Free Gilgi by Irmgard Keun Page A

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 businessletters—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