The Hustler: The Story of a Nameless Love From Friedrichstrasse (24 page)

“Only what I myself want,” and he pressed closer to him.

“Just like with the Count,” the man thought bitterly. “Only with the difference that he was completely indifferent to you, whereas I love you!”

And then as he was more intimately embraced: “Yes, only what
you
want! In each and every thing! Only
your
happiness!”

*

“You’re so quiet, Hermann,” was often said.

Happiness makes for quiet.

“Speak, you speak! I gladly hear you speak.”

“Me? But I have nothing to tell.”

And, as always, the unspoken lay between them like an invisible wall.

On the fourteenth of November they celebrated Gunther’s sixteenth birthday. Long before, Hermann had tried to find out what he wished for most.

“Do tell me something, so that I can really delight you, Gunther,” he begged again and again. But the boy did not want to tell him:

“It’s too expensive for you.”

Finally it did come out: “A wrist watch . . . a quite simple one . . . naturally not gold, there’s no question of that . . . a simple, silver one.”

Hermann searched for a long time until he found what he wanted: a plain, silver watch, held by a light-colored leather band, which he would like and which would look nice on the brownish skin of his wrist.

He was looking forward to the day, more than the boy himself.

“You will come?”

And this time he had the courage to add: “And spend the evening with me?”

It was granted.

Yes, he would make himself free, Gunther swore (and he honestly meant it).

Make himself free? From what and from whom? thought Hermann.

The day came and a loaded table awaited the birthday boy.

It was covered in white and decorated with flowers and sixteen candles. On the table also lay all the things that must delight a young heart—this heart also, which knew so little of the joys that moved others his age. There lay neckties; gloves; a walking stick (which he had always wanted); a cigarette case (with many cigarettes of his latest favorite brand); and finally a book with suspense, adventures, and remarkable lives (which he secretly hoped would force the thrillers a bit into the background). There lay a wallet (also wished for, to carry the papers he never showed, but always carried with him in a dirty envelope). There lay shirts and underwear (again so much needed).

At his first glance Gunther thought that the one thing he most wanted was missing.

But it was
not
missing. As he regarded everything in silence, the watch was placed around his wrist. As while the giver did it and then kissed the slender, beloved, little hand, and felt the other in gratitude caress his cheek, he was happy, perfectly happy.

“You have outdone yourself, Hermann.”

And then a soft: “You are good.”

They celebrated here.

At first with chocolate they made themselves and cakes and pastries in such mountains that even Gunther fought against them in vain.

They celebrated further. Outside.

At first in a cinema. Not exactly in the one to which Gunther would have wished to go, but rather (he had to sacrifice something) in one of the largest and nicest, a true palace, and they saw a wonderful reproduction of human longing, human courage, and unbending will in its reality, more adventurous and exciting than any fantasy that could be imagined: saw the ship of explorers strive toward the unknown distance; saw them spend the winter in the eternal ice; the expedition of the few with their sleds and dogs through the ice and snow toward one goal; saw their disappointment and return, and finally the gripping end—the despair and death from extreme exhaustion. And as Hermann sought the hand of his darling beside him and, deeply affected, pressed it, the boy said:

“But none of that is really true.”

They celebrated further. The high point, the birthday dinner, had arrived. For that, one of the best and most distinguished restaurants in a large hotel was selected. A moment of wondering whether the boy might feel strange and uncomfortable there was banished.

Graff did not need to worry. Gunther did not appear at all astonished or even impressed. As they sat down at the reserved table, he said perfunctorily:

“I’ve been here a couple of times already.”

Hermann was dumbfounded.

“Here?”

“Well, sure, with the Count. We always sat over there.”

Nor did the surroundings for a moment affect his appetite, and he altogether conducted himself almost more confidently than his friend in the strange place.

It turned out to be a lovely evening.

Although the host found it somewhat trivial, naturally the bottle of champagne was not to be lacking. Here, too, Gunther again proved himself a connoisseur. He spoke of sec and dry, and named brands of which the older man had scarcely heard.

“But you don’t know anything at all,” Gunther remarked after making the selection himself.

At the end he declared himself “so full” that he could no longer walk, and since it appeared that Hermann, too, who obviously did not have Gunther’s strong stomach, was somewhat tipsy, his friend was allowed to take him in a cab to a spot near his house. Then Hermann (alone but happy) trudged home.

*

It was an odd relationship between the two.

And yet it became better day by day.

The gifts for his birthday had pleased the boy, indeed touched him (as far as this was possible).

They must have cost a lot of money (as had the evening) and he knew indeed that his friend was not well off.

He followed Atze’s advice badly—he did not take advantage of Hermann. For one thing, it was not in him to do so; for another, he did not need to at all.

He was quite content with what he received (and he was constantly receiving something, without even expressing the wish). The “others” had to take care of the “other” things. To get out of them what there was to get was self-evidently a matter of honor (and not all that easy). They had it. And besides, that’s what they were there for.

Thus the boy lacked nothing, and he wished that it might stay that way always.

His friend hardly desired more.

He had given up reflecting about him. He was still a puzzle to him in so many ways, and he remained such. He did not comprehend why he still wanted to go away from him—there, to where he could not and should not follow. Two souls must dwell in his breast: the inheritance of his mixed blood—from his father, this spirit (and thoughtlessness); from his mother, this robust indifference to enduring life wherever it led, this indifference to life alto-gether—his splendor and his grime.

As was said, he gave up reflecting about him.

He said to himself: “I have never been happy. But I am still young. I, too, want to be happy once. I can be so only in him, and only if I take him as he is—with all his delightful charm, with all his secret depths and shallows. I may not question him. I will not question him. I will live in him: in his smile (which for me is like no other human smile); in his breath; in the sweet scent of his youth; and—in his heart, as far as it is mine! And I will be content with what he wants to give and can give me.”

Thus he thought and was happy—was completely so in many an hour again and again.

*

One day, exactly eight days after his birthday, Gunther stayed away.

2

He did not come on that day, nor on the next. He stayed away.

The first day Hermann Graff was only sad.

Now he is already starting to stay away again, he thought.

But the next day already brought his old uneasiness.

It had been weeks since he had stayed away two days in a row. Just what could it be? He waited until nine o’clock, then went out, walked the streets aimlessly for a long time, and slept badly during the night.

With the third day, however, anxiety over him set in: What could it be? What had happened?

Something must have happened?
What?

With anxiety, however, also came the feeling that something must be done. But
what?

He had the shivers. For he found no answer to his own question.

As he sought further for an answer, he had to realize in plain terror that he was not in the least able to give one.

What was he to do? Where was he to look for him?

He knew neither where he lived nor with whom he lived. Somewhere up there in the northeast of the city—toward Weissensee. When they had gone out for the evening and he said (always to his friend’s joy and relief) he wanted to go “directly home,” he sometimes took a bus in that direction. He was not allowed to accompany him. Thus he always rode away unquestioned. (Only once, eight days earlier on his birthday, had he been allowed to take him up there in a taxi, but even then only to the neighborhood of his room, which surely was a good piece farther on.) Gunther was like that: always with a certain joy in secrecy. It went with his life.

Should he go there where he had found him: on the streets? The streets were many and long. First, of course, to Friedrichstrasse with its Passage. But no—he was no longer to be found there. Not any longer. Since he had once been arrested there, his fear was too great that he would be apprehended again and not let go. This fear was not a pretense. It spoke through each of his words, as often as the conversation turned to that area. Even when they went out together, they always, at his request, made a detour around the feared streets. So, not there. There last of all!

In the bars, the lounges? Graff was unfamiliar with them. Not one did he know even by name. And there, too, he would not be found. He no longer visited them, since he no longer made his acquaintances there.

These acquaintances, however, what kind of people were they? He had no idea, he knew nothing about them—not their names, not where they lived, not how they might look, and not what they did.

He knew nothing about him, nothing!

He did not even know his last name!

Lulled into security these past weeks, he had lived from day to day with him, sure of being allowed to see him again, if not tomorrow, then the day after—sure that he could no longer lose him.

As if it had to stay that way. As if it could not become otherwise.

Unbelievable carelessness! Inconceivable stupidity! Criminal recklessness!

Now he accused himself.

True, he had not been allowed to question him. His promise, their agreement, bound his tongue.

But he should have got out of him, with care, with kindness, with promises, yes, even with cunning, what he wanted to know and must know!

Yet, all would have been in vain! Not with cunning and persuasion, not with love and kindness, with nothing in the world would he have dragged out of him what he did not wish to say. He knew him that much already: in that respect he was like all boys (or at least the majority). What they did not want to tell, they did not tell. Had Gunther noticed his intention, he would have been cross. No, more: mean and angry, and in such a state, he might have decided never to return, to stay away, and he would have been lost to him again forever!

He knew nothing of him. The only thing he could do was to sit here in his room and wait. Wait for him.

*

Which he did. He waited.

The first days, he did not go out again after work. He bought his food earlier, but he hardly touched it.

He lay there, stretched out on the sofa, hands clasped behind his head, staring at the ceiling. He thought about only one thing: Will he come today? Will he come again?

He lay there and stared.

He listened—for the little whistle down below to call him. Had it not just sounded? He sprang up and dashed to the window. But everything was empty below in the street, as empty as the wall opposite.

He walked wearily back. He lay there and stared. It became dark.

It occurred to him that he must make a light—a sign that he was home and waiting. Otherwise Gunther might believe he was out and walk on, not venturing to come up. He lit a lamp and placed it on his desk as close as possible to the window.

Then he lay down again in the half-shadow and stared: waiting, waiting, waiting.

The day came to an end. It was evening—it turned nine, ten o’clock.

The day had ended. He had not come.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow came. But he did not. Again not.

He did not come. He was gone.

*

On the sixth day, the end of the week, he realized there was no sense in just continuing to wait here.

He did not come because he was
unable
to come. He would come no more. Something terrible had happened to prevent him. But what?
What?!

Was he sick? Then he would have sent a message and had him called to come and take care of him—by the friend with whom he lived, by the old lady in whose house he lived; or, if he was in a hospital, from there through some kind of messenger. No, he must not be sick. He had left that last time completely healthy. And then, did a boy ever get sick? That never happened.