The Hustler: The Story of a Nameless Love From Friedrichstrasse (21 page)

What else was he to do now? It was over with Atze forever. The lounges in the west remained closed to him. He was sick and tired of the Adonis Lounge. And—what was the worst—he no longer dared to go into the Passage and its surroundings, Unter den Linden and Friedrichstrasse, after being arrested and warned today. He would have to be on guard against letting himself be seen there again! Then it was over for him—he knew that! He was angry with himself. He should have been able to see that it was not a john. To be taken in so!

He was unable to fall asleep. The whole day thunder had rolled and lightning flashed. But still no rain came, none for weeks now. The heat in the small room was unbearable. Even when he opened the window, it did not help, for it was the same outside, and it also always stank so much from the courtyard. He twisted about in the pillows.

He thought further about him.

Yes, he wanted to try once again. Tomorrow. At five. But not on the bridge, in another way.

But if—and it really looked like it—he was still innocent?

Then—and with this thought he had to laugh to himself—then he would just have to seduce
him!

Laughing to himself, he finally fell asleep.

9

In the feelings of the man who was supposed to be thus seduced a definitive change had taken place in the past days.

He no longer blamed the boy, but only himself.

He realized how falsely, how completely falsely, he had conducted himself and acted.

The boy could not understand him. He was too young for that. He did not know what love was; he could not know. He had doubtless never met with it. He had never heard from his father; hardly remembered his mother, out there in the world; his grandparents, old people. And here? Whom could he possibly have here, who took even the most superficial interest in him?

The environment in which he grew up, even more, that in which he now found himself (good God, what kind of environment that must be!) must have choked off all his better and finer sentiments. The struggle against hunger and need had hardened, dulled, and embittered him. The filth all around him had rubbed off on him!

Thus the man, who was still so young and ignorant of life, spoke to himself, again and again, in the endeavor of the lover to find excuses for his loved one. In the end, he was almost on the point of admiring him, that in spite of everything he had maintained himself, had still remained at times so childlike in his glance with those gray-blue eyes, so charming in his whole nature.

He, he alone was to blame, or at least mainly to blame.

Why had he not taken him in his arms like the others (only a thousand times more tenderly and considerately—and without the ugly secondary objectives)? Why had he not spoken to him, as doubtless everyone spoke to him, in the only language that he was able to understand (only with an entirely different tone in the words, a more affectionate and understanding one)? Why, oh why had he not been entirely different to him?

Everything would have then turned out differently. Perception would have come (even if not understanding). A kind of friendship would have slowly grown up between them (even if probably not real friendship, which could only consist of mutual respect). Even perhaps with time, a long but beautiful time, something like an inclination (even if, of course, not love, for one could never feel love for a street boy).

Such were his thoughts now, and he brooded deeper and deeper in them until they were replaced by others, which tormented him so that he found no peace: If he had acted differently to him from the very beginning, he would perhaps still have been able to rescue the boy, to lift him out of the mire in which he was now irretrievably sunk, have still been able to rescue him at the last moment! He sought to acquit himself from this guilt of omission, and could not.

This self-torture, however, also gave way to a feeling of helplessness and fatalism. No, he could not have been able to help him. It had been too late!

And finally these feelings, too, gave way to one that stayed and stayed—that of longing for him.

Last of all, however, in these hot days and humid nights which made the blood boil, this feeling of longing changed itself into a new and final one—that of desire!

Now he lied to himself no more.

What was every love (and he loved him, still loved him—loved him more than ever before!)—what was every love in its deepest foundation but the burning wish for possession of the “beloved object”?

Why did people talk and twaddle about a love of souls!

It did not exist. It was the sentiment of weak, eccentric, sick people! The healthy person wanted and had to possess what he loved, not in unstable dreams of longing, but rather in the warm reality of life.

Everything—he lied to himself no more—that he felt for him had been nothing other than this one burning wish: to possess him!

He remembered the first evening after their first reunion, the evening after their quick parting in the garden on the Spree. He was prepared to sacrifice his life’s salvation to be allowed just once to enclose this strange and tender body in his arms!

That’s how it was and not otherwise.

What had his fearful struggle been basically? Where did the unrest of his days, the wild dreams of his nights, come from? And this tormenting longing, what was it except this one unfulfilled wish?

He deceived himself no more.

He had arrived where he should have started from, if he had not been so obsessed, not been blind and deaf, not been such a complete fool!

To him! cried out in him.

Now—but where was he now?

Lost, again lost, and through his own fault!

The scorching heat of this summer was no longer bearable. It crept into the blood, fatigued and stirred it up again. It boiled in every vein, in the veins of the people who crept through the streets with glassy stares and tired movements.

It seethed in his blood, too.

It cried out for him! Day and night!

*

He felt with a frightening clarity that he could no longer continue to live this way.

He had to have another human being with whom he could talk, with whom to share, whom he could think of during his work, in the many and long hours of his solitude.

He was gone. He was lost. So it had to be another.

One who, even if not a friend, filled the place of friendship. Someone he could enclose in his arms, to calm and cool his boiling blood.

But where to find him?

Of course, only among the boys—there!

He had not the least idea how these boys lived, what they did, and how they got along. Of course, things went badly for most of them. Many probably felt comfortable in their awful occupation.

But among them there must surely be some who, perhaps, had recently entered this life without knowing how themselves, and who now wanted out again, who longed for a helping hand. What if he found one of these, one not entirely corrupted and lost? He did not need to be good-looking or especially bright. If he only pleased him enough that he could have him beside him, have him close by him—if he was just not as crude, as cheeky, as dirty and common, as those he had seen there in that Passage on the first day.

Since that second time when he had looked for him in vain, he had not been in the passageway again.

After some delay, he went in—hesitantly, with a secret reluctance.

Again, the rascals were standing around the entrance, impudent and provocative. Again, people crowded around that hideous painting. Again the crowd was as stifling as in a hothouse.

His gaze roamed over the faces of the young lads and boys; it was warily, impudently, familiarly returned. No, it was impossible! Quite impossible! Not even
one
face attracted him. Not even
one
that did not repel him!

He must constantly think of
him
and
his
face!

Not that he would have hoped—or feared—to see it show up here. He was long gone. He could no longer be here. How would it be possible to stand around here for weeks and months, walking up and down, without completely going to ruin or becoming mad? It appeared even physically impossible. No body could hold out that long. Not to mention a youthful and still so tender body as his.

But he thought about him—as he always thought about him. He thought about how he had seen him for the first time. How he had stood there, how he had run away.

Again and again his face shoved itself among these other faces, these faces so entirely different and strange.

When he had said (with those dreadful words), “I’m in the Passage every day!”—that was of course not to be understood literally. He must indeed have come here often for some time. Now, however, he was surely no longer in Berlin. Or he was corrupted, dissipated, hopelessly depraved.

He was no longer here. He could no longer be here. It was impossible.

And ever again his face stood between him and these other faces, now so plainly palpable that he could bear it no longer and hurried out.

He wanted to go there no more. He could not bear it.

*

And yet he came here again: one more time and then a third time. But always only to leave immediately.

Today, already the fourth time in two weeks. It was to be the last time, he had decided.

He no longer knew himself what still drove him here.

Or rather, he did know. But he no longer accounted to himself about it. It must be the dark urge of his blood in these hot days.

This time he approached from the south. The Passage was not very lively. Everyone was sitting outside on the chairs and benches, for the intense, yellow heat under the glass roof was simply unbearable.

Guests sat in front of the cafe and spooned their ices. Ices and more ices. Music sounded soft and sleepily.

He stood still for a moment, then walked out the exit to Unter den Linden.

There, in a group with others, stood—Gunther!

He recognized him immediately. He was wearing an entirely different outfit: a sport jacket with short pants held up by a leather belt, his thin calves in black socks. His shirt was open at the chest. He was wearing no hat. He had become much, much taller.

Nevertheless Graff recognized him immediately, still ten paces distant.

Then the beat of his heart stopped. His feet carried him no more.

But he continued walking.

He walked up to the group and looked at him. He looked him full in the face. As if drawn by his presence, by this look, first from behind, now near and on him, the boy turned around.

They looked at one another—in the eyes—for a moment.

It was the older who first turned his gaze away and slowly walked away from him and the group, then on out and down Unter den Linden.

He was thinking nothing. He had not a single thought. He walked on farther, alongside the shops, then, without knowing to where, he crossed over.

When he came to himself again, he realized what had happened: the unexpected, the unbelievable, the paralyzing. He had seen him again! It was he.

He walked on and on—in the direction of his room. It would have been impossible for him to turn around and look back.

Only when he was alone in his room, after he had gulped down a glass of water, did he collect his thoughts.

He had seen him again!

But not as he had imagined—disreputable and tattered—but rather entirely different.

He had looked much fresher, healthy, and far stronger. And he had become tall, so oddly tall. It did not seem to be going at all badly for him—the almost new outfit, the colorful shirt, his whole unconcerned and not in the least depressed attitude.

And how he had looked at him!

His heart, which had stopped, suddenly began to beat madly.

How he had looked at him! He had returned his gaze with not a trace of surprise—not friendly, not unfriendly, without any impudence or provocativeness—no, entirely calmly, almost indifferently, as if he wished to say, “Well, here you are again too. How’s it going with you?” And only a bit, just a little bit, had his upper lip twitched.

But he had recognized him. There could be no doubt about that; he had recognized him again.

His heart beat madly.

*

He felt unable to stand. His limbs were like lead. His nerves twitched and twitched to the breaking point.

The sultriness in the room threatened to suffocate him.

Finally he stood up with difficulty. He threw open the window, but from outside came such oppressive, sultry air that he closed it again.

The small piece of sky he had just seen over the wall opposite was sulfur yellow, with red stripes that appeared to be burning.

He threw off his clothes and, in the bathroom across the way, let the water flow over his head and chest.

It scarcely refreshed him. Stretched out on the sofa, he soon broke out in sweat again from every pore.