The Hustler: The Story of a Nameless Love From Friedrichstrasse (23 page)

And why should he not be glad to be with him?

He was always greeted with joy, as if they had not seen one another for God knows how long; sweets were always on the table for him or in the pocket of his overcoat; there were always
the
cigarettes that were just then his favorite brand (a new kind every three days); everything was always as if it were there just for him; and—he was never questioned!

Where was he better looked after than here, with this good friend whose concern and kindness never tired? Here he was not only welcome, he was longed for, whenever he came. Here he had unlimited rule: over each feeling, over each thought.

With the natural cunning of his years, he had soon caught on to this. It flattered his youthful vanity to see himself so desired, so loved.

He let himself be pampered, spoiled, courted.

That was just right: everything revolved about him and him alone. So it should and must be.

It was precisely this that he had wanted and had found nowhere else. And it was what the other boys did not have, at least not like this. Never had any person, not even approximately, been like this to him.

A feeling told him that it was better not to speak of his friendship to any of the other boys. Either they would laugh at him or he would be sounded out and envied. So he kept silent when he was questioned about where he had been and where he was coming from or where he intended to go; where he had got this new outfit and these new boots. (Well, he was making out, what concern was it of the others!)

And the best part was: he could come and go without ever being questioned. He was never nagged. He absolutely could not stand constant nagging.

And Hermann?

What had he to say about his life? Nothing. He knew nothing about his life. He kept his promise. His only fear was that he could break down and thus lose him again. He had grown patient, infinitely patient. He resigned himself to sharing, since he could not completely possess him, since he could not have him entirely for himself alone, as his dream had been.

He lived now only in him. He was himself only in his proximity. If he was not always happy—in some hours he was completely happy!

*

Only at times, in the first weeks, were the old feelings still stronger than himself. Then it could happen, when had him on his knees and was holding him, that his arms would become limp with the thought: Who held him like this yesterday, perhaps just now? His arms would fall, the boy would slide down and look up at him in surprise:

“What’s the matter with you now?”

Or crossly:

“You know, I can never figure you out. Sometimes like this, sometimes like that. Not at all like—”

Like the others, he had wanted to say. But he did not say it. He, too, thought of his promise. And also of how good he had it here. That was not be thrown away!

Then his friend gave up thinking and doubting.

He forced himself to. It served no purpose. Things were like this and could not be otherwise. One argument, one demand, one simple question would be the end. Only in this way could he keep him. Only thus in time win his love, which would then belong to him alone, offered freely and of his own accord. The hour would—it
must
—come!

His love would compel it.

*

“Manny,” Gunther said. He was standing behind him and looking at his work, the crossed-through words and the incomprehensible signs drawn with red ink on the margin of the long paper strips. He had become bored and was standing with his hands around the neck of his friend, trying to get under his collar. He knew he liked that.

The working man jerked around.

Gunther pretended innocence: “Well now, Manny. That’s really your name.” What, he still didn’t know the abbreviation for manikin?

No, and he found it silly. One could call a dachshund that (or at most a tactless wife her husband), but not a person.

“Now, don’t get upset. I won’t call you that again, if you don’t like it.”

He silently resolved to call him that again at the next opportunity. It was always good to know what would make someone angry.

Actually, he really did not want to anger him, for during those weeks he had truly formed a kind of attachment to this friendly, always patient, always loving friend, who was so entirely different from all the others.

With Potsdam, however, he did prefer not to try any more.

“Are you still angry with me about Potsdam?” he had asked. But here, for the first time, Hermann truly became bad-tempered (bad-tempered, not angry).

“Just keep quiet about Potsdam!” Then immediately he became nice and calm, but serious: “All that should and must be forgotten between us!”

Gunther sensed how much the mere mention hurt his feelings, even if he did not understand.

*

Things became better as the weeks passed by. Slowly, but definitely better. Rarely did his boy now stay away a whole day, and when that did happen, it was clear that he himself felt bad about it.

What had prevented him? Graff did not ask, but he would now spontaneously give an explanation: he had had an appointment; a “date”; a chance meeting with some acquaintance or other “from earlier,” who then did not let him go.

“Don’t be angry with me!”

No, he was not angry. He was never angry. He could not be angry with him.

The weather was awful. After the long, extraordinarily hot summer came first a changeable September, then a noticeably cooler and rainy October, and now it was already November, with the first snowfalls and cold, gloomy, sad days from which the last sun of the year crept away.

Then they did what they both said was best, namely not go out at all. Rather they lit the lamp, prepared their own meal, and made themselves comfortable in the warm and quiet room.

The greatest thing for the boy was, having eaten till he was full, the first cigarette in his mouth (and after a little chat), to sprawl on the old sofa and (so that he would not freeze) get snug in a blanket, his legs drawn up and his arms propped on the armrest, to be able to read to the end a wonderful thriller, whose cover pictured the horrible event when the safe was opened and the corpse of the disloyal bank teller, who had been locked up in it, fell into the arms of the man recoiling in horror. Meanwhile, Hermann read printers’ proofs at his desk and now and then (really often) looked over at the breathless tension and reddened cheeks of the reading boy.

For Hermann, however, the greatest happiness was, when this charming story (or another just as charming) had been read to its end with a deep sigh of satisfaction, to sit beside him, take his head in his hands, and look into those unfathomable eyes, whose color he still did not know because it was always changing; to inhale the fragrance of his hair and lightly and lovingly caress it anew, until the cheeky rascal laughingly blew the smoke of his tenth cigarette (for today) into his face.

*

It was an odd relationship between the two, and it remained so.

Basically each would have been glad to break their contract, but neither dared to.

In the many hours of these days they naturally became closer.

But the final trust was missing.

Always there remained a barrier between them, which they were never allowed to cross. One not allowed to ask, the other not allowed to tell how he lived.

But what stories he could have told!

Thus they kept silent more and more: the one content as it was; the other happy just to see him so often, to be allowed to have him with him for hours—but always with the secret fear of losing him if he did not know how to keep him.

At times Graff thought:

It’s really comical. We have already been together so long now, almost daily, and basically I still know nothing about him—not how he has lived nor how he lives now. Ask him just once! Try it at least!

But again and again he left it undone.

Even if Gunther no longer resented questions, if he received an answer, what would he hear?

Quite shocking and strange things, which he would not comprehend and which must fill him with indignation or disgust. And which surely could help nothing, but instead harm their love.

It was (superficially) better the way things were. It was better that the veil between them not be lifted.

That here and there a word raised the veil, like a breath of air, was unavoidable. Thus it happened one day, spontaneously, that the story of the Count was told. Surely he was allowed to tell it, thought Gunther to himself. It was a case of “nothing happened.”

So his friend heard it, astonished, shaken and—since unfortunately he entirely lacked the expertise of the all-knowing Atze—without understanding a word of it. The man had probably been crazy. But still—it was bad enough that something like that existed. But he did gather from the confused and incomprehensible tale that his darling must have had it very good there in many respects, better than with him, and this pained him. But then he heard also that with him—here with him—it was really much cozier. This pleased and comforted him again.

Their conversation was otherwise mainly limited to what was immediate: how it was going for him; where they wanted to go today and whether they wanted to go out at all; what he needed—to end then in mutual silence or in a mute embrace.

For—Graff soon had to be convinced of it—his little friend had no interests at all. In no one and in nothing. What was of such burning interest to other boys of his age—sports, adventures (even a little flirt with a girl, which he would gladly have forgiven)—all that left Gunther completely cold. He practiced no sport. But of adventures he still had enough experience. And he did not concern himself with girls: “Oh, the old women! They’re all so silly, and also cost much too much money!”

A good play or one of the better films bored him. Excursions were now automatically forbidden. He did not know how to entertain himself. And when once a good book was substituted for his everlasting thriller, it was soon shoved aside with a yawn: “What nonsense!”

To resign himself to doing without an intellectual communion, and to take pleasure only and repeatedly in his bodily presence, always newly enchanting, in his smile and his sweet voice (which remained sweet, even when he talked nonsense)—what was left, except this?

*

Nevertheless he sought again and again to get behind a puzzle, which was no puzzle and therefore had no solution.

For it was and remained the discord of these years: eternal change and becoming; defiance and devotion; wanting and then again not wanting; moods, moods, moods.

Who has ever understood it? Who can understand it—the puzzle of these years?

At times, in clear hours not troubled by passion, Graff said to himself in the face of this unbounded indolence: But he is really stupid! Simply stupid!

And then again after one of Gunther’s remarks (for example, about their relationship, which surprised him): No, he’s not either! A stupid boy never says anything like that! Then, too, the entirely characteristic way in which Gunther at times expressed himself struck him. He was often droll, and much that he said pointed to an acute observation and a precocious (acquired where?) knowledge of human nature.

Besides, who was he to judge! He was no doubt quite boring himself.

Must he not appear stupid to him often enough, with his lack of knowledge of people and his inexperience?

He had to love him. Nothing further. And that he did. More and more every day.

Life without him would now seem unthinkable to him.

*

No, Gunther was not stupid. Even if his questions were not always intelligent and showed only the great lack of understanding of his age, still they were often of a childlike grace—questions of the kind one is always glad to answer for children.

Thus Gunther asked one day, quite unexpectedly, when his friend was again looking at him for a long time, as if he never wanted to take his gaze from Gunther’s face: “What is it you like so much about me, Hermann?”

The man found no answer at first.

Yes, what did he actually like so much about him? he asked himself. Everything, everything! he thought. But he could not just say that.

So he said then, after a while, smiling:

“Look angry! So. For then there appears”—he laid his finger on the upper right corner of his mouth—”then there appears this little, white tooth.”

Atze, too, had said that once.

Only he had expressed it differently:

“Man, why do you always screw up your mug! You can see right away when something is wrong with you! Just get rid of
that.

Otherwise the johns will believe you want to bite them.”

*

Are you, too, glad to be with me, my darling?” he was asked in return—in a good hour.

“Yes, sure,” came the answer. “With you I’m secure. With the others you never know what they will suddenly want from you. With you, I know that you want nothing, just like with the Count.”

And at Hermann’s look: