The Artificial Silk Girl (6 page)

But by this morning, everyone knew about me and Leo — and nobody was pinching me anymore. They only kept their distance, and used a lot of fancy language when speaking with me. Even the monk. But still I couldn’t resist my opportunity for revenge on stage, and so I stepped on his foot with a vengeance, because I could tell by his filthy face that he had corns.

And the thing with Leo has been spreading because of the Trapper, because I have her sentence and I won’t give it up. And so she’s going all the way to the top. That’s the kind she is. Thank God she has no idea that I locked her in the bathroom. There had been a lot of excitement because of that, since she had spent the night in there and was discovered by Wallenstein himself the next morning. And she had a nervous breakdown, which I’ve always felt was a made-up illness. And her father, who is a general, wants to use his connections to have a theater closed down where honest girls are locked in the bathroom. And the thing is taking its course. And so is the Trapper. At the rehearsal, that is. And she wants her sentence back. But Klinkfeld promised her an enormously long sentence in the next play. Instead of shutting up
about it, she’s getting everybody jealous by telling them about Leo and me. And she’s insinuating that Leo himself locked her in the bathroom, as a turn-on for me. I find it utterly tasteless to drag such an elegant man into the mud like that. And the girls say that they can tell Leo is completely captivated by me, just by the way he walks past me. But he doesn’t even look at me — I tell them that — but all they say is: “That’s exactly why!” I feel sick to my stomach. This can’t last much longer.

I’ll be meeting Therese later. There’s something soothing about her, after all this noise and excitement. Everybody wanting so much and at such volume, and Therese is someone who doesn’t want anything — that’s such a godsend. I’m going to give her my wooden pearl necklace with the yellow specks on it — that will give her some quiet pleasure.

Today we also put on make-up. It looked all waxy, under the lamps in the dressing rooms and the light that was coming through the window. And Linni looked like a puffed-up painted dead body, with eyes like burnt sunnyside-up eggs, and the Trapper looked as if she had been a hooker for years. I really had to watch closely to see how they do it, the eyeliner and all that, and my face became strange to me in an interesting way. And when I smiled at myself in the mirror, it looked like I had a slit in my face. I’m all for powder and lip gloss — Coty dark in particular — but I think it’s wrong to do your make-up
in a way that your own smile doesn’t belong to your face anymore.

But on stage with the lighting it looked just right. And we were wearing gigantic hats made from cheap material, because it’s the Thirty Years War — with huge feathers. I picked a hat with a white feather, because that’s something you can reuse. After the play is taken off the program, I’ll take it home. The rest of the costume is junk. It’s all ripped, just like the things Frau Ellmann from next door wears when she goes to clean at fancy homes. That’s so the lady of the house should feel the urge to give her clothes. And when she gets home she complains about them, like she doesn’t wear that kind of crap — and uses them as rags to clean her apartment. And Frau Becker, who lives above her and whose husband makes her more babies than he makes money, she would be happy if someone gave her a ripped blouse. But no one gives her anything, because she’s unassuming and decent. I hate the Ellmanns, for more than one reason.

   What a day! It was the opening night of
Wallenstein
. I got more flowers than all the other actresses combined. That’s because I had spread the word that I would be playing, and except for Hubert, all the men I had ever had a relationship with were at the theater. I had no idea there were so many! Except for them, the theater was empty. There was hardly anyone there.

Käsemann behaved very well, sending a basket filled with roses and a golden bow and in red letters: “Bravo to the young artist!”

So I’m almost a star now. And Gustav Mooskopf sent yellow chrysanthemums the size of my mother’s head after she’s had it done. And delicatessen owner Prengel brought a basket filled with sardines and tomato paste and the finest saveloy and a note that I shouldn’t tell his wife. Only over my dead body. I wouldn’t put it past that woman to use vitriol, that’s why I’m staying away from Prengel whom I’d otherwise consider. And Johnny Klotz sent the horn from the Ford he’s paying off, together with a note saying that unfortunately he once again didn’t have a cent for flowers but he invites me and Therese to the
Mazurka-Bar
after the performance. He knows a waiter there who will take a rain check. And Jakob Schneider sent three elegant boxes of chocolate with purple ribbon and a yellow georgina and a polite invitation to have dinner with him at the
Schlossdiele
. But I can’t do that because unfortunately, he’s so cross-eyed that I start to get cross-eyed myself when I sit opposite him — and that makes me look less attractive, which is something that can’t be expected of me.

And finally all I did was have a simple beer with Therese and Hermann Zimmer in a bar nearby. Because Hermann Zimmer is leaving on montage and he moved me by giving me a bouquet of asters — and he hardly has
any money and is an old friend of mine. And he’s a member of the Athlete’s Club of which I’m the honorary lady member. And all the guys from the club sent a huge laurel and fir wreath decorated with colorful silk paper ornaments that was meant for the mayor’s funeral last week, but then didn’t get picked up because they couldn’t pay for it — and that’s why they got it cheaper. A beautiful piece that’s going to last. And that made me indebted to them of course, because the whole Athlete’s Club was joining us at the bar and there was a huge party. And all these guys had been sitting in the gallery and after my sentence they were shouting bravo, and Hermann Zimmer was stomping his feet, and Käsemann applauded from the dress circle and Gustav Mooskopf in his box was moving his chair back and forth in recognition. All of that got some other people to start hissing and whistling and Klinkfeld was shaking behind the set, because he thought they were communists and there would be a scandal at the theater. But it was because of me. I thought it better not to say anything, despite the fact that the Athlete’s Club is convinced that I’m
the
attraction of the local theater.

I was dancing on the table, singing the song of Elizabeth and her beautiful legs — and they told me they liked that better than the entire Schiller. And Therese was drunk — I gave Hermann Zimmer some of Prengel’s saveloy, so he would kiss her hand every five minutes and tell her some nice things, that she’s looking beautiful and
all that — because that’s the kind of thing a woman wants to hear when she’s soused. And she really developed some verve and if she finally forgets about that married guy of hers, perhaps she’ll have a second flowering — it happens, and I would be very happy for her.

Perhaps I’ll ask her tomorrow to call Hubert’s relatives. Now that I’m famous and a star, I don’t think he can hurt me any more. Perhaps I’ll get written up in the papers tomorrow in a review. And then we all went over to the
Mazurka-Bar
to Johnny Klotz. It was terrific!

On the road, we were honking that interesting Ford horn, sounding like a Kaiser Wilhelm-Memorial Church — and people were running off in all directions and one guy was singing “Heil dir im Siegerkranz,” he was drunk. We got to talking with him, due to a bottle of
Asbach
we had on us — we were taking turns with the bottle. The
Siegerkranz
type took pretty big gulps and had a broken look in his eyes. He told us that he had just pawned his Iron Cross for the 17th time at a bar, so he could go on drinking, and this way a life-threatening mission was finally becoming worth something, though not much. And we took him along to Johnny. He had a bald spot because of the steel helmet, but they all tell you that, unless they’re under 30. And he said his life was over and that’s why things were just starting to get interesting. The Athlete’s Club was singing the
Marseillaise
, which is French, and he said this was giving him a new perspective.
There was such hopelessness in the corners of his mouth, so I showered him with kisses because I felt sorry for him, which easily happens to me whenever I’m hammered.

And Therese was carrying a whole folder full of letters for the Pimple Face — that all seems so far away — Did I really used to work there? My life is moving at the speed of a bicycle race. So the letters had to be mailed and didn’t have postage on them yet, and the stamps were beginning to stick to the folder. I understood that they had to be mailed. They were making me nervous and so Therese took them out of the folder, drunk as she was — and we wetted them with Cherry Cobler, since Johnny had licked the glue off of three of them, so you couldn’t use them any more. And Therese went across the street to the mailbox, and got lost for half an hour. She has no sense of direction — when she goes to the bathroom in a restaurant, you need to give her a compass. And three of the guys lifted up one of the tables, all the way up — with Johnny’s 200-pound waiter and myself on top. A tremendous achievement that can only be explained through enthusiasm and constant training. It was great!

So we were roaming the streets, singing songs without any politics, because that’s the way I wanted it.
Das Wandern ist des Müllers Lust
and
Kommt ein Vogel geflogen
, which are so harmless that I have my doubts whether there isn’t some secret meaning hidden in them.
And a cop wanted to give us a ticket, so the entire Athlete’s Club offered him
Asbach
, but he didn’t go for that. So I gave him this look — with my eyes and kissed one of the buttons on his uniform, and it got all foggy. And so did the cop. He didn’t cite us.

I’m so feverish and full of excitement. Oh Hubert. And I’m surrounded by roses and a ton of flowers. I hung the laurel wreath over my bed, right where the Holy Thusnelda used to be with her fat arms, but I feel closer to the wreath. And on my night table, which is so shabby-looking — I bought it from the Beckers, because she really needed the money — despite the fact that it looks like a bad marriage — on that table is Käsemann’s basket of roses with the bow flowing down onto my pillow. I’m going to put my face on top of it and go to sleep against the red letters: “Bravo to the young artist!” And unfortunately, I’m once again alone in bed.

   If the doorbell rings, I’ll go crazy. Dear God, please help me. This is the end of my stardom. It’s all over — but for me that means it’s just beginning. My heart is a gramophone playing inside of me, scratching my bosom with a sharp needle. Of course I don’t have a bosom, because it smacks of the ordinary, like breastfeeding or an old opera diva where you can’t tell what’s bigger, her breasts or her voice. I’m writing in a fever and my hand is trembling. I’m trying to fill up the hours sitting in Therese’s furnished
room, which she never uses. It’s always like that. What you have, you don’t need, and what you need, you don’t have. Dear God, my letters are trembling on the paper like the legs of dying mosquitoes. I have to stop.

Tonight I’m off to Berlin. You can go underground there, and Therese has a girlfriend there, where I can stay. I want to cry. But there’s a desire in me that has gotten me to this point. My head is like an oven heated with coal. I could be arrested any minute — because of the fur coat, because of the Ellmanns, because of Leo and a cop or Trapper’s general.… And all that because of Hubert and this feeling in my stomach that’s totally foreign to me.

It was last night — another
Wallenstein
. I arrive at the theater to put on my make-up, and Therese is there waiting for me — she was done at the office and I was just starting. So she says: “Doris, Hubert called.” He had asked about me, called up the Pimple-Face and Therese got on and set up a date at
Küppers Café
at eight, after the performance.

And it had to be that night that I was wearing my old raincoat — which happens about once a year — not so much because of rain, but because I needed sleep and wanted to go straight home, knowing my weakness for evening activities. And so I put on my disgusting coat that I wouldn’t wear to go anywhere.

I love Therese. She’s fabulous. As soon as I’m a star, I will shine on her and make her my sidekick. I’m scared.
Wondering if they take away your powder puff in jail. I’ve never been there. Neither has Therese. There — I think I heard the doorbell — my eyes pop back into my head with a scream — I won’t open it — I’ll climb out the window when they come. They won’t get me! Never, never, never. Particularly now. I feel strong like a revolver. I’m a detective novel. Help me, dear God — I promise to cut “dear God” deep into my skin with a knife so it’ll draw blood — if you let me get to Berlin safely.

It’s quiet — it was just nerves. I’m biting my hand — it hurts so much that I stop being afraid.

So I was wearing my old rain coat — and Hubert
— Küppers Café
— no time to go home to change into the fox coat. I didn’t know what to do. I so wanted to impress Hubert and shine for him. And we were taking our make-up off with grease — I had secretly taken margarine from home — and the porter comes in and calls in front of the door. I was to come to see the director. I got margarine in my eyes — God, did I feel awful. So it had finally happened. Leo — pajamas with roses — the girls were looking at each other, imagining wild passion. But I knew better. I only had the strength to secretly take the white feather off the
Wallenstein
hat — it’s lying next to me now. I was hot with longing for Hubert, a man with a small indentation in his shoulder, where you can put your head and let the man be. You pay for that kind of longing. I knew it, but my feelings didn’t feel like knowing it. Now
the Trapper has my sentence, and I can only hope that she’ll trip and fall when she dashes out of the tent. And so I packed up my little lump of margarine — why should that filthy theater get anything from me for free — and the eyeliners that were brand new.