The Artificial Silk Girl (5 page)

So today Klinkfeld says during rehearsal: “Oh my God, there’s still that sentence.”

And although he usually has a rather nervous voice and is jumping up and down like a kangaroo, he says this with complete nonchalance and to top everything off, he runs his hand across his head, which seems to be a particular habit of men who don’t have any hair that could be out of place. And then they get in a bad mood, because they’ve made the unpleasant discovery that it’s all smooth up there. Käsemann used to do that too, and I couldn’t get him to stop.

So as soon as Klinkfeld mentions that sentence, all of the girls are throbbing like one single heart — except for me. And they all had to say it and potbellied Bloch pushed that little button Manno Rapallo to the front of the line and said loudly — to pay her back for having her — “She’s never had a sentence before. All the others have had one already.” And so she too had to say the sentence, but unfortunately all that excitement with the potbelly had gotten to her, and so she sounded like a hooded crow. And then Mila von Trapper got the sentence. Just imagine, a real aristocrat with a former general for a father playing a proletarian vivandrière. All I can say is that theater is incredibly interesting. Mila von Trapper has Chinese eyes and a great figure, I have to admit. But her meanness toward me is beyond belief, since she didn’t come to rehearsals until later and has no idea about me and Leo. She’s very proud because she has a lot of talent, which means a lot around here. To have no talent is worse than being in
jail. And Mila von Trapper once made talent in the conversation room, after everyone had already left — only the girls from the school were still there, those who would love to spend the night at the theater. They were all sitting on the table and on the window sill, making solemn faces and serious mouths, and proud Trapper was making talent and was screaming. Something vulgar about Holofernes and that she wouldn’t give him a son, which nobody has asked her to do anyway. Anyhow, the kind of stuff you find in difficult plays. And so she was rolling around on the floor in agony, like Aunt Clara when she has kidney stones — and she was screaming her guts out. I didn’t like it, I have to say, but I couldn’t scream that loud. And then she pretended she was cutting someone’s head off with a sword. She was waving her arms as if it was difficult to get his head to come off. I thought that was a bit brutal. And she was screaming and going on like mad. Very scary. And apparently, the whole thing is called an outburst. And everyone thought it was just great, a perfect audition piece.

And since I couldn’t think of anything profound to say, but she had made such an effort and was completely out of breath, I wanted to say something nice too. So when she cast these questioning looks at me, I said: “Just be careful not to get into a draft right now. You’ve gotten really hot with all that screaming, and the flu is going around.”

So she makes this horrible face at me, which sent shivers down my back, and says: “Apparently, this work of art made no impression on you at all. Perhaps you don’t even know who wrote
Judith
— anything’s possible.”

Of course it is possible that I don’t know who Judith is, maybe it’s the name of the play she was shouting. For a short while I felt surrounded by a cloud of sadness. I constantly find myself in situations where I don’t know something and I have to pretend that I do, and constantly having to pay attention makes me really tired sometimes. And I’m always supposed to feel ashamed when words come up that I don’t know, and people are never good to me so I would have the courage to tell them: “I know I’m stupid but I have a good memory, and when you explain something to me, I make every effort to remember it.”

And without meaning to, I heard these words coming out of my mouth: “No, I don’t know who she is.” Because there are moments when I’m just dying not to have to lie. But you pay for that, of course.

So Trapper says to me: “Unfortunately, art is becoming more and more proletarian.” And I could tell by looking at her neck that she had said something nasty to me.

But then Linni took her aside and told her about me and Leo. So she immediately turned as sweet as honey. But I was mad at myself because I had shown my weakness. How am I going to get through life like that?

So yesterday, the Trapper got the sentence, since she has a talent for outbursts. But I hate her — Why did she have to be so mean to me? That’s the last outburst she’s had for a while!

This morning I saw Trapper make her way up to the second floor in her high heels. It was only moments before she had to say the sentence — so I followed her. She disappears in the bathroom stall. God must have been with me — because the key was stuck outside! I turn it, very quietly, and run off. Nobody sees me. Let her scream her head off in there. It would have to be quite a coincidence for anyone to be going upstairs. There’s another bathroom downstairs, which everyone else uses. But our aristocratic Trapper always has to have something special. Now she’s got it.

So the sentence didn’t get said, and Klinkfeld was about to throw a fit, because it was holding up the rehearsal. So I dash out of the tent, which isn’t there yet — I was wearing my tight, bright red gown — and scream at the top of my lungs: “Cousin, they’re off!”

And since I was genuinely terrified, my voice got all heavy with sorrow about the soldiers that are leaving.

So Klinkfeld pulls his hand over his bald spot and asks me who I am.

I tell him. So he gets mad at the aristocrat who’s not there and says: “You can have the sentence.”

And all the girls hated me. That’s why they’re in awe about me. So after the rehearsal I go down to the office and as I walk back and forth, I hear the Trapper pounding against the bathroom door. But that wasn’t doing her any good, because right above her, workers were hammering together the stage decorations and were making an incredible racket that the aristocrat had no chance of overpowering. And I run up to Klinkfeld and make him swear on his word of honor and as the director of the play that I can keep the sentence, even though I’m not a student at the school. So he talks to me and seems very interested, completely without desire, which I think was because he hadn’t had his lunch yet. So he asks me to come into his office and has me sit down in the easy chair, so he has only the regular chair to sit on. I’ll never forget that, because that was true elegance on his part, since, after all, he didn’t want anything from me.

And then he goes next door — to Leo — and they both come out. I’m facing Leo and turn bright red and my face starts to twitch, because in my mind he’s wearing those white crepe-de-chine pajamas, and it’s almost vulgar to be imagining that. And at the same time, he’s surrounded by this aura of dignity. With the sun in their faces, they looked like little red Chinese lanterns. And with his thin-lipped smile he inadvertently looked like the Mona Lisa. My knees were like ice and I felt like I had a boulder in my stomach. Because important men without erotic desire,
which gives you an advantage over them, really impress me. So they asked me all sorts of questions about my educational background and what I wanted.

And then they asked me to audition for them, and I recited the
Erlkönig
. But when I got to “mit Kron’ und Schweif” I couldn’t remember the words anymore, which was truly embarrassing. So they asked me to present something comical, and we all thought long and hard about it. Finally, I did that song about Elizabeth and her beautiful legs, and I danced to it.

So they laughed and Klinkfeld said to Leo:

“She’s a natural comedienne.”

And Leo nodded his head and said: “And she’s very graceful too.”

All the while I was standing there looking at my shoes and pretending not to hear. But of course I heard every single word they said. And they accepted me into the school, and I don’t have to pay for it, they were going to see to that. So I’m no longer at the bottom of the totem pole.

But at the same time, there’s a lot of friction at home. My father is yelling and screaming about how I’m going to make a living now, and my mother wants this career for me, and I can hardly eat anything anymore because of all that ado. My father is an old man and his life consists only of filthy cards and drinking beer and schnapps, and sitting around in bars — and that costs money! So when I no longer give him anything, I’m actually taking
away from him. And I don’t cost him any money, except for sleeping in that crummy attic — and I hardly ever eat at home, but get invited to eat out. But now his entire face spells reproach. Looks like I’m going to have to find me a man to pay for my clothes and 50 marks a month for at home, so he keeps quiet. And if I tell him how I got the money, he kicks me out — for moral reasons. But if I don’t tell him, he doesn’t ask and doesn’t wonder about it, because he gets the money and it gives him peace of mind when he doesn’t have to think about anything.

   And one woman was singing and wiggling her bosoms — wearing a yellow dress with a rose on the shoulder and a ton of blue paint on her eyes. And another man was riding a bicycle — a really high one — and was cracking jokes, risking his life — and people are eating, and you’re sweating like a pig — and then they clap. He could have been dead — how much do they pay a guy like that? It was first-rate cabaret.

An industrialist had invited me along. He had come to the theater to pick up free tickets for tomorrow night, because if you have money you have connections, and then you don’t have to pay. You can really live on the cheap, if you’re rich. So he talked to me and invited me, because he took me for an established artist. I want to become one. I want to become a star. I want to be at the top. With a white car and bubble bath that smells from
perfume, and everything just like in Paris. And people have a great deal of respect for me because I’m glamorous, and they’ll find it so cute when I don’t know what “capacity” means and won’t laugh at me like they do now — just wondering if the Trapper is still locked in the bathroom. If I haven’t seen her by tomorrow, I’ll go upstairs and unlock the door, because I don’t really want her to starve to death.

I’m going to be a star, and then everything I do will be right — I’ll never have to be careful about what I do or say. I don’t have to calculate my words or my actions — I can just be drunk — nothing can happen to me anymore, no loss, no disdain, because I’m a star.

   The industrialist dropped me already. And it’s all because of politics. Politics poisons human relationships. I spit on it. The emcee was a Jew, the one on the bike was a Jew, the one who was dancing was a Jew.…

So he asks me if I’m Jewish too. My God, I’m not — but I’m thinking: if that’s what he likes, I’ll do him the favor — and I say: “Of course — my father just sprained his ankle at the synagogue last week.”

So he says, he should have known, with my curly hair. Of course it’s permed, and naturally straight like a match. So he gets all icy; turns out he’s nationalist with a race, and race is an issue — and he got all hostile — it’s all very difficult. So I did exactly the wrong thing. But
I didn’t feel like taking it all back. After all, a man should know in advance whether he likes a woman or not. So stupid! At first they pay you all sorts of compliments and are drooling all over you — and then you tell them: I’m a chestnut! — and their chin drops: oh, you’re a chestnut — yuk, I had no idea. And you are exactly the way you were before, but just one word has supposedly changed you.

I’m drunk. Wondering if Hubert is still in town. Once the industrialist was soused, he wasn’t so principled anymore, and wanted to. And when I told him that my hair was naturally straight, he turned me into a race with blood and really went at it. But I had lost interest, because once he’s sober again, he’ll start all over again with politics, and you never know if you won’t get yourself assassinated for political reasons, if you get involved.

At the table next to me was a wonderful lady with really expensive shoulders and with a back — it was straight all by itself, and such a wonderful dress, it makes me cry — the dress was so beautiful, because she doesn’t have to think about where she’s getting it from. You could tell by looking at the dress. And I was standing next to her in the restroom, and both of us were looking in the mirror — she had such light white hands with elegantly curved fingers and an assertive look on her face, and next to her I looked so labored. She was tall and not at all slender, and her hair was shiny and blonde. It must be interesting for
a man to kiss her, because there’s no way he would know in advance what it would be like. With me, they always know. I would have loved to have told her how beautiful she was and that I thought she looked like an evening song, but then she would have thought I was queer, and that would have been wrong.

Everything was covered in red velvet, and one woman was dancing under the headlights, but she also looked labored and really had to struggle. I’m wondering if you can become glamorous if you weren’t born that way. But I’m already at the drama school. Still I don’t have an evening coat — everything is half-baked — the thing with the fox is fine for the afternoon, but at night it’s a piece of shit. The woman had a cape — black with white seal trim, could have been ermine. But she had an innate poise that would have made white rabbit look like ermine — that’s like a sacred word to me and I’m getting goosebumps just thinking of it. When Therese is wearing genuine suede gloves, on her they still look like cloth.

I took the tram to get to the Cabaret, past the cemeteries. A woman got on who had just buried her husband — she was wearing a cloud of black veil, all in black she was, but no money for a taxi, black gloves, and everyone could see her face, her eyes were all kaput and she couldn’t cry anymore — and she was wearing all black but carrying a little bright-red suitcase that was completely out of
style and small and bright red — and that gave me a stabbing pain in my heart — the shiny blonde, too. Once again, I feel something spectacular in me, but it’s painful somehow.

   Today was dress rehearsal — the tent is there too. Leo was sitting in the dress circle, right next to Klinkfeld and other exciting dignitaries from the city. I’m feeling nauseous. I fear for my career and am ready to pass out, because by now the entire theater knows of me and Leo. Possibly, he’s the only one who doesn’t know yet that he’s having an affair with me. But how much longer can that last? He’s going to find out, the story about the pajamas too, which is being told as an intimate joke at the theater now. I feel sick to my stomach. And then the rehearsal with all that noise and those loud decorations and terribly colorful military. And I secretly stomped on that monk’s foot, the one that’s giving a speech on a wooden wagon, while the curtain was up, so he couldn’t say anything. And that’s because he’s pinched me all day yesterday and the days before, in the dark behind the stage. Others did it too, but the monk was the worst. What a pig. And I’ve noticed that it’s only the lowly actors, who have very little to say, who pinch you and slap you on the behind — why should I put up with that? I wouldn’t have said anything with the big ones, after all, they can use a little distraction after all those endless sentences
and all that heavy screaming — and that’s why it wouldn’t have been so insulting to me, coming from them. Only the old farts and the lowlifes. And the monk had been pinching me more times than he had sentences and he was a royal pain in the ass.