gray dirt—one in the bright light—one is no less valuable than the other. Gilgi leans over the banister. With some people, they can’t lean over bridges or banisters—without spitting. Gilgi spits.—It goes Click! when it splashes on the cold marble down below. Gilgi is pleased. That was a kind of tiny gesture for Täschler, a small expression of solidarity—not yet conscious—a Yes and a No. Again: … Click.
Gilgi is sitting in her room. Now it’s time to work. It can’t go on like this, you’re not getting anything done. The search for her mother, the stuff with her relatives, the disturbances because of Carnival—it takes up an awful amount of your time. Gilgi translates from Three Men in a Boat. Now and then she rests her head on her hands, staring into space: five minutes, ten minutes, fifteen minutes—what do you think you’re doing? Do you think this is work? Well, heck, surely you’re allowed to think? What’ll she wear tomorrow? Will she be able to look just as pretty as Olga? I have—I have a rendezvous—well, that’s no big deal!
Gilgi is waiting in the little Konditorei from the day before yesterday. Martin Bruck isn’t there yet, but he’s sure to be there soon. She’s sitting with her back to the door: every time she hears a noise she turns her head, her neck is hurting already. And every noise at the door creates a wave of hope—and disappointment. No, she’s never waited like this before, never like this. Will he come? Won’t he come? The young lady Gilgi solves crossword puzzles and tries to convince herself that she would have spent an hour in a café today anyway. The young lady Gilgi is exquisite: her hands are manicured nicely, her eyebrows are drawn exactly, the bright georgette collar on her brown silk dress was cleaned with benzine this morning and is now radiant with self-conscious cleanliness. The colorful scarf is fragrant with chypre. The young lady Gilgi is so exquisite, she looks so pretty. But is there any point in looking so pretty just for yourself? Martin Bruck is bored with Cologne, he wanted to meet Olga and Gilgi today, but Olga said promptly that she didn’t have time—nice Olga!—well, then he’d meet Gilgi by herself. And now Gilgi has kept the appointment faithfully, and that deadbeat isn’t coming. That dirty dog! But of course you won’t get angry. Of course it’s only a man. But anyone who resolves not to get angry already is angry, and anyone who wouldn’t get upset for anything in the world already is upset.
Right, she’s leaving now. And if he does still come, it’ll serve him right to find that she’s no longer there. The dirty dog. Gilgi goes to her room. It happens that she throws an empty brass ashtray against the wall. But I’m not angry. Not a bit. On the contrary. Now I’ve got some lovely time to myself. And she sits down at the Erika-brand typewriter, the keys are flying. She types ten Spanish business letters—for practice. Never once looks up, never once rests her head on her hands to stare into space. Tick—tick—tick—rrrrrrrrr ………
Gilgi sees an advertisement in the daily paper. Someone is looking for a skilled typist for evening work. Something for me. I’ll go and enquire. He gives the address. Please apply in person between seven and eight p.m.
“You were lucky,” the pale woman says to Gilgi as they leave the big house in Lindenthal together. Of course I’m lucky, Gilgi thinks, walking with long, self-confident strides. She’s got the job. With an elderly ex-officer who apparently steered his assets skillfully through the shoals of the hyperinflation, so that now he can write his memoirs of the war in peace and quiet. For about a month—he’ll dictate to her every evening from seven to nine. A nice extra income. The man will pay fairly: one-fifty per hour. The fact that she’ll bring her own typewriter gave her the victory over the other applicants. Maybe also that she made eyes at him a bit. Men over fifty nearly always like it when you look up at them prettily. It’s also good to appeal to their protective instincts, to replace your solid self-confidence with an appealing helplessness at the appropriate moment. You’ve got to understand all that stuff. Gilgi understands it. The fact is that you’re dependent on employers, and you can’t get their attention without a few tricks. You don’t succeed just because of your abilities, or just with tricks—but usually you succeed with both.
The pale woman walks along beside Gilgi: “When do you start the job?”
“Right after Ash Wednesday.”
The pale woman sighs. “How I envy you! The firm where I worked went bust five months ago, and since then I haven’t found anything else.”
“But you’re getting unemployment benefits, aren’t you?”
The pale woman grimaces: “Which doesn’t mean much! Anyway, it runs out next month, then they’ll put me on emergency relief.”
They stand beside each other at the streetcar stop without speaking. Gilgi feels uncomfortable. Perhaps the decent thing would be to give up the job now, so that the pale woman could have it. What kind of idea is that? Gilgi bites her lips. She has to make sure that she gets ahead—every man for himself—where would you end up if you gave in to every flabby prompting of sympathy?
The streetcar comes. They get on. The pale woman sits down next to Gilgi: “So you worked, just so that you had something to eat and drink and a place to sleep, and you thought that life couldn’t ever be more miserable, but suddenly it’s even more miserable, and there’s nothing so bad that it couldn’t get even worse—you know that now, like it’s your only consolation.”
“For two!” Gilgi says to the conductor, holding out her multi-ticket. And to the pale woman: “Had just one more trip left on it.” The
pale woman nods, quite satisfied. The thought that she had paid car-fare for nothing was what had been getting to her the most. Now at least she’s having one free trip. Gilgi squints at her neighbor: patches on her dark overcoat have been rubbed bare—maybe you could, maybe you should … Nonsense! She had an equal chance, didn’t she? Did she? Did she really? With her wrinkled, old face, her sloppy posture, with her flat, dead eyes and her horrible clothes??? Who’ll give her a job now? She’s made a mess of her life, but when she was starting out, at least, she had an equal chance. Or maybe she didn’t? Gilgi becomes less sure. The fact that people begin life with most unequal chances is not entirely clear for a moment—but then it’s undeniable. A gross injustice, Gilgi decides. And if it was up to her … but it’s not up to her, and she has to accept that. When the streetcar reaches the cathedral the pale woman stands up, forgets to say goodbye to Gilgi, and shuffles on her bandy legs to the exit.
