The Hustler: The Story of a Nameless Love From Friedrichstrasse (7 page)

The fifth day was really bad.

It was jinxed—not a john far and wide, where they were usually stepping on your heels!

There was still just enough money for a couple of sausages, to which he had reluctantly returned, but no more for cigarettes, which had become indispensable. He finally decided to inquire at Little Mama’s, despite her strict prohibition not to come without four marks. But he had to know if Atze was there again, or if she had heard from or knew about him.

Little Mama was at home of course (for she
never
went out) and she received him most ungraciously, not even letting him in at first.

“I’m a poor woman and Atze exploits me enough as it is. Atze? No, he’s not been here again. For the present he probably won’t come back at all. It’s probably become too hot for him. That’s why he skipped out.”

And she added:

“I tell ya, Chick, you can come anytime, but only when you’ve got money. You can surely make out, such a good-looking boy like you!” and she slammed the door in his face.

*

If he had not run into another boy on Unter den Linden (he had come back the whole long way by foot), an acquaintance of Atze whom he also knew, and after much begging touched him for two marks (“But only because you know Atze”), he actually would have had to sleep that night in the Tiergarten.

He woke up hungry and spent the new day hungry.

Finally, late in the afternoon, he found a pickup.

But what a disgusting little bandy-legged guy he was: his head sat between his hunchback shoulders and his eyes lurked behind his glasses.

And how unclean, how old! “Coming with me? A quickie. Three marks—”

Again only three marks! But what was he to do?

“Where to then?”

“Just come along!” They walked into a side street, entered a house, climbed up empty, dead-silent, carpeted stairs.

“Here? But if someone comes?”

“No one is coming.”

And no one came.

Below again, after the short stay, for the first time his stomach was turning from disgust. He wanted his money.

The old man, in the nearest doorway, brought out a wallet whose thickness aroused confidence.

“Wait here a moment. I just have to make change quickly,” and slipped around the corner.

Gunther waited. He waited five, ten minutes. He waited a quarter of an hour. Meanwhile he was thinking about where he would go now and what he would eat.

He waited a half hour.

Finally he realized that he had been gypped!

What a scoundrel! What a swindler! Taking away a poor boy’s hard-earned money! And the man had money, he had seen it! But if he saw him again, he would have the man arrested! Fix him for good, and on the spot! Tears came to his eyes.

He crept back to Unter den Linden and sat down.

He brooded.

It served him right. Why had he not obeyed Atze! He had told him more than once, “If you go for a quickie, get your money first!” Now he was empty-handed.

This too in addition to everything! He had no more will for it, none at all. First to go with such a skunk, and then to be cheated besides!

He was brooding and rummaging through his pockets. Not a six-pence, not one penny left. Only a broken matchbox and a squashed cigarette butt. He smoked it up.

He
had
to have money—this very day—no matter where it came from. Where did it usually come from? But from now on he would look those guys over! No one was to come to
him
again with a “come along and pay later”! Not
him
again!

He looked up and glanced around.

There was nothing walking by. No one was even looking at him.

But over there on the bench? That young man?

Was he not looking over at him?

Was he one?

He did not look like it. But he was looking over. At him?

No matter. It must be tried.

He got up.

2

Young Hermann Graff had “settled in,” as they say—to the city and to his work.

His days had meaning. He gave it to the evenings by reading at home or by attending a theater and a good concert. Yet mostly during these magical spring days—each one better than the last in the purity of the air and the gentle luster of the first sun—he made trips in the environs. Out to Treptow or to Wannsee. And on Sundays, out to Potsdam, which he loved above all.

He also spent many an evening under the trees of the Tiergarten, where he soon knew every turn of the paths. When tired of wandering around, he sat in one of the outdoor cafes on the Spree near “In den Zelten.” In one cafe was a table in a corner, far from the other guests. There he sat many an evening, the Spree below, and above him the branches of old trees.

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.