The Hustler: The Story of a Nameless Love From Friedrichstrasse (14 page)

The man seemed to be waiting for someone. For whom? Certainly not for him. Surely he couldn’t still be waiting for him? That was just impossible. It was really so long ago, it could no longer be true.

No, the man must be waiting here now for another boy, whom he had procured in his place. There were johns like that, who always picked the same place for each rendezvous because it was the most convenient for them.

He retreated a few steps, so as not to be seen unexpectedly, and stood next to the buildings.

He wanted to see how the story there played out and whom he had now.

But what if he turned around now, saw and recognized him? The way he looked now? And what was he to tell him, why he had not come?

He did not need to fear.

The man was standing there, near the railing of the footpath that led down to the water, seeing nothing. Just as if he
wanted
to see nothing.

How strange he appeared! What was it with him?

An uncomfortable feeling crept over the boy. He preferred to leave before he was seen. He wanted to go to Uncle Paul’s. Tall Willy was probably already there, whom he had lent two marks several days ago. He should give back at least one of them or pay for Gunther’s meal there.

He carefully slipped around the corner.

Turning around he saw once more the motionless, sunk-down figure. Completely crazy!

On the way he did not get free of the memory of this unexpected meeting.

What was the last thing Atze had said to him? “Go after him! For the man loves you!”

And he had indeed gone after him and had followed Atze’s advice to take advantage of him, as much as was possible under the circumstances. Then he had stayed away, because it had bored him out of all patience; because the others had laughed at him with the stupid letter; and finally, because these last days had been much too busy for him to think of other things.

Otherwise the man had been a nice person. To have a relationship (a steady) must also be really nice. He saw that those who went “in couples” were not bad off: they always had money, a fixed place to live, and clothes, and usually did not have to take fidelity too seriously. Above all they did not have to go with just anyone because need drove them to it.

The man had halfway promised to take care of him, and he did not look as if he would not keep a promise, as if he were not serious about it. On the contrary, he was much too serious—not at all like the other johns. Naturally in the end it also came down to
this:
How much might he make in a month?

Work? Now, that surely depended in the last analysis on himself, and if there were a genuine relationship between them, he would just twist the matter, so that there was no more talk of
that.
Such babble naturally had to stop.

He had to take care of lodging, food, clothing, and a certain amount of pocket money—that in any case.

His thoughts went further. What if he had been waiting for him now, his Gunther? What had he said: “Every day . . . this week!” The man would have been there—he calculated—already for the fourth day, and today too he had still been watching for him!

“Man, Gunther,” he said to himself as the Friedrichstrasse Train

Station showed up, “if that’s really so, then he must be terribly keen on you!”

Should he not go there once more tomorrow, to see if the man was there
again?

The thought enticed him.

He resolved to be respectable today, and above all to say nothing to the others about it.

Of course he still had to make some money today. But it was to be only table money. In no case would he go with anyone. He wanted to sleep alone and, if he could, to buy a few things, so as to look as decent as possible: a new shirt, a pair of socks, and a new tie.

*

He was now in front of Uncle Paul’s.

At the Hustler Table were Leo, totally out on cocaine; little Kuddel; and naturally, the unavoidable Saxon. Then came the two studs, Sailor Otto and Karl the Great, in all their glory. Then, one by one, Clever Walter, Tall Willy, Hamburger, and finally, Corpse Eddy, pale as a ghost and wordless. He received the usual greeting.

The smart little bookkeeper Ernst was missing. After setting aside an amount for a return trip, and after taking care of some other business matters, he had been taken along to Italy by a rich Englishman, with the blessings of his pleased parents. He would no doubt return safe and sound.

Apart from the fact that the still unsettled argument between Clever Walter and Saxon over the used trousers had broken out again; that Sailor Otto, who had lost at cards and therefore was as irritable as a tiger whose tail has been stepped on, was continually roaring at the smaller ones: they should stop or he would knock their teeth in (what they were to stop, no one knew, for no one was doing anything to him); and apart from the fact that Karl the Great had finally became angry too and bluntly silenced Otto (“The kids aren’t doing anything to you, so leave them in peace!”)—apart from all that, it was a right cozy evening.

The musclemen were playing cards—a nice game called “Hunt me, George”—and the kids were rolling dice for their beers.

Toward eight they all broke up, as usual, to “make out.”

9

It was the second time that Gunther not only made a resolution, but also carried it out. (The first had been his running away.)

As table money he made eight marks, merely by his presence, although he drank little and was as boring as ever. Then he got after everyone who still owed him money—which was almost ev-eryone—and requested his money back in a way that was unusual for him. (“What’s the matter with you all at once, Chick?”) He forced one mark thirty from Saxon, one mark from Tall Willy, and Brown George, finally angry, threw him a fifty-penny piece. All the others obstinately refused him. But now he had all together ten marks and eighty pennies.

He slept alone, for the first time in a long while, at his old hotel. He was up already at eleven and went shopping. He bathed until four and at half past was already on the bridge.

He had figured out exactly what he wanted to say.

He also wanted to be friendlier (but not too friendly).

He saw him coming. Again, just as yesterday, his friend was looking absently straight ahead. Stopping at the railing, the man laid both hands on the iron bars.

Gunther slowly walked up to him.

*

On this Friday Hermann Graff had resolved, since Gunther had not come yesterday, that he would wait no more, but would instead take the streetcar directly to near his home.

But at the Spree he got off anyway and will-lessly walked his usual route along the river’s edge to the bridge.

He was standing at the head of the bridge! He did not know himself that he had gotten off or why.

He was thinking about nothing. He was not waiting. He was not hoping. He was just standing there.

Why should he not just stand there?

Then he was startled by a light touch on his arm.

Before him stood, in a fresh, colorful shirt, the collar turned down, his hair still damp (but carefully parted with a comb that he had borrowed in the bathing establishment), smelling of water and youth—Gunther!

Not at all embarrassed, but smiling and looking up at him, he began talking. “You’re not angry with me, are you, Hermann?” (He hoped he remembered the name correctly.) “You’re not angry, are you, that I didn’t come? I
really
couldn’t. My uncle took me with him on his business trip. I helped carry his bags.” (In the lounge there was a boy who now and then was taken along on a business trip by some relative.)

The man spoken to heard him, but understood not a word.

Shaken, he continued staring into the smiling face before him, like the face of someone believed dead, now resurrected.

Was it really and truly he?

He could find not a single word. His throat was dry and choked.

Slowly he realized he was not dreaming, but was awake, that standing before him, speaking to him, was really Gunther. And then: that he had said “Du” to him and was smiling, as he had never seen him smile.

And with this perception, this undeniable understanding that it was reality, living reality, there fell from him at one stroke all the cares and fears of these days. All mistrust and every suspicion also fell away, as did his last feelings of indignation or anger, and every doubt of this dreadful week. Only
one
feeling did he have: He was here! He had him again!

He had him again. He said “Du” to him. And he smiled!

So violently then did joy flood over him like a wave, that he was able to smile at him again.

But he still could not find words.

Gunther found them. “But we can’t just stand here. People are already beginning to look at us. Shouldn’t we walk?”

Nothing was more indifferent to Graff at this moment than other people, about whom he also otherwise cared heartily little.

But the boy was right. They could not stay there.

They walked alongside one another and as a matter of course entered their old pub. They sat at their table.

The waitress came, friendly as ever. “Now he’s back . . . and now you’re not as sad as the last time, sir!”

Graff was not listening. Gunther, already over the menu, ordered.

Then, alone, the older man reached across the table and took the small hand, still damp from bathing and now quite clean, with a firm grip and said with a deep sigh. “I believed I would
never
see you again, Gunther!”

He held the hand firmly, quite firmly, as if he never wanted to let it go.

Gunther started again about the uncle, but to his own relief he was stopped and could only just say: “He absolutely did not want to let me go, but wanted to take me home with him. But I had to come back here, for I knew that you were waiting for me.”

It was no longer joy that Graff was feeling, it was happiness. An inexpressible feeling of happiness!

He had come! He had returned for his sake! He spoke in a friendly way—so very differently. He smiled. And he said “Du” to him!

“And I believed you had entirely forgotten me, Gunther. Did you think about me?”

“Always. When you were so good to me.”

Not happiness—but bliss!

Food arrived. It would have been impossible for him to get down even a bite. But the boy seemed not to have lost his appetite in the least and ate as if he had eaten nothing the whole week.

“You’re not eating anything!” he said.

“I can’t. I’m not hungry.”

“But it shouldn’t go to waste. May I?”

The other portion disappeared too. They had to laugh about it and drew closer together.

Gradually Graff became calmer. He never took his gaze from him. His thoughts cleared.

Painfully it occurred to him that today, precisely today, he had carried away from the office a large pile of urgent proof sheets that he must take care of by Monday. He had voluntarily taken on the work. The press was waiting, so all the less was it possible now to leave them undone. The work was to have helped him get through the evening, through tomorrow, through the long Sunday.

But now everything was different.

He thought it over. Tomorrow, as soon as he was free—and of course all of Sunday too—they must be together. It was better to get the work done this evening. He would have to work half the night, but what did that matter! He could now work and three times as fast!

He said it hesitantly.

Gunther entirely agreed with him.

“It doesn’t matter. Then we’ll just see one another tomorrow”

“I’ll tell you something, Gunther. It has to be done today. It’s better that way. Tomorrow when I come from work early, let’s meet right away and then ride out to Potsdam in the afternoon, stay there overnight and all of Sunday and”—he could now smile too—”see the town and Sanssouci, rent a boat, go bathing—”

Gunther was listening.

As long as he had been in Berlin, the whole quarter of a year, he had never gone beyond the city limits. He would be glad to make an excursion. He had gone in a boat only once—on the Spree near the “Zelten.” But then the others had carried on with so much nonsense, rocking the boat so that it had almost turned over and he would have fallen into the water (and he couldn’t even swim). That would not be a bad plan.

He agreed.

“All right, tomorrow then. And what will you do until then? Where are you staying? You’ll also need something—”

But here Gunther made a heroic decision (which would pay off) and said, “No, let it go, Hermann. My uncle left me so much that I can get by until tomorrow.”

“That on top of everything else!” thought Hermann, who was touched. And he had been able to doubt him! He felt ashamed. But of course he had to give him something, so it was again the usual. After some resistance, it was also accepted (and only too gladly!).