Gilgi (8 page)

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.

When Gilgi gets home, her two cousins fall upon her. Young Gerda is back in the Pierrot costume, and Young Irene in the pixie one.—“Hurry, hurry, hurry, Gilgi, we’re leaving in a minute.” Then Gilgi hears a scream from her parents’ bedroom, and rushes in: Frau Kron has dropped a bottle of hair lotion—“it was still almost full, an’ it cost three-fifty.” She wrings her hands, standing there like Cologne’s and Hamburg’s answer to Niobe, a white paper chrysanthemum on her gray silk dress, a cute little red cracker-shaped hat on her freshly permed hair, a pained expression on her face. “I’ll never buy that brand again!” No-one has ever been able to accuse Frau Kron of being a logical thinker. Gilgi gathers up the fragments of glass. Herr Kron, at the wash-stand, proclaims the Germanic folk-wisdom (which always bears repeating) that broken glass brings good luck! And devotes himself once more to pushing his canary-yellow tie through the matchbox cover which secures it when he dresses for Carnival. Aunt Hetty sweeps in: a most dramatic shawl around her square shoulders, three red poppies behind her ear—Carmen after a successful weight-loss program. “God, Gilgi isn’t ready yet!”

Gilgi runs into her room. Saturday of Carnival—the beginning of Carnival. The whole family is going to a masked ball. Gilgi dresses in very short blue velvet trousers, a white silk blouse with a blue tie, black patent-leather pumps. All right, ready. Gloomily, she powders her bare legs. Ach, she has absolutely no desire to go along, absolutely none. She sits down on the side of the bed and lets her mind wander. If people would just leave her alone tonight. Because she’s got something she wants to think about … “Are you ready, Gilgi?”

“Yes, yes—in a minute.” Pit says that she’s a superficial little thing, Olga—that she doesn’t love anyone. She cares a lot what Pit and Olga think. You shouldn’t care what anyone thinks. Perhaps she really doesn’t love anyone. And she doesn’t want to, either. Doesn’t want to feel empathy. Not with the Krons, not with Täschler, not with the pale unemployed woman. “A poor life,” Olga says. Poor? If you’re working—.—And then you wrap two sunbeams around your wrists, let yourself be drawn upwards—I want to stay down here, with my feet on the earth. You should probably talk to someone, but there wouldn’t actually be any point. Because she doesn’t have any words, to make herself understood.

How did you, pigeon—pigeon—pigeon / Get into our kitchen??? Ostermann’s pressing ornithological question is being asked everywhere at this year’s Carnival. Woohoo—What a night, what a night!… Oh, once upon a time—a faithful hussar … here we go, here we go—I’ll call you naughty Lola … “Waiter, a bottle of Moselle for me—Traben-Trarbacher Auslese—and some canapés …”

“But, Paul, you just ate at home—”

“So what? I gotta have a good foundation to put the alcohol on.”

“This’ll be a great evening.”

“That’s what it’s supposed to be.—Ya got a good seat, Hetty? Ya want a few more streamers, children?” Herr Kron is sitting with his loved ones around him, feeling proud and happy as someone who creates and sustains Cologne’s Carnival. “Who’s got the cloakroom check, Paul, you got the cloakroom checks?”—“Berta, stop yapping all the time, I got them in my pocket.” It takes a while to reassure Frau Kron. Young Gerda and Young Irene wriggle on their chairs, whoop happily when a man in a domino costume taps them on the head with a rattle, and throw streamers around rather awkwardly. You can’t ask more of the first half-hour. The Beckers and the Wollhammers are sitting at the table with them, as previously arranged. The little Becker daughter flirts girlishly with Herr Kron. Frau Becker is proud of the child. She’s engaged to a Daimler, though it’s not there at the moment, and its owner isn’t either. “A phenomenal car,” Frau Becker explains dreamily. Aunt Hetty looks a little envious, her maternal procuress’s expression appears: “Gerda dear, Irene dear—don’t sit so quietly at the table—have a bit of a scamper through the rooms, children!” The children scamper off.

How did you, pigeon—pigeon—pigeon … “A heavenly car,” Frau Becker says, sticking to the dream, she’s an ultramodern mother in her own way: Daimler, Daimler über a-halles … “The important thing is that a man is of good character,” says Aunt Hetty. Character, character! If he’s got a top-line car, that’s character enough, you would think. Frau Becker wipes out her wine glass with Herr Becker’s
handkerchief before the wine is poured. Aunt Hetty follows suit, except that she uses the tablecloth. She wishes that Young Gerda, at least, could be settled soon. Even if it’s only a motorcycle with a sidecar. The main thing is—that—you know. I see your daddy’s nice and treats you right, my sweet / You know, that’s just the kind of daddy that I’d like to meet … Everyone drinks, everyone links arms and sways back and forth, everyone dances, everyone calls everyone else by their first names. Herr Kron pats Aunt Hetty on the behind in Carnivalistic excess, Frau Kron thinks that such japes are only appropriate after midnight … Two by the Rhine / Two side by side / Your hand in mine … We’ll laugh and play / All through the day … Come with me to the Rhine … Here we go, here we go! Everyone is spending money, and wants something for it. If anyone doesn’t get their money’s worth, it’s their own fault.

Gilgi is sitting beside Herr Becker. He pinches her thigh, she kicks his shin with moderate force: “Hands off.”—“Go on, it’s Carnival!”—“That’s no reason for me to put up with your foolishness, Herr Becker.”—“Call me Karl, call me—Karl …”—“Pathetic.” Herr Wollhammer wants to dance with Gilgi. They’re separated in the crowd. Gilgi keeps dancing, with a domino who’s exuding a powerful odor of mothballs. Gilgi can’t help sneezing, once, twice, three times—“Have you got a cold?” the domino asks naively. Overcome by generosity, he drags her to the champagne bar. “Here’s to you, lovely lady!” You see, usually he’s rather earnest, tending to melancholy—just once a year—“there aren’t many people who understand me …” Gilgi stuffs confetti into her ears, but that doesn’t stop her hearing the profound conversation between the pair next
to her, an Indian dancing girl and a maharajah with padding over an already impressive stomach—