The Hustler: The Story of a Nameless Love From Friedrichstrasse Page 9

  There was nothing special about the third boy, a tall person, with thick, protruding lips, which he seldom opened, and then only for some stupidity.

  Hamburger had just begun to bore the five to death, one after the other, with his nonsense, when Clever Walter appeared and put an end to the flood of baloney. Clever Walter was a personality not to be taken lightly and was thoroughly aware of his worth. Despite the heat he was wearing a thick wool sweater and underneath, up to his chest—one saw their outline—a pair of knee pants that squeaked when he moved. He had a relationship with the daughter of the proprietor of the saloon. He had fathered one child already by her, and a second was soon expected. He intended to marry her one day and take over the thriving business, an intention that alone would have given him a special and unassailable prestige in this circle. In the meantime it appeared that nothing hindered him from constantly roaming the lounges and picking up whatever came along.

  He was talking now, and the others listened silently. Hamburger was leaning against the wall. The two who arrived first were occupied with their pig’s knuckles while the others watched them more or less enviously.

  No one noticed, or seemed to want to notice, that earlier, a pale young man had silently sat down among them without a greeting. They were used to his doing so.

  Someone might say softly, “Hello, Leo!” but he appeared not to hear it, as he did whatever happened around him.

  Of an indeterminate age, but obviously still young—though already past twenty—with hollow cheeks and staring eyes, he sat there with in his sickly pallor and looked straight ahead, as if he had to consider something that had slipped his mind. Then he slowly took a small box from his pocket, carefully shook a white powder onto the back of his thin hand, and drew it up through his nose. Only then did he look around the circle for the first time.

  “Leo, do give me one, too!” he was begged. But he did not hear it.

  Leo was a tireless cocaine addict. He sniffed cocaine the whole day and half the night, wherever he was. This was surely already his tenth dose today.

  The consequences showed: in his unsteady look, in his trembling hands, in his whole absent-minded, unsure, almost shy conduct.

  Twice committed to an institution, he had each time escaped. Now they left him in peace.

  Since cocaine no longer really worked, he was taking stronger poisons—ether and morphine. He would not last much longer, a blind person could see that. But why should he not be allowed his pleasure? Most of the boys took cocaine themselves, if only occasionally, when they were especially flush. It would never have occurred to anyone to say to him, “Do leave off, Leo! You’re killing yourself!” (which would not have helped in the least anyway).

  A pity. For Leo was a fine boy, from a good family. He had attended secondary school, and in lucid hours could converse charmingly.

  He went with gentlemen seldom, with women not at all. He made money through the secret (but on the other hand rather open) sale of his drugs, which—God knows from where!—he acquired and always carried with him in astonishingly large quantities: enough and more than enough.

  He was the only one who neither ate nor drank anything. His stomach could tolerate nothing more than, now and then, a sip of coffee. Even he did not know for sure how he nourished himself and kept himself up.

  Everyone liked him.

  Thus they were now eight at the table. They all knew one another, and talked one on top of the other.

  They put in their orders—beer, coffee, cognac; and sausages and sandwiches to eat.

  Clever Walter, expectant father and son-in-law of the saloon, had—no one knew why—a special fondness for little Gunther, and it was he who spoke first to Gunther: “Well, Chick, you here too? How’s it going?”

  Again, before Gunther could answer, the damned Saxon broke out with, “Gunther’s got a steady relationship now, who wants to find work for him.”

  For a moment all were dumbstruck, as if they had not heard correctly.

  Then Brown George cried, “What, work? I’m calling for help!”—and everyone laughed out loud.

  “That’s really the end of the road!” said Tall Willy, sincerely outraged.

  “He must really be dumb!” cried another.

  “And you go with someone like that?” asked Hamburger. He was speechless. And when Hamburger was speechless, the end of the world must be near!

  Clever Walter, however, looked at Chick (whom he liked) quite anxiously.

  “You’d better watch out for him!” he said “I wouldn’t have someone like that as a steady.”

  “He’s not at all a steady.” Gunther finally got a word in. He did not like being made the center of attention and did not know what to do, the way they all stormed at him.

  Help came to him.

  Little Kurt, called Kurtchen, or usually Kuddel, who had been the first to sit at the table and till then had kept silent and listened, suddenly stretched his little mouse of a face over the edge of the table and said with his high and clear child’s voice, “But I’d write him a letter!”

  They looked at him.

  Clever Walter spoke scornfully. “What would ya write then? Can ya even write?”

  Instead of answering, Kuddel began to dig around in his pocket, brought out a crumpled but still rather clean piece of paper and a pencil stub, which he wet on his tongue, and began to write without a further word. The others no longer concerned themselves with him, but returned to their conversation, which, always, turned on one theme—gentlemen and money.

  While Kuddel, unconcerned, diligently and thoughtfully continued to write, the group was enlarged by a new arrival, and the table was now rather full.

  He sat down quietly, said softly, “Good evening,” but no one returned his greeting.

  The newcomer was a curious boy. Neatly dressed and clean down to his fingernails, he resembled an apprentice in a large clothing store and at the same time a just-confirmed schoolboy, with his innocent blue eyes and his light blond, carefully parted hair. Only he among them all wore starched linen and a watch and carried a walking stick. No doubt he usually wore gloves too, but here he probably preferred to keep them in his pocket.

  His name was Ernst, Ernst Wenderroth (or Wenderotter), and he was the only one of them whose surname was even approximately known here. He was said to live with his parents, who knew everything and allowed everything.

  No one could stand him. He was only tolerated here. But he was not thrown out. Why he nevertheless still showed up from time to time at the Hustler Table, no one knew.

  For a long time no one concerned himself about him.

  Then one of them asked (naturally it was again Saxon, who could leave no one in peace):

  “Well, Ernst, are you working hard at your bookkeeping? Can you let me have a six-pence?”

  A nice smile was Ernst’s only answer. It impressed no one—not here.

  They all knew that he never gave nor loaned even so much, and they expected his usual answer: “But I don’t have anything myself!”

  As for his bookkeeping, the state of affairs was as follows:

  Already the previous winter, once when Ernst had stepped out, someone had taken a notebook from his overcoat pocket. There were hieroglyphics in it that no one understood.

  Every page was cleanly divided into columns by blue and red lines. Between the lines were only individual letters and numerals.

  For example: 5 8 FBe XXXII 15

  This meant: on the fifth of the month at 8 o’clock in the evening, at the corner of Besselstrasse and Friedrichstrasse, Ernst had met a gentleman, whose name was given only as a secret Roman numeral. (His real identity was indicated in another locked-up list, the so-called “Queer List,” that he always kept at home.) Ernst had received fifteen marks from him. These last figures, his cash income, were added up weekly and must have reached a pretty good sum by the end of the month.

  HG mean Halle Gate. PBh = Potsdam Train Station. L = lounge. PC = Public Clock. And so on thr
ough half Berlin. As was said, no one discovered their meaning, however much they guessed this way and that. Only Atze, of course, who had to know everything and would not leave him in peace, had enticed it out of him in his irresistible way. And of course he had immediately passed it on.

  “It’s a scream!” Atze had said, “and what that rascal makes for money—unbelievable!” Atze said it half admiringly and half enviously.

  Now they all knew about the bookkeeping, and they also told themselves that the owner of the book already had a handsome sum in the savings bank. When it reached a certain amount, he intended to withdraw from that business and open up his own—one of a different kind.

  So much for Ernst Wenderroth (or Wenderotter) and his book.

  Atze! Yes, why was Atze not here?

  Very simple: For one thing, he was again not in Berlin; then too, because Atze never ever went into “such” a pub; and third—

  The third?

  “Atze,” Karl the Great (who was not yet here, but was expected at any moment) had once said, “the ‘refined’ Atze”—with contemptuous emphasis—”will not come here if he cares about his bones. An eighty-penny-boy!” Thus had Karl the Great spoken, and what he said prevailed.

  “Eighty-penny-boy”—that could only mean that Atze, the refined Atze, was in secret alliance with the police. Although Atze, who was of course informed of this, constantly and vehemently swore that this was the purest slander and only envy, the suspicion was not erased. The police constantly had a couple of boys from whom they received reports on the other hustlers as well as on the homosexuals with whom they associated. As a reward they left the “eighty-penny-boys” unmolested.

  There was much in Atze’s behavior and attitude that always fed new fuel to this suspicion.

  Nothing at all was so contemptible to all these boys as an alliance with the police. It was perhaps the only thing that they truly despised. Thus, when along with Ernst’s famous book, the name of its discoverer was mentioned, for a moment there lay over the table an oppressive silence. Gunther alone did not yet understand why.

  But soon they were shouting and laughing again.

  Little Kuddel, meanwhile, had continued to write, without anyone paying attention to him.

  Bent over the table, he wrote zealously, with his nose almost on the paper. Each time a word was finished, a small, red, pointed tongue went out between his thin lips and the lead was moistened on it.

  “Are you still not finished!” he was asked.

  “Nearly! Nearly!” he said, continuing to write.

  He wrote, or drew, every single word in a stiff, small child’s writing and let nothing disturb him in his work. On his sly, gray face there appeared from time to time a cunning and satisfied smile. Whoever saw him thus would have taken him at his word, that he knew his business. He let no one get it on with him and yet still got his money. In this he was a little master, and wonders were told of his slyness, with which he still managed to win over the johns, again and again.

  *

  He was almost finished when suddenly there stood behind him, as if shot out of the earth, a tall man, twenty-two or twenty-three years old. It was the one they were expecting: Karl the Great.

  In a well-tailored suit of the best material, with his powerful, strong shoulders and his broad chest, his large, regular, handsome, and frank face, he stood there and, with a good-natured smile, looked down at the shrimps under him.

  “Children, what are you doing here? School work? Show me—”

  “One moment, I’m nearly finished,” and Kuddel’s tongue appeared between his lips.

  Karl the Great took the seat that was offered him with obliging friendliness by Hamburger. And with him was seated someone who had arrived at the same time: Sailor Otto. Sailor Otto was almost the same height, but was otherwise of an entirely different type. Of the same age—and thus much older than the other little crooks at the table—he was an old friend of Karl the Great, but quite different from him in character. What in Karl was restrained power expressed itself in Otto as brute strength. As his name indicated, he wore a sailor’s uniform and one sensed under it his muscular and sinewy arms and legs. His exposed chest showed red and blue tattoos. What one saw there was thoroughly unobjectionable: two hands entwined in love and above them the flaming star of hope. Those on his arms and legs were said to be worse already. And what he otherwise bore, those on the most discreet and private parts of his body (viewing gladly allowed, but cost a bit), were, as the blond Lieschen, the little auntie who had lain in his arms one night and so must know, related, not without moral indignation, “simply indecent.”

  Sailor Otto had never been to sea and was even more stupid than Tall Willy, who at least kept silent, whereas Otto continually threw around a couple of expressions he had picked up in Hamburg, such as “boss” and “steward”—which he pronounced “stay-ward”—no doubt in order to make more acceptable the mixture of nonsense and commonplace remarks that he poured out.

  His actions were definitely prized more than his words. He was a very bitter foe of all open and secret police (and therefore also of Atze). When he had one of them, say, at night, in a quiet corner, under his mighty fists, it was something not quickly forgotten. The criminal police knew this too and preferred to avoid him.

  Now he sat here, his sleeves rolled up, his elbows propped on the table, throwing down one beer after another behind his tattoos. He could hold an enormous amount, a capacity he truly had in common with Karl the Great. No one had ever seen those two drunk, even after they had caroused the whole night (whereas Walter, the clever father, always was).

  Karl the Great’s steady for a long time now was a rich jeweler in Leipziger Strasse (whose name was never mentioned).

  One of the boys had once seen him and described him as “a tiny man with a gray hat, trousers with cuffs over patent-leather shoes, and rings on his fingers—you couldn’t count ‘em—”

  However, a john who was a regular visitor to the Adonis Lounge and was known and loved as a wisecracker had not only seen the gentleman (whose name was never mentioned), but even knew him: “A rare cross between a sparrow and a vulture.”

  But this was a pearl before swine in this group.

  Out of respect for the two grownups, whose arrival gave the table some dignity, the conversation became somewhat less loud.

  Gunther and Tall Willy sat silent, as they had for hours. Leo dreamed on in a blissful drugged forgetfulness. Saxon had fallen into an argument with Clever Walter over the sale of an old pair of pants, in which he was supposed to have cheated. Hamburger continued to talk, without anyone listening to him, while the smart little Ernst’s blue eyes hung on Karl the Great in continual admiration—just think: a relationship with a rich jeweler! Brown George had long been audibly asleep, sunk back in his chair, showing two rows of splendid white teeth. He had not seen a bed for three nights now.

  Nevertheless it was still loud enough at the table.

  But also up front in the pub there were shouts and brawls. Threatening and drunken voices clashed with one another and were mixed into a confused noise.

  There was a continual coming and going, especially from the drivers, who could only stay a short while at the bar.

  It reeked of cabbage and fat.

  The smoke of the locomotives from the neighboring train station penetrated inside, and mixed with smoke from pipes and cigarettes into a thick haze.

  The heat was unbearable.

  But these young people were all completely insensitive to it. They hardly recognized heat and cold, and were used to noise and stench.

  Now the letter was finally finished.

  It was to be read out loud, so that everyone could hear it.

  The writer wanted to read it himself, but Clever Walter had already torn the sheet from his hand.

  “I’ll read it!” There was no objection now. And he read in a loud, hoarse, but distinct voice, “Dear . . .”

  “There’s no name. Chick, what’s the n
ame of your steady?”

  Gunther, who had been angered by this business the whole time, said crossly, “I don’t know. And he’s not my steady!”

  He really did not know at that moment or had completely forgotten it again.

  “It doesn’t matter!” roared one of them impatiently.

  “Well, all right!” said Walter and began again:

  *

  “Dear friend,

  “No john has ever been so brash and dopey as to say that I should work. If you don’t want me, you just have to say so. If you want to, we can talk things over, but I won’t be made fun of anymore. Do you understand?

  “Your loving Gunther.”

  *

  He ended.

  They all found the letter very good, and Kuddel reaped praise. But he only said, quite proudly, “There’s still something on the back side.”

  Clever Walter turned it over:

  “If you give me five marks, however, it’s all right again.”

  That, too, was universally approved.

  Only Karl the Great was irritated and opened his mouth for the first time.

  “Baloney!” he said scornfully. “First you mock him, and then you say you love him. Who is it for anyway?”

  He looked around the circle and everyone glanced again at Gunther.

  He turned red.

  He had little liking for this story. It would not have pleased Atze either.

  *

  While the letter was being read, yet another boy, tall and gaunt, had joined the table, making a full dozen.

  It was Corpse Eddy.

  Dressed entirely in black, including his derby and his wool gloves, he had sat down among the others without a greeting.

  He had not a drop of color in his face. It was as pale and bloodless as his snow-white, long, bony hands. He was even paler than Leo.

  “Corpse Eddy, where’d you come from? Out of the grave?”