The Hustler: The Story of a Nameless Love From Friedrichstrasse Page 6

  This spring was so lovely that it seemed impossible not to be happy. In such hours, alone with himself and the magical charm around him, why wasn’t he?

  For he was not entirely happy.

  Something was missing. He also knew very well what it was.

  He lacked a friend to share this joy with him, to be beside him in his walks and trips, to be with him after the long day’s work.

  A young friend, a quite young friend, still impressionable, before whom the world lay as a closed book full of suspense and mystery, whose title only was known, whose first pages he wanted to turn and read with him, explaining to him what he still did not yet understand and was not yet able to understand.

  A young friend whom he loved—and who would love him in return.

  Such a friend—did destiny have him in store for him? Where was he?

  Search for him? Where? No, and again no.

  One day he had to stand before him and smile at him: “Here I am!”

  These first weeks had come and gone without having brought him.

  He thought and thought.

  The boy must, of course, be a boy who was not his friend just because he gave him presents. The same interests must bind them together (although he did not really know what kind of interests they would have to be). They must be able to talk together, about anything and everything, just as friends talk about everything together (although he was not really clear about what all they would talk about).

  Such a friend could not be found in the street.

  But where else? That was the big question.

  However, it was probably only in the street that chance could bring them together.

  He himself knew no one in Berlin. He sought no acquaintances. To make visits; to be invited into families, possibly with still marriageable daughters; to join a club in order to talk shop—the very thought filled him with secret dread.

  Only chance could bring this good luck to him.

  Only a happy chance. Not such a fateful one as on his first afternoon, when so much came together: the sudden liking, that secret attraction, this indescribable feeling: Was this he? And then that entirely incomprehensible disappearance at that very moment and forever and ever!

  He still sometimes thought of him, of that strange boy from the Passage, who had run away from him.

  He pictured him again: the disheveled, dark blond hair, the light walk, the curious blue-gray eyes. And that—that peculiar twitch of the upper lip.

  But he no longer pictured him so distinctly. It escaped him, this strange face; it grew pale, disappeared. The moment had been too brief.

  *

  Today he was not thinking of him at all, as he often did not for whole days. Almost four weeks had already gone by since his arrival.

  He was coming from the Tiergarten, and wanted to go to the library to consult a book he needed for his work.

  Walking down the middle promenade of Unter den Linden, he smiled over the contrasting colors of the first, new green leaves on the trees, and of the golden yellow, freshly raked gravel.

  Then his foot stopped still: On one of the benches a boy was sitting, his arms propped on his knees, and his face buried in his hands so that only his bare head and the back of his neck showed. But that neck—where had he seen that neck before? The blood streamed to his heart as he walked on.

  He turned around. He had to turn around.

  The boy was sitting there as if asleep.

  Was it really he? Could it be he? It was not possible!

  Graff felt he could not continue on. He walked the few steps back and sat down (as his legs gave way under him) on the almost empty bench opposite. It would have been quite impossible for him to go closer to make sure. What if it really was he? And he recognized him and ran away again?

  He only looked across as if spellbound. If it really was he, he was wearing a completely different suit than on that day. But a straw hat like the one he had been holding in his hand at that time lay on the bench beside him. In place of the heavy boots, the boy had on worn-out and obviously too large oxfords. The suit itself appeared to be thrown together, as if it had not been purchased or selected for him: the coat was too big, the pants too short.

  But it was he. It must be. That neck! That hair!

  He could still recognize nothing of the face buried in his hands.

  His thoughts raced. Should he walk over, sit beside him, remain still and wait until the boy looked up? Should he then speak to him, ask him if he recognized him? Ask him why he ran away so quickly that time?

  He could not do it. A growing uneasiness, even more a secret fear welled up in him, holding him in his place. He could only watch steadily, waiting for the first signs of life to return to the small, bent-over figure.

  Minutes passed, five, ten—he did not know how many.

  Finally the boy moved, let his hands drop, stretched himself, looked around, and then, as it seemed to Graff, also looked over at him, at where he was sitting. The boy’s expression appeared angry and cross, as if awakened from sleep.

  He now saw his face. Because of the distance, it was not entirely clear—but he recognized it again. It was he!

  And at the same time, it appeared to him that the boy was aware of him too. As if he was looking at him, inspecting him. He was not mistaken, was he? Was it possible that the boy had also recognized him? Would he now immediately jump up and run away again, as if driven?

  No, he only stood up slowly, as if tired, and, without glancing back, walked slowly in the direction of the Brandenburg Gate.

  What should he do? Should he follow him? The fear of losing him again made him totally indecisive. Then the same fear drove him on. He stood up and slowly followed him.

  The boy had stopped, but still without looking around. As if he were waiting.

  Now Graff was beside him, stood before him, approached closer, and with a terrible effort searched for the first words.

  Only when the boy looked up at him, did he bring out with difficulty: “Excuse me if I speak to you. But haven’t we seen one another before?”

  The boy’s odd eyes looked at him, but not, he believed, with fear or anxiety, nor startled or curious, but with complete indifference.

  “Where then?” he heard the boy ask in return. The young voice was bright and clear.

  “In . . . in the Passage. About four weeks ago—”

  Four weeks ago, Gunther thought. I’ve not even been here that long. But yes, it could have been that long. For him time did not exist and he had long since stopped counting the days and weeks.

  Then it must be one of those men from the early time. He looked at him. He had no recollection. He had not gone with him, had he? If so, he would probably have recognized him. But those had been mostly older men, not a young one, like this man. He had not the faintest recollection. Perhaps he had just spoken to him and nothing had come of it. So many had done that. Besides, it was really all the same. Best to act as if he remembered.

  He looked at him again from the side. He appeared decently dressed. Did he have money? These young people usually did not have much themselves.

  And how excited he was! He could probably hardly wait! For sure he could hardly speak. And the way he was looking at him!

  They could not remain standing where they were. People were already looking at them. They both felt it.

  So they walked on farther beside one another.

  Graff thought and thought. What should he say so as not to lose the boy again?

  He finally brought out: “Do you still have time? We could walk a bit. In the Tiergarten perhaps, if it’s all right with you—”

  He was thinking of his garden cafe in the “Zelten.” There they would be able to talk undisturbed.

  Rage welled up again in the boy.

  In the Tiergarten, naturally, again in the Tiergarten! So he does not have money for a room in a hotel, or he wants to save it. So probably not much will come from this. And why did he always use the polite pronoun �
�Sie” with him? It had never occurred to anyone before to address him with “Sie.” Either he was stupid or he was not from here.

  All right, then, to the Tiergarten, for all I care. But he resolved that he would no longer let himself be caught with fine words, as this had all the appearance of being. And if he let himself be dragged into the Tiergarten, tired and hungry as he was, he wanted to see money—beforehand.

  Letting himself be gypped a second time on the same day was simply not going to happen!

  His companion was thinking meanwhile: Of course he recognized me again! Even if he doesn’t say so. Otherwise, he would not have stopped and waited until I spoke to him. But why was he so quiet? Perhaps he was tired and preferred to sit. It was certainly not going well for him. How might it have been going for him altogether in these weeks? Did he have a job? Probably not, for otherwise how could he be free at this hour of the day? Perhaps he had no work at all. But I must not just ask him about it. That would be intrusive. He also seemed so absent in his silence. At any rate, he seemed tired, with no desire to go for a walk.

  Cautiously, he asked after a long pause, during which they had reached Pariser Platz:

  “Perhaps you’re tired and would rather not walk farther? Should we rather sit in a cafe and enjoy something?”

  The boy only nodded as an answer.

  That at least made sense. First eat and then—

  *

  They left Unter den Linden as a matter of course and turned into the side streets on the north.

  Again the older man questioned him, always afraid that it could all suddenly come to an end and he would no longer have the boy beside him:

  “We could also go to a restaurant, if you would rather?”

  The boy finally opened his mouth:

  “It’s all the same to me—” But he sounded almost angry, at any rate not friendly.

  He was thinking to himself: Eat, just eat, and as soon as possible.

  They were now near the Spree and could see the sign of a simple, but obviously quite respectable beer house.

  “Perhaps here?”

  They entered, finding the pub almost empty, and found a table in one of the booths in the back room. Everything was neat and clean.

  They seated themselves opposite one another.

  The boy immediately reached for the menu that was lying before him.

  “What will you have? Please, select whatever you like,” said Graff.

  Again the answer sounded unfriendly: “Doesn’t matter.” Then: “A cutlet—”

  In the meantime the waitress had arrived at their table and asked what she should bring.

  “Two cutlets. And beer? Yes, beer. Light. Two glasses—”

  Alone again, Graff felt he must finally give an explanation.

  “You seem angry with me, that I just came up and spoke to you. But we have seen one another before. I wanted—” He got no further. He felt how stupid it was, what he was saying.

  The boy looked at him. He was much too hungry to follow his words, or even just to listen to them. He only said, “Why do you always say ‘Sie’ to me?”

  Graff again did not know what to say or answer. However, since the beer was now before him:

  “Well then, let’s say ‘Du’—” and he raised his glass.

  The boy paid no attention to his answer and only drank hastily. Then the food arrived and he set himself to it without a word.

  It was a relief for the other.

  He did not need to say anything more now, and could just constantly gaze into the face before him. But at the same time, he felt how impolite it would be just to watch him eat. How hungry he must be! How fast, almost greedily, he was eating! He occupied himself with his own plate, but only in appearance, for he was unable to swallow a bite, he was so nervous inside. He reached for a newspaper. But he only looked at it, without reading.

  Finally the boy finished and shoved his plate away, again reaching for his glass. He waited. At least he was now full. His judgment was: Not a real gentleman. But apparently quite decent. A bit crazy. But then, most of them were.

  They could now get on with it, but no move was made. The other also shoved away his untouched plate and the newspaper, and now looked for the first time directly into the face opposite him.

  In the dimness of the narrow room it appeared strange to him, as if he had never seen it. But it was of an enchanting beauty, so that he could now no longer take his gaze from him.

  Again he felt that now he had to speak, and again he did not know what he should say. He would have preferred to remain sitting here for hours, all the time looking into that face.

  The boy also kept silent. He, too, did not know what to say. And then—what did Atze say? “Always wait! You get the most that way.” A man like this, however, had never come along before. He sat there, stared at him, and didn’t make a sound.

  But he was looking at him in a friendly way and was certainly altogether a decent man, with his clean-shaven face and his regular, young features. Had he just now thought of being gypped? No, he been mistaken. What would he be likely to give him?

  Since something must finally be said, it was he who asked, and it was the age-old question:

  “Do you perhaps have a cigarette?”

  Graff hastily reached into his pocket. A smoke, of course; how could he have forgotten!

  “Yes. Here, you’re welcome. I hope they’re good enough!”

  As the two smoked, they became somewhat more comfortable.

  The first questions came.

  How was he called? His first name?

  “Gunther—” And he was called Hermann.

  Thus they gradually began a conversation. It dragged a bit, since the one always considered if he was questioning too much, while the other wondered more and more about this john, sitting here, ordering beer again, making no move to finally come to the goal of it all. Yet it was all the same to him. It was nice sitting here.

  What questions, however, were being asked! “It’s an interrogation,” Gunther thought, and he began coolly to lie with each new question.

  Work? No, he had none now. But of course he had. Lost it. Friends? Sure, he had friends, but they don’t help. You only have friends when you have money. Relatives? No, no relatives. Where does he live then? Together with another boy, but he couldn’t stay there longer, for he was already a week behind in his rent and couldn’t pay. Last night? Well, in the Tiergarten.

  The questioner’s heart contracted. It was going so badly for him! Therefore his hunger! He had come just in the nick of time.

  Pity welled up in him, that most dangerous of all matchmakers of love, confused him all the more, and made him ask, “May I help you? Help as a friend?” For that’s what he would like to be to him, a true friend!

  Now the boy was really dumbfounded. Was this man serious or was he making fun of him? Help? For nothing? As a friend?

  Then it occurred to him: a relationship! That’s what he wanted. But he did not want it. Atze had always said, “Just no relationship!” (He gave no reasons why not, but it sounded like an oath.) But why shouldn’t he let himself be helped, if the man here absolutely wanted to? So go to it. And right away.

  The other, however, abruptly stopped questioning, and kept silent, thinking.

  Then, after a quiet pause, he reached over the table and laid his hand lightly and tenderly over the slim and dirty hand opposite him. (How beautiful it was, this small and tender hand with its unclean but well-grown nails! How warm and beautiful it was, this hand, which he was touching for the first time!) And he said, as if entreating, softly and urgently:

  “Let me help you, Gunther! I would like to help you! You should suffer no more need!”

  He received no answer. The hand was not withdrawn. The boy looked straight ahead, crumpled up the remaining bread, and reached for a new cigarette. He heard further:

  “We’ll see one another again of course. As soon as can be—even tomorrow. I just have to think it over.” Then:
“I will see if I can find a position for you. I can’t promise it to you today, but I will help you, as well as I can.” Further: “Where will you sleep today? Do you know a respectable hotel that will take you for tonight? We’ll see, then, tomorrow where we can find a room for you—with good and decent people.” Finally: “Can you manage—?” and he reached into his breast pocket and drew out his wallet. (How difficult it was to offer money!) “Can you get along with this until tomorrow?” A blue bill was furtively pressed into the boy’s hand.

  With a quick glance the boy had seen that the bill was five marks. Not much! But it occurred to him that he was getting it for nothing—the meal and cigarettes besides—and he became more satisfied. He quickly shoved the money into his pants pocket.

  He assumed they could go now. He finally grasped that the other wanted nothing more today.

  And so they left, after the bill had been settled.

  Outside, near the bridge, they stopped.

  Hermann again held the warm hand in his own.

  “Will you be here on this bridge tomorrow afternoon at a quarter past five, Gunther, and wait for me? I’ll come from work around five. Unfortunately I can’t come any earlier. But about a quarter past five I’ll be here. And you will be too, won’t you?”

  The gray eyes—they appeared now more gray than blue—looked up at him.

  It sounded quite earnest, what he said: “If I’ve promised to come, I will come!”

  They shook hands again and parted. The younger walked away with quick and light steps, and without looking around, but the older immediately stopped and looked after the small figure which disappeared around the corner. How beautifully he walked!

  It seemed to him he should rush after him. Call him back. Say something more to him. Something important. Something forgotten. Much more. But he did not. He had to use force to tear himself from the spot on which he was standing.

  *

  He looked at his watch.