The Hustler: The Story of a Nameless Love From Friedrichstrasse (22 page)

He was unable to eat. Only drink, constantly drink. Water mixed with cognac.

How beautiful he had been! Never had he appeared to him so beautiful as just now.

Where had he been all these weeks? Always there in the Passage? Perhaps. And how might things have gone for him?

Apparently they were going well.

How he had looked at him! The moment now stretched for him to a full minute, when he pictured to himself the slightest movement, the slow turning toward him.

How was he getting along? And where was he now?

At this moment—where and in whose arms?

He lay his head back and spoke softly and passionately to himself:

“I do not know where he was and where he is. But I have seen him again. I now know where I can find him. He was there today and will be there again tomorrow. Every day I’ll go there, every day until I find him again. Even if I have to go there every day for a whole year, I’ll go. For I must see him again. Others have had him. Others have him every day. I, too, must have him!”

Further, with firm decision:

“I’ll go there again tomorrow. Tomorrow first—and then every day. Right after work. I’ll be there about six.”

Then with a repressed, but now terrible vehemence:

“If I see him, he must come with me. No matter whether he will or not. Others have had him. Others have him—every day. I, too, will have him—finally have him! For I have a right to him, greater than all these others. A greater right, because—I love him!”

In the night, too, when a storm continued to threaten without breaking out—the thunder rolled and the lightning flashed, and the heat outside, like that within the wall simmered and sim-mered—these thoughts returned again and again, thoughts so foreign to him before, thoughts, not of his brain, but rather of his stirred-up blood, his twitching and over-taut nerves, and again and again he gasped into his pillow:

“Tomorrow! Tomorrow I’ll see you again! Tomorrow you will be mine! For—you are beautiful, like no other, and I love you!”

10

He did not need to go to the Passage.

As he turned into the street to his rooms the next day, about five-thirty, a dirty little boy ran up to him, shoved a note into his hand, and ran away again.

He opened it with astonishment and read the words painstakingly written with pencil:

“Can you fergive me?”

He did not understand at first. Then he looked up. There opposite, on the other side of the street, he was standing. Standing there was the one for whom he was searching, for whom he would have searched today, tomorrow, and every day until he found him. There stood—Gunther!

He slowly came over the street and up to him. He stood before him and looked at him.

Neither of the two spoke a word.

They walked, side by side down the short street, entered the house, the apartment, the room. The door closed behind them.

Hardly were they alone when the boy threw his hat onto the nearest chair, bounded to him, wrapped his arms around his neck, raised himself up to him, and sought his mouth.

Graff reeled and breathed with difficulty. He thought he must sink under the indeed light burden.

Then he gave in.

A god would have given in. He was no god. He was only human.

And—he wanted to give in.

Outside, the storm finally broke. The scorched walls hissed. The clouds broke under their burden and the rain roared down in streams. A cloudburst.

When they came to their senses again, they were sitting on the sofa.

Gunther slowly removed himself from the arms that were holding him as if they never
would
let him go again and walked to the window.

When he opened it, the rain sprayed into his face and he quickly closed it again.

Turning back, he again laid his head against the chest of his friend, snuggled up close to him, and said, as he looked up at him with an impish smile:

“You could have had that long ago, if—you had not been so dumb!”

PART FOUR 

1

An odd relationship arose between the two.

Already on the first day, while the rain outside continued to fall—and hardly stopped for weeks—and they were still sitting for a long time next to one another in a close embrace, Gunther had set out his conditions:

“Naturally we’ll see one another more often, and if you want, we’ll stay together. But I must be free. Being always just with you would in time be boring for both of us. I’ll certainly always come to you. You don’t need to be afraid any more that I’ll stay away. So, do you agree?”

Hermann had only half listened. Never in his life had he believed a human being could be so happy, beyond all measure, superhumanly happy, as he was. He promised. He would have promised anything. He would have promised within twenty-four hours to fetch the moon from the sky.

Gunther continued, precociously wise and serious:

“See here, you also have things to do and must work. You need only give me what you can, I’ll certainly be satisfied with it. So it’s agreed. And you don’t ask me about anything else. I can’t stand being questioned.”

That, too, was promised.

For he who promised it was thinking at that moment only of how wonderful was the profile of these red, somewhat arched lips.

They were to be his. No, they were his.

He pulled him to himself and kissed them. And was kissed in return.

*

Everything was transformed.

Never in his life would Hermann Graff have thought such bliss possible as there was in these first days.

They were a dream, a dream of happiness and bliss! Incompre-hensible—quite incomprehensible!

Waking in the morning was a joy unknown since the days of his innocent childhood. Work was play, and even waiting was the ardent, agreeably painful happiness of an hour, for hours of a greater happiness.

For his fear, his fear—will he return?—had vanished.

He returned. He would return again.

The world was transformed, the people, everything.

In his office he was asked more than once: “You must have won the lottery, haven’t you?”

He had won it. (Finally.) As he believed.

*

Only at their third time together did he dare place a condition from his side too. But it had to be.

He did it almost timidly.

Struggling, he said, “I will not question you, Gunther. It is to be as you wish. But—you must understand what I’m saying to you now—you are never, never to tell me where you are coming from and where you are going. You must understand. I couldn’t bear it. If you believe you can’t live otherwise—I am not your guardian and am not to make rules for you. Only I am not to know. And the past—well, let’s bury the past, speak about it no more, think about it no more. You understand me? Come to me!”

And he drew him to himself.

Gunther had listened, but not very accurately. He by no means understood everything. But he understood this much, that he was to tell nothing, and that was alright with him.

One surely did not always have to tell everything right off.

Thus the pact was concluded between them.

*

Besides, there was enough to do in these first days.

What all had to be taken care of!

There were so many things to be purchased. He could no longer go out, with the weather getting cooler, in the thin, light summer outfit which he was still wearing. A warmer, darker one for the winter was absolutely necessary; also an overcoat for the really cold days, which no longer seemed distant. Sturdy shoes and warm underwear, and everything that went with them besides, so as to fit him out again.

They went from shop to shop, selected, conferred, and bought.

It was an entirely new joy for the older man (and naturally, with every new piece, a joy and happy surprise, too, for his beloved boy).

Of course, it was not all done in a morning and with uncounted hundred-mark bills, as that time with the servant Franz. But in return it was much pleasanter.

Not that his new friend kept an account. He would have been ashamed to do so now. To add it up—now, when happiness had come to him! It was necessary and so had to be. Thus he drew from the bank what was needed, and not for a long time did he add it up, to see if it was much or little. (It was much.)

Then, too, a room had to be taken care of. However, Gunther had already made arrangements. He had grown tired of always sleeping in a different bed and in that miserable hotel. He had moved in, as he truthfully said, with an acquaintance, a very decent boy “who works and is only occasionally in on it with us.” They lived with a nice old lady who looked after them. Thus he needed to pay only half and had at the same time company, if he ever felt alone.

“Feel alone!” thought Graff. “Am I not always and at any time here for him?” (He forgot that he was occupied during the day.)

He did not say it. He only asked if he might not be allowed to see the room sometime, in order to see how they lived together.

Not that he wanted to come there often, he added immediately, already fearful again. Only—what a joy it would be for him to make their new and surely bare room really comfortable. (He would also very much have liked to see the other boy at least once.)

But Gunther would hear absolutely nothing of this. He even kept secret where it was and the name of his roommate.

“I certainly can’t take a gentleman up there!” he said. “What would my landlady think of it?”

As if I were one of these “gentlemen,” the rejected man thought again. But he now said nothing more and regretted already that he had even asked.

*

The story of the room and having a roommate was not a hoax. Gunther no longer lied at all, simply because he did not need to lie any more. He was truly serious about changing his life in a certain respect. No more lounges and no more Friedrichstrasse.

Chance also came to his aid.

Through one of the other boys—boys became acquainted with one another like dogs—he had fallen into quite different circles from those in which he had moved up to now.

He moved in closed circles of gentlemen who did not cruise the street in order to look for boys to have a good time with. They also did not run after them and go to the lounges (or indeed only occasionally). These circles were supplied—one did not exactly know how: one boy just brought another along and all were first carefully examined, to see if they were trustworthy, before they were granted the honor of being accepted.

They came together, first of all, to be in company—”among themselves.” The gentleman who already had a young friend brought him along. Those who had none hoped to find one here.

Faithfulness was taken seriously only in certain cases, but then very seriously. There were scenes: petty jealousies, disputes, tears, separations, and reconciliations.

They were all more or less well-to-do people. Wholesale merchants, attorneys, artists—all the higher professions were represented.

Most of them had to be very careful and almost all of them were—especially the married ones. For there were also such among them.

All were polite and friendly among themselves and with the boys, and the tone remained altogether within the bounds of outward decorum and never became common. They took a deep interest only in their current favorites. How deep this went, however, mostly eluded observation at their gatherings.

They met by preference in their homes, if that was possible: they gave invitations and were invited in return. Sometimes they organized regular parties, which were merry and loud, without degenerating into orgies.

It was like a secret fraternity with unwritten laws, which, however, were all the more strictly observed.

They were “real gentlemen” who, if they gave someone a cigarette case, did not wish to have him believe it was silver when it was only nickel alloy—who acted handsomely, without exactly being extravagant. And during the day they gave themselves to their work.

Gunther felt quite at ease in this new society.

He did not have a steady relationship and he did not find one. He also preferred not to, now that he had his Hermann.

And (oddly) the gentlemen were fond of him, took him along—now this one, now that one—but always they dropped him again.

There was no jealousy or argument over
him.

Hermann really doesn’t need to be jealous, thought the boy. (But Hermann knew not the least thing about all this.)

There had to be a reason for this, and it must have been in his coolness and lack of sensuality. He was found to be good-looking and trustworthy, but really boring.

He no longer suffered any kind of need. He always had money in hand, sometimes quite a bit. But it did not stay there and ran through his fingers.

He had no more cares and needed to have none for the next day.

And if he did: he knew now, of course, to whom he had recourse for help
always
and at any time.

*

Thus they slowly grew accustomed to one another.

Naturally Gunther could not come by day.

But from five-thirty on he was expected. And with what painful longing, with what tormenting restlessness, with what anxious doubts still: Will he come today or will he stay away?

When he came—what joy! Then Gunther was either already at the corner and went right up with him, or he stationed himself at the wall opposite and softly whistled (with the whistle that, in the first days, they had practiced with so much laughter). Then the window flew open, he went up, the door was already standing open, and he was in the arms that embraced him as if they had not just yesterday held him.

Then, either they spent the evening together: they would eat in the room first or in some decent restaurant, and spend the rest of the evening at the circus, at the Winter Garden, in some cinema—whatever he wished.

Or: he “had to leave soon.” In giving this news, which always cut the disappointed man to the quick, he sought to make a sad face. Sometimes he stayed, only to start up unexpectedly. “How late is it already? I don’t have any time more.”

Then he would leap up, give him a quick kiss, and make a hasty departure. He never said where he was going. He never promised to return. He never said when it would be.

And he never stayed overnight.

For one thing, his real life began only in the evening, when “the other gentlemen” had time. Then, too, Hermann also did not want it, however passionately he would have preferred to keep him with him. He had taken the room for himself and himself alone. Even if his strange landlady would (as he supposed) have noticed nothing, it would have seemed to him a breach of contract and thus have gone against his sense of justice. He had to grit his teeth when Gunther himself—he had nothing else planned for the evening—once harmlessly said, “But do let me stay with you until early in the morning,” and with his impish face added: “I could sleep on the sofa.”

During the day he could, of course, receive whomever he wished.

No one had a right to question him. He would just refuse to allow it.

So were the days in the first period, when he
came.

But there also were those days when he stayed away completely. One day, two—

Then Graff waited, restlessly walking to and fro, again and again going to the window in fear of having missed the whistle—or standing there, staring at the wall. Then he waited—one hour, two, into the third—until his stomach reminded him that he must eat something, and his heart told him that for today it was useless to wait any longer. Then, downcast, he walked around the corner to the small, quiet pub, or he got out food he had previously bought, to gulp it down with a cup of tea which he made himself—not bitter or even wounded (there was just no helping it), but still sad and disappointed, latching onto just one thought:

“Tomorrow! Tomorrow he will certainly come, since he didn’t come today. If it were only tomorrow already.”

Tomorrow—would it be: “Do I have time today? Today let’s stay together the whole evening. Where shall we go?”

Or would it be: “I’ve just quickly come up to tell you that I can’t stay today. You’re not angry with me, are you?”

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

*

It required the entire patience of an overpowering love to endure this waiting, this eternal insecurity, the long hours of disappointment after hoping in vain. Only the certainty that he would return gave the young man the strength to get through them.

For that he would return, that he would no longer stay away—of this he dared grow more convinced daily. This certainty lulled his tormented spirit again and again.

The boy was glad to be with him, without doubt.

He saw it already in the way he flew to his neck after entering. He saw it in the way he little by little put off the inevitable hour of departure and obviously left reluctantly.