The Hustler: The Story of a Nameless Love From Friedrichstrasse Page 7

  It was not yet eight. They had been together hardly longer than an hour. What an hour! Or had it all been only a dream?

  He felt unable to return to his room.

  The evening was so lovely after the hot day. Now came the cool of evening.

  He walked slowly to the “Zelten.”

  He found his old place, unoccupied as always.

  He had seen him again!

  What he had no longer hoped for, what he had almost buried and forgotten, had become reality—incomprehensible, but undeniable reality!

  He had found him again. He had sat opposite him. He had held his hand in his own, just a moment before.

  The fleeing shadows of a fleeting moment had taken on tangible form—lived!

  Did that picture-become-life hold what its appearance promised?

  His senses, caught in the spell of those eyes, in the sound of that voice, which he had heard for the first time, in each movement of those shoulders and hands—his senses affirmed the question. His reason understood nothing yet and still tried to resist.

  Now if he tried to visualize that face again, he had to succeed. For it had not been one minute, not just one second, in which the boy had shown up and disappeared again—no, he had seen that face before him a full hour, close enough to touch. With a single movement of his hand he could have reached out to it, held it, caressed it.

  He wanted to call it back before him.

  He tried to do it by laying his hand over his eyes, as he did when nothing was supposed to intrude between him and his thoughts.

  He saw it: those eyes, whose color he was unable to name and which appeared to him unfathomable—were they gray, were they blue, were they both? Did not a green-gold gleam sometimes glimmer in the pupils of those eyes, with their strikingly long lashes and the light lines under them? The soft, smooth cheeks—did they show dimples when he smiled? (But he had not smiled a single time!) The light brown hair, thick and uncombed over the narrow and not very high forehead. The full mouth with its—as it seemed to him—no longer quite so red and fresh lips as before; and the not quite regular, but white, rows of teeth.

  He saw the face before him again, and recalled what had especially struck him. Often, almost always when questioned and before answering, the upper right corner of the boy’s mouth made a light twitch, so that a tooth became visible. That was so peculiar, but also so attractive.

  He saw all this before him and knew now, as he let his hand fall again, that he had never in his life seen anything more charming and infatuating than the face of this boy (named Gunther)!

  Then he also tried to visualize his form: the boyishly slim, still undeveloped and so tender form, which yet had nothing at all girlish about it; the thin neck, the slender shoulders—and he saw over and over again those hands with their slender fingers, which were quite extraordinarily beautiful for such a boy. Finally, he recalled his walk, that light, careless, today somewhat tired walk.

  And he knew at the same time that he would have given his life’s salvation to enclose that form just once in his arms!

  No doubt, he must be from a good family. How different he was in everything from these other guys, with their uncouth, fresh, and loud conduct, their crudeness and insolence!

  No, Gunther was neither crude nor loud and fresh. But friendly, no, he had also not been friendly. Rather, just the opposite: almost unfriendly, unapproachable, rejecting—taciturn and almost sulky.

  How was that to be explained?

  With each answer he gave himself, he sought to excuse Gunther (as we who love do, and have always done, so as not to lose—even in our own eyes—what we love).

  He had followed him. No, he had waited for him. Of course, because he had recognized him, from seeing him that first time. But why, then, had he not admitted it? Because he was ashamed of having run away so foolishly that time. He had been unfriendly, grouchy even? Yet how could one be friendly and cheerful, if one had slept outside and had eaten nothing for twenty-four hours? But even after he had eaten his fill, he had still remained so quiet and withdrawn? It was shyness with a new and unaccustomed acquaintance, his uneasiness under his many and certainly often intrusive (even if so well meant) questions. Would he have preferred that right away in the first hour he had babbled and bared his little heart? To him, to the stranger, to him, Graff, who was himself so scrupulously withdrawn in regard to other people?

  No: it was he himself who had behaved so falsely and quite unreasonably! He now saw this. To be sure, there was also an excuse for him. He had never really had contact with boys of this age (despite—or rather, precisely because it was the age that he loved), had never spoken much with such boys. With some because they did not interest him. With the others, however, the few to whom he was irresistibly drawn, the secret fear of being misunderstood and the shyness of not finding the right word had always closed his mouth.

  He realized that he should have begun quite differently. He should not have talked about the first meeting at all. He should have realized that he had before him a poor, half-starved, young chap, a lonely little chap obviously abandoned by all the world.

  He himself had been too awkward.

  If he had presented himself as cheerful and unaffected, the boy too would have come out of himself and everything would have been different in that first hour, which is so often the decisive one.

  He tormented himself further in his thoughts:

  His questions had bored him. Was he really full from the one, even if ample portion? He should have ordered more. And above all: Had he given him enough money? Indeed it seemed enough to him. He, under such circumstances, would have managed with five marks until the day after tomorrow. He could have given him still more—ten, or even twenty marks. But then Gunther, whom he did want to help further, would have received an entirely false idea of his circumstances (which would certainly have come back to haunt him later).

  Everything had been wrong. That offering to use the familiar pronoun “Du.” With a finer feeling than he had, the boy had continued to say “Sie” to him nevertheless. Wrong, completely wrong also had been that all too hasty parting. Now he did not even know where to find him again, if he were prevented from coming tomorrow. Gunther, of course. For no power on earth would prevent him, Graff, from being on the bridge at a quarter past five—that was beyond question.

  No, he should not have allowed him to go away like that! He should have accompanied him to the hotel, paid for him there, entrusted the manager and clerk with taking good care of him, and then tomorrow picked him up there himself. That would have been the only right thing! But now it was too late.

  Poor little chap! Life has certainly treated him harshly. He probably had never known real love. No friend by his side to help him. No one to care for him in this monstrously big, strange, hostile city.

  How needy he seemed! That suit—not at all the right kind of suit for him, so randomly bought, piece for piece. By what second-hand dealer did he hunt that up! And how tired he had been! And above all, how hungry!

  He had been serious—much too serious for his young years! Could he also be cheerful, like other boys his age, really heartily cheerful and carefree?

  Still he had smiled once, and that smile had been almost the most beautiful thing about him. That was when he promised to procure work for him. Had that been the joy in being able to get out of need and into an orderly situation?

  He was not to be disappointed in him. What he wanted to do, he would certainly do, and would spare no trouble or effort in procuring him a new position. But until he was able to take care of himself, he would stand by his side. His boy should suffer no more hunger from now on and should also always have a roof over his head. That’s what he was here for now.

  Right away, tomorrow, he would ask in his office if there was a position available for him. But perhaps it was better to wait one more day and hear tomorrow what kind of work he would prefer. With a businessman or in a bank office. For that, he must know what his previous s
chooling was, know much more about him altogether.

  Tomorrow! How long yet until then! A whole night and half a day away! An eternity!

  And if he did not return?

  Fear rose in him.

  Then he would be lost to him again and what new, happy chance would ever bring them together again?

  No, no foolish fear. Why should he not come? He had no one here, perhaps no one in the whole world to help him!

  He would come. Surely he would come.

  What was it, then, that still tormented him? What kept him from being entirely happy in this hour? In this hour when joy and jubilation should be in his heart?

  He did not know. And yet, it was so.

  The garden cafe became more and more empty. It was already late. Night was coming, the summer night, cooler than the hot day, but not cool for him. From the water sounded the last voices of the passing rowers. Fewer and softer—lovers.

  Then it came, the longing, came on silver wings, clung to him, took possession of him, more and more, stronger and stronger, as if to smother him in its embrace. And all his thoughts were lost in the one:

  Oh, if he were here! If he were sitting here opposite me! No, here by my side! If I could see his sweet face before me again, hear again his bright voice, if I might lay my hand on his, hold it, forever, forever!

  Why is he not here? Why not with me? Why did I let him go? Just why? Why!

  *

  Meanwhile, the object of all these thoughts, overjoyed that all the foolish talk was over, had strolled down Unter den Linden.

  He no longer had any real desire to go into the Passage again, but five marks were a bit too few. At any rate he wanted to go through once, and if he did not find anyone, then before looking up his old hotel, he would spend the evening in the little movie theatre at the Stettin Train Station. An extraordinarily exciting film with Harry Piel was running, which he just had to see. (Harry Piel jumped from a burning airplane onto a speeding railroad train.)

  Nothing was doing in the Passage. He had just turned the corner into Friedrichstrasse when—Who was standing before him? Atze!

  Really and truly the vanished Atze!

  They ran into one another’s arms.

  “Man, Chick, how did you get here?” Gunther was greeted with astonishment, as if he had been the one who had stayed away.

  At first he wanted to be angry, but all anger and irritation vanished before the jovial face of the other and in the joy of having him again. So he asked, with a bare attempt at being angry:

  “Just where have you been?”

  But Atze did not answer. Instead he only shoved his arm under his and said confidentially:

  “Tell me, Chick, have you got any dough? I’m dead out. And I don’t need to tell you I’m hungry!”

  Gunther by no means wanted to come out with his five marks right away. So he seriously swore:

  “Not even a six-pence!”

  Atze tried to make a sad face, but did not succeed, and then said casually:

  “Well, then let’s just go to the Bear Cellar and Emil will have to put it on the cuff.”

  They went to the cellar pub where, the first day of their acquaintance, they had sat at the scrubbed white table, and where there were such gigantic portions of food.

  They had hardly finished eating—no cutlet diminished Gunther’s appetite—when he had related, down to the last details, what he had experienced in these days, at first with an undertone of resentment, but then with the babbling joy at finally being able to pour out his heart to his long-missed friend.

  Atze listened calmly. The moving complaints over the bad days left him cold. The story about the lounges seemed not to please him. Little Mama’s conduct was, however, understandable. And the guy who bilked him—well, that was only his own fault: “How come you didn’t keep your eyes open?”

  Gunther began to get angry, also over Atze’s exaggerated Berlin accent. Capable now of the most current turns of speech himself, he said, “Man, what’s with you! No one here talks like that.”

  “But me!” said Atze. “Me anyway!”

  When Gunther incidentally began to talk about his last acquaintance, the boring john who wanted to find him work and help him, who had begun by talking nonsense to him and then in the end wanted nothing from him, Atze paid attention. At first, he only said:

  “Ah ha, you swindler! You do have some dough!”

  Then, to Gunther’s amazement, he had him tell the whole story again, in fine detail, then leaned back in his chair (which he always did when a matter became serious for him), and finally said, with concern and reproach:

  “Chick, Chick!” he said with emphasis. “Do you still notice nothing. Will you never get smart? The man is in love with you!”

  Between them they had discussed everything, but never yet love. The word had never been said. Thus Gunther now looked at his friend almost as bewildered as in the first days of their acquaintance.

  Atze, however, remained serious, ordered two large cognacs, and—leaning back again—continued:

  “There’s no such thing as love. At least it’s never yet happened to me. But if it did—Chick, pay attention to what I’m telling you now—if one of them was to fall in love with me, I would really take advantage of him!”

  With that he got up, paid the check with Gunther’s money—for the first time decently earned—and took him home to Little Mama.

  3

  Nothing was left but for Gunther to show up at his meeting although he did not in the least feel like doing so.

  For one thing, Atze had ordered him to go, and then he had left him only fifty pennies when he left in the early morning, naturally again without saying when he would return.

  So in the afternoon, after working the streets unsuccessfully, he arrived punctually at the appointed corner by the bridge. His new friend was already standing there.

  The latter had a hard day’s work behind him, which had left him little time to think about anything else. But his face lit up when he saw him. So he did come! He became really joyful.

  “Well, Gunther, what shall we do now? I suppose it’s still too early to eat?”

  He was looked at in astonishment. What kind of nonsense was this again? Too early to eat? Why? Couldn’t one always eat, at any time of day? He could, at least.

  Graff saw his astonishment and it occurred to him that the boy was probably hungry again. He hastened to add, “But if you want to, we can eat right away.”

  They went to yesterday’s restaurant and sat at the same table, in the same seats, opposite one another. He also ordered something for himself. It seemed to him more tactful not to let him eat alone, although it was still too early for himself. He never ate in the evening before eight.

  He would have liked to pose a hundred questions: How had it gone with him since yesterday? Where had he slept and did he sleep well? What had he done the whole day? Had he perhaps tried to find work? Had he gotten along with his money?

  But to begin, he asked none. He had decided to ask as few questions as possible. The boy should have enough confidence in him (or gain it, if he did not yet have it) to tell him everything of his own accord.

  So he kept silent and waited.

  For the present, the business of eating completely occupied his companion, and he saw with pleasure that he really enjoyed it. When the boy was finished, he asked, smiling:

  “Tell me, Gunther, could you still eat another portion like that?”

  And he promptly received the indifferent answer: “Well why not?”

  But the second helping too finally came to an end and now he appeared truly satisfied. They looked at one another:

  Gunther at this odd john, who spent so much and still wanted nothing; and Hermann Graff at the fine face, slightly red from the work of eating. Then he suddenly had to ask:

  “What are your parents, Gunther?”

  The answer to the question came, but hesitantly. What should he reply? “My father,” he then brought out, “my
father, I don’t know. I believe he was a baron . . . and owned an estate called Gunth . . . that’s why I’m called Gunther.” (He had already forgotten that, according to his papers, he should be called an entirely different name. But he had not yet been asked for papers, and he would not show them either.)

  “And your mother?”

  “My mother was gone when I was still quite small. I always lived with my grandparents.”

  His hands, thought Hermann, that’s the reason for those hands . . . and for—

  “Shall we go for a short walk, Gunther?”

  Gunther looked at the clock on the wall.

  “Yes. But I don’t have much time. I have to go to my previous landlady’s. She still has some things of mine. I also still owe her something—”

  “But it’s still early—”

  “Yeah, sure. But the old woman goes to bed at eight and the house is closed up early. Then I can no longer get in.”

  “Perhaps you can just stay there again and sleep there.”

  No, thought Gunther. For if I say yes, he will give me only money to eat with and not another five marks to sleep with. So he continued his yarn, making it up just to get away again quickly.

  “That won’t do. The room has already been rented again.”

  Disappointed, but calm, the other remained silent.

  They walked along.

  On the bridge, he stopped and pulled himself together. Everything should be just as he wanted. Only in that way could he gain his confidence.

  “Yes, you’re right, my boy. I was hoping that we would get to know one another better today, but it’s probably better for you to go directly to your landlady, so that you don’t arrive too late. And take this until tomorrow. Then we will see and you will have more time.”

  He inconspicuously shoved a bill into Gunther’s pocket.

  “And tomorrow, will you already be here tomorrow about three o’clock at this place?”

  He listened almost fearfully for the answer.

  But Gunther promised. They shook hands.

  This time he did not look after him, although he did stay for a while and look into the water at his feet.

  He was upset and sad. He had pictured the day so very differently. Then he felt so tired that he went directly home and soon went to bed.