by Irmgard Keun
“Pit—you?” Gilgi rubs her eyes. “I’m terribly hungry—what time is it?”
“Five o’clock, I think.” God, Martin, what will Martin be thinking—I must get home—yes, what was I doing …… “Have you got the money, Pit???”
“I was at home—my father was away—giving a lecture in Frankfurt. So I went to a friend’s …”
“Have you got the money?”
“No—maybe by midday tomorrow …”
“That’s too late—my God, there’s no time left to lose. What other well-heeled people do we know, Pit?” Gilgi thinks it over. Should I go to the Krons? Impossible. Well, they might give me the money—but when? The day after tomorrow, or next week. Because they’re the kind of people who “don’t have any cash on hand.” Pawn your fur coat? But you wouldn’t get anything like enough. And you wouldn’t do it anyway. Because Martin gave you the coat—and Martin mustn’t have the slightest connection with the whole business. “Wait—I know …… S’long, Pit …” Gilgi bolts down the stairs.
Kaiser Wilhelm Crescent. Greif.—Gilgi rings the bell. The status-conscious maid opens the door. “Frau Greif around?”
“Madam is not at home to callers.”
We’ll see about that—Gilgi pushes through the door, past the astonished maid—sits down on the little wicker armchair in the hallway—looks at her wristwatch — — — “I’ll wait here for a half-hour—I expect Frau Greif to be at home to callers by then.”
The maid disappears—comes back a minute later: “Madam wishes me to ask your name—and the reason for your call?”
“They’re not for your ears. Just tell Frau Greif that I’m waiting—she should hurry.”
Suddenly the maid comes closer—looks at Gilgi with eagerness and a hesitant knowingness—“Are you — — are you perhaps Herr Longin’s girlfriend?”
“Am I what?”
“Oh, I thought you were — — but if you’re not—then please forget that I …”
“Maybe I am,” Gilgi suggests, and assumes an enigmatic expression. Because it could be that if you’re Herr Longin’s girlfriend you get to see this Greif lady sooner. The maid’s face shows smug satisfaction and inside knowledge. She opens her mouth halfway—is evidently about to say something—but then closes her mouth again with a visible effort of self-control and departs.
Gilgi sits and waits. Waits for a complete stranger from whom she wants five hundred marks. Apart from that, this stranger is her mother. That’s odd. But what’s even odder is her deep, unshakable indifference to that idea. Surely that’s not normal—surely by rights she ought to be excited …… nothing to be done—you’re not excited. Is that really such an important thing: mother! Yes, and if you have any feelings at all for this unknown mother—then it’s an inexplicable, undeniable aversion. I’ll see her in a minute—her heart is beating normally. Hans and Hertha—she has to give me money—her heart beats faster. Martin—Martin will be worried about where I am—her heart stops beating for several seconds, and Gilgi wants to faint. She’s suddenly seized by a feverish impatience. She’s been waiting for five minutes, and thinks that hours have passed. The money—Martin—little children—jail—and Martin will be waiting. And it seems to Gilgi that she’s committing a crime against Martin which can never be made good. The little children—what business are they of mine! Hans will go to jail—let him. Martin’s waiting—I’ll have to explain—he won’t understand—why am I sitting here? I was supposed to go to the doctor today. The child—maybe it’ll have the same untidy black hair as Martin and the same dark silver-flecked eyes—I’d like a child like that—Martin, my darling—money—five hundred marks—ach, there it is again, that whole mess. I can’t do this anymore—Martin’s waiting — — — — —
Oh, I didn’t notice that I’d stood up. What am I doing — — — I’m going—to the door—Martin — — — no, I shouldn’t—I must have money. But it’s not important—yes, it is important. But a moment ago everything was clear—and I wanted something—and I want something now too … Gilgi bites into her wrist—it has to hurt more and more, more and more—riiiight—and now you remember what you want. Where is the woman? What’s she been doing all this time? I’ve been waiting for hours—a glance at her wristwatch: I’ve been waiting for a whole six—seven minutes. Why doesn’t she come? I’m angry with this woman. I wouldn’t dream of sitting down in that ridiculous little wicker chair again, like an idiot. Gilgi goes into the nearest room. A nasty, unpleasant apartment. Such overdone, calculated elegance—so puffed up. Ridiculous—this showy desk with the obligatory leather portfolio and such a silly metal crocodile clasp. Martin was bitten by a real crocodile once—in Colombia. Have I kissed the scar a thousand times, or ten thousand times? It’s very important to know that. Certainly I haven’t kissed it often enough. Martin, my darling, if only we had as much money as we have kisses which we haven’t given each other yet! Money. I must have money. If I see money somewhere now or something valuable, then I’ll grab it and take it away with me—then I won’t need to wait anymore and can go to Martin. Gilgi looks closely at paintings and other furnishings, estimating their value. None of them are what she needs—after all, club chairs aren’t easy to carry away. Let’s have a look at the next room. Gilgi wanders from room to room, grimly determined to take whatever’s worth taking. It all stinks of money—but of course you can’t judge the value of vases and paintings and little sculptures—you can go badly wrong with that kind of stuff. And unfortunately you can’t take the grand piano away with you, nor the sideboard. Another locked door—Gilgi hears voices, and stops to eavesdrop—without a trace of bad conscience.
“Diddy,” a sharp and slightly theatrical female voice says—“Diddy, why must you marry her? Wait, Diddy chéri—listen—you know you can have whatever you want from me …”—That’s my mother, talking with an extra-marital relationship—Gilgi decides. Probably Diddy is Herr Longin, and I’m Herr Longin’s supposed girlfriend. Very sordid. So let’s hear what this crook has to say. The crook or the presumed extra-marital relationship speaks with boyish resentment and charming exasperation, like an operetta tenor who’s dissatisfied with his salary—“I tell you, Magda—I want something substantial at last. The old man is taking me into the business. And even if I marry the little girl—everything will remain the same between you and me—Magda—I beg you—don’t make a scene—God, my nerves! You’re a sweet woman, but …” A silence which lasts three minutes, and can mean only one thing. Then the boyish voice takes wing again … “of course it’s her, Magda—the way the maid describes her—I suppose she saw us the other day. Magda, whatever happens you must make her believe that there’s nothing between us … let me leave now—keeping her waiting will only make it worse.” That’s right—Gilgi nods. “And Diddy, tomorrow you’ll …”—“Yes, yes—only we’ll have to stop our excursions together …”—“Yes, Diddy—Diddy, she’s sitting out there in the hallway—you must go down the back stairs …”—“I know the way.—Thank you, Magda—sweet one—”
As long as she hasn’t just given him the five hundred marks which I need. Gilgi sighs worriedly. Because Diddy said “sweet one”—that must have cost a packet. Gilgi has no time to enjoy her spunky, reassuring cynicism before the door opens — — —
As coolly and uninhibitedly as the casting director of a revue, Gilgi examines the petite, elegant lady who is standing before her. Doesn’t impress me. How to classify her type? Title character in a mediocre magazine serial. Quite good figure—style a little undecided—half coolly fashionable American girl, half older lady who’s kept slim by dancing with gigolos. A touch too expensively dressed—the usual tasteful but slightly impersonal uniform of the traveler in first class. The face! Yes, if you like, you can find some resemblance to yourself—the same large eyes, the same high eyebrows, the same short, straight nose and the slightly flattened oval of the face. An alien face nevertheless—and if you like—with no resemblance to you at all. With that well-cared-for hennaed hair, sh
e shouldn’t wear such red make-up—that’s clumsy. But precisely this clumsiness fills you momentarily with a certain sympathetic fellow-feeling.
“Do you want to stare at me like that for much longer?” the magazine-lady asks, with a sharp hotel-terrace smile. “Please come with me.” She goes into the adjoining room—Gilgi follows her. “Please sit down.” I don’t like her—Gilgi decides, coldly and definitively. And what strange swinging movements she has—like a combination of a tennis champion and a soubrette on the talkies.
Gilgi sits in a low, uncomfortably soft armchair with a little table in front of her—and the magazine-lady opposite her. The room has lots of curtains and hangings, and subdued light—a flattering and no doubt carefully planned setting for a woman over forty. It smells of good French perfume and Elizabeth Arden cosmetics. Gilgi has the feeling, which is both vaguely disturbing and very pleasant, that none of this is actually happening—the feeling of dubious temporary security experienced by drunks. The magazine-lady opposite her—with a cool, self-confident and superior attitude. No doubt she plays bridge and can mix exotic cocktails and knows the right months for eating oysters and is terribly cutting about people who don’t know when the season ends in Monte … “Won’t you tell me why you’ve come to see me?” Yes, and she’ll be able to converse knowledgeably about modern literature—and sometimes she’s stylishly unhappy … she’s the complete magazine serial—those lines on her neck are really ugly — — — I have the honor, dear poor Frau Mother …
“Why I’ve come to see you? Oh, I’ll tell you …” Gilgi falls silent, turns very pale, and must suddenly fight against physical nausea. And I thought I wasn’t excited …
“Do you smoke?” the lady she doesn’t know says, opening a cute, brightly enameled cigarette-case and holding it out to Gilgi—
“No, thank you,” Gilgi says. Runs her hands hastily and pointlessly over her battered trench coat a few times—I feel so nauseous — — “You know, that shocks me—that a human being who has hands and feet and eyes just like me can be so alien to me that I think it’s not a human being at all, but something completely different … Oh, you think I’m crazy? No, I’m quite normal—it’s just—right now I have a strange feeling, as if the world were divided into two halves, and you and everyone else were sitting in one half, and I was sitting all alone in the other half. I would never be able to talk familiarly with you … oh please, please don’t interrupt me—I’m making such a big, big effort to speak quite openly and honestly to you—you’re a snob, and have a primitive kind of vanity which disgusts me—you’re alien to me, and I don’t like you—I think it’s pathetic, the way you’re looking at me with such mockery and a little contempt, just because you’re better dressed at the moment—don’t speak yet—oh, surely it must be possible to get through to someone, even in the face of mutual antipathy. Of course, I don’t let people get close to me so easily, either—but nevertheless I’m open to some words and glances … won’t you help me and tell me what I have to do or say, so that you become a living being for me? — — —”
“I don’t understand what you mean!”
“No, I suppose you can’t … yes, yes, I’ll tell you what I want now. I want you to give me five hundred marks, and I want to tell you that you’re my mother.”
“That—I—am what?”
“My mother. At least to the extent that you gave birth to me twenty-one years ago.” Gilgi tells Frau Greif briefly and clearly what Täschler told her.—“Right, now you know everything.” — — —
There’s not a sound in the room—quiet, oppressive semi-darkness—a small, silent, white spot, the face of the magazine-lady. Somewhere a door slams, a car horn blares—noises which could help—you stretch out towards them—don’t reach them. Everyone is dead—I’m all alone in the world—I’ll have a child—I’m happy—I’m so sad with such happiness … A fly buzzes, buzzes, buzzes … I can’t move—the smell in the room here—a thousand ribbons which are winding themselves around my body and around my arms and around my head—there should be noises, I want to hear my voice, I want to be able to move my hand. So quiet—the woman over there … the light-colored spot, I can hear it thinking, that’s how quiet everything inside me is—I’m listening—I have to answer …
“You’re thinking that what I told you isn’t true! How can I prove—maybe it’s blackmail—oh, don’t deceive yourself. You’re only trying to think that because it’s how you want things to be—but you felt quite clearly that everything I said is true—we always feel the truth. Why are you fighting it? You don’t need to torment yourself or feel any obligation to be shaken now or to have any kind of emotion for me. Don’t be surprised by your indifference—that’s not a lifelessness which has to shock you—we can’t just react by compulsion and immediately—that only ever comes later. — — — I beg you, say something—I can’t bear the way you’re sitting there like a dead woman—I feel like I’m dying along with you. And when you do speak—please don’t lie, and don’t try to talk familiarly with me—that would be so shameful and embarrassing, because you can’t feel at all close to me yet …” Gilgi falls silent, exhausted, little beads of sweat are forming on her pale forehead. An inexpressible physical exertion, every word of it. The white spot over there moves—a garish red mouth tries to speak—Gilgi leans forward—waits—for a word … I have to help her—it must be terrible for her, not being able to say anything—I feel how terrible that is for her. I have to re-establish her connection with her world for her …
“Maybe you’re ashamed and depressed now, because you’re simply afraid of scandal and mess in your life—there’s no need for that to depress you—it’s very natural for you to think about that. But you don’t need to be afraid—no-one knows anything, and no-one will know anything. Think sensibly and logically—there was no place for a child in your life at that stage—I was a minor mishap for you—and you removed it from your life, or had it removed, in a most admirable, energetic way—of course with some inner struggles and pangs of conscience. But there’s no doubt that you did what corresponded most strongly and definitively with your wishes … Please don’t cry—you’ve shaped your life according to your own taste—don’t disown that now. As much as possible you sought out the things which you considered of greatest value …”
A tremulous groaning from over there—Gilgi reaches for a cigarette, lights it—holds it out to the little, pale woman—“There, take it—it’s good to do something normal right now.” I’ve done something terrible to her by coming here—I have to help her … Gilgi’s voice has an infinite softness: “You should keep on being honest and logical now. Don’t exert yourself to suddenly feel something more than indifference for me. Because nothing is changing in how you see life or what you want—and you don’t need to think that something should change now. You committed yourself to a particular idea of life and a particular idea of taste long ago. And you can feel quite satisfied and unburdened, too—my life has been very good—I enjoy being alive—and I’m very grateful to you for having given birth to me. It’s not every child who can say that to its mother, by a long way, is it? Beyond that you don’t have the slightest obligation to me, nor I to you. We’re not each other’s concern. I’m here for one reason only—I need money. But for heaven’s sake don’t think that I believe I have the right to demand it from you—I’m only asking it of you …”
Trembling fingers drop the cigarette—Gilgi stubs it out carefully in the ashtray.—
“People always want money from me, and never anything else,” a curiously empty, childlike voice says at last.
“That’s quite natural—other people ask someone to give what he has to give—what he has most of—love, sympathy, beauty, ideas, joy—or money.”
“And I only have money to give?”
“I can think of—nothing—else—that—you—could—give—me.”
“I’ll give you money tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow is too late.”
“I don�
��t have any money right now.”
“But I need it right now—my God—now—you must understand that it’s not for me—I would never have come here for myself, it’s for friends …” The woman grabs for Gilgi’s hand suddenly—Gilgi pulls it away hastily—“don’t touch me—please—it’s better for you never to touch me.”
“You must—tell me—about yourself—yes, you must come to see me—all the time—when?” Gilgi’s open hands are lying heavily on the table—you can’t lift them—you want to stand up and can’t lift your hands. The room is spinning around her—fog, fog—dancing shadows—yellow clouds—shimmering air—
“I’ll never come to see you again, I would only be a disruption for you—and you for me. And your world is alien and repugnant to me, I want nothing to do with it. I must go now—I’ve promised to help—I must keep my promise—I have no more time, I have to work out where I can get money.” Gilgi looks at the little, deflated woman—who’s raising her tired, empty eyes to Gilgi’s face—stretching out both her hands—pulling them back suddenly—and slowly she slips one ring after another from her slender, smooth fingers—puts one ring after another into Gilgi’s open hands—the blue sapphire—the green emerald—the two diamonds and the big pearl. A little heap of platinum and glittering stone in Gilgi’s hands.
“That was very good of you,” Gilgi says with trembling lips—“but—don’t you love the rings—I mean, weren’t they given to you by someone you love?”
The empty, childlike voice again. “My husband gave them to me—every time he cheats on me he gives me a piece of jewelry …”
