The Hustler: The Story of a Nameless Love From Friedrichstrasse (13 page)

He was lost to him! He would never see him again!

With this thought he felt such a pain that he had to stop and press his hand against his chest.

No, he
could
not believe it. How could it be? Was he, who had been so unexpectedly found again, to be torn from him anew through some stupid chance? No, fate could not deal so cruelly—

not with him, not with the two of them!

*

What was he to do?

He had to do something. Sit here longer and wait in vain? That he could not do.

Had Gunther not mentioned incidentally (unasked) the name of the hotel where he slept? Pasewalker Hof or something similar. Of course, otherwise how would he have come to that name?

At any rate he had described the location, which he still remembered quite clearly: on the corner of the street that led “straight down” (therefore toward the south) from the Stettin Train Station and at the second crossroad.

He should be able to find the hotel, and it was also not far away. They must know something about him there, perhaps his full name and where he came from. If he knew that, he had gained much and finding him again somehow was certainly possible.

It was quite near, but even if it had been at the edge of the metropolis, or in its farthest suburb, he would still have gone there today.

How empty of people the streets were this Sunday! How hot and muggy! Everyone had fled from town and was outdoors in the woods—at, on, or in the water.

He searched for the hotel.

The hotels here stood almost one beside the other. In front of the train station they were large and imposing, but in the side streets, smaller, inconspicuous, of third or fourth rate. Almost all had names of cities in northern Germany. There was a Demminer Hof, a Schleswiger Hof, a Holsteiner Hof. But there was no Pasewalker Hof. And not one of the houses on the designated corner was a hotel.

He entered one hotel or another, pressed a coin into the hand of the porter or some kind of service personnel and inquired. The answer was always the same: no one had heard of a Pasewalker Hof—it must not exist.

He did not allow his hopes to fall. He walked on, up and down all the streets in the vicinity of the train station, in the sultry heat of the afternoon. He read all the signs, and asked and asked.

Tired and discouraged after two hours, he finally landed again in front of the train station where he had started. He could not go on.

He seated himself in the large second-class waiting room. In the high, airy, and quiet room, he sat for many hours, on into the evening. He drank and smoked, stared ahead, and thought about only one thing.

Once he said almost aloud to himself: “My God! It’s horrible! He’s gone. He has been taken from me. He is almost a stranger to me. I hardly know him. I know nothing about him. And—I can’t live without him!”

7

He clung to one thought yet: “Day after day shortly after five on the bridge.” That’s what he had said to him, and in contrast to so many things he had said, the boy seemed to have understood and grasped these words.

If he had understood them and, above all, if he were still here in Berlin and
could
come, would he remember? And then, if he remembered, would he come?

Only one thing was left for him to do: to be there on the hour, day after day! That appointment for an unforeseen circumstance was like a last hope for him.

Directly after work, at five—and if possible, somewhat earlier—he took a streetcar and then walked along the river bank to the bridge.

On Monday, he even took off at half past four. He could work no longer. He was there ahead of time. His heart was beating. He was unable to stand still in one spot, but walked up and down, letting his gaze swing to all sides, spying from afar every distant approaching young form, only to see each time that it was not he. It turned six, then half past. Finally he gave up.

Hot and tired, without eating first, he went into an empty, poorly ventilated summer theatre. He wanted to deaden his thoughts. When he left, long before the end, he had not heard one word of the rubbish that had been handed out up there; he could not remember one single scene.

On Tuesday he stood for almost an hour on the same spot as if nailed there. Inwardly he was almost calm. At six he entered the small nearby restaurant, where he had been together with him on the two evenings of the previous week, and sat in their booth opposite the place where he had sat.

But when the friendly waitress sympathetically asked, “All alone today?” he felt he could bear it no longer, mumbled an incomprehensible answer, drank up, and left.

His head was dull and heavy; his heart was empty; his feet were like lead. But he slept in this third night. He slept deeply.

The next day, Wednesday, he at first hesitated to go there. He no longer believed that he would come. But he went anyway.

The day was especially hot and the sky was blazing. The whole city steamed, sweated, and stank.

His nerves were stretched to the breaking point.

As he placed his hands on the railing of the bridge, the iron burned under them. Nowhere was there a hint of coolness.

He no longer hoped.

But he felt how an entirely new feeling was gradually rising up in him—that of rage.

Against him and against himself.

Against him: What was that supposed to mean, that he had kept him standing here, day after day, in this murderous heat? He had promised to come. Why didn’t he come? He should come, however many hindrances he had, however many uncles! What had he really seen in him? His conduct toward him had been simply unacceptable from the very beginning. Not that he had asked for much friendliness or even gratitude, but that indifferent, complacent, even condescending way that he listened and answered and at the same time let himself be fed and money slipped to him, that was what outraged him. If he had not been so blind, he would certainly not have put up with it! Besides he was by no means as handsome as he had imagined. That pale, almost yellow face coloring, the circles under his eyes, and that odd twitch in the corner of his mouth—that was really anything but beautiful!

And how unclean he was! Could anyone respect and love a person who thought so little of himself? Could he himself, who was so scrupulously clean and sensitive to these things?

The rage he had talked himself into increased.

But now against himself: It was all his own fault. Why had he entered into relations with him? What did he really know about him? Nothing, but what he himself, hesitantly and sulkily, had said. It could all be true and could also not be true. He should have quizzed him, down to the bones, and above all had him give his full name, his place of birth, the address of his landlady and of this hotel that was not to be found—no, he should have had him write it down. Above all he should have had him show his identity papers once, to know if it all was correct. What was the good of all his tenderness and misplaced consideration!

It was again well beyond six o’clock and he was still standing at the bridge, letting himself be taken for a fool by a young rascal. He no longer looked around and quickly walked home.

But there, on the sofa with his hands wrapped around his head, lying for hours as if in a stupor, his rage and his displeasure blown away, he knew that if he should ever see him again, he would treat him exactly as before, entirely again in the power of that unique face—of those strange and unfathomable eyes, those pale lips, those slender hands. Only
one
wish filled him entirely: to see him just one more time, just one single time more, even if it was only to apologize to him for these ugly and unworthy thoughts just now!

Thus, humbled and repentant, with no more hope, but tortured and stricken with a dull feeling of fear—the fear now that some terrible event might have happened to Gunther—the powerless fear of not being with him and of being unable to help him, he lay there for hours.

That night he had a frightful dream.

He was no longer standing on the bridge itself, but somewhat to the side, staring into the dark water of the Spree. His body welled up from the water below, sank, came up again, and slowly floated past him . . . and away.

He awoke bathed in sweat and fell asleep again.

The dream came again, but in a different form: he was standing on the edge of a bottomless abyss, and he saw him falling, deeper and deeper—falling, falling. He rushed after him . . . fell himself.

Again he awoke and with a cry.

8

The week following Gunther’s drunken night from Saturday to Sunday was hardly less dissolute for Gunther. Every morning he found himself left alone or not alone, in some strange bed in a strange place. Hardly was he rid of one hangover, that awful feeing in the head and stomach, before he had a new one. He never quite recovered his senses.

Still, a certain regularity came into his days. He usually slept until noon, if allowed and not thrown out of wherever he found himself. Then he cooled his hot and muddled head for hours in the dirty waters of the Spree. A small bathing establishment was nearby, where all the boys of Friedrichstrasse bathed for the whole long, lovely afternoon, ducking one another, carrying on with any kind of shenanigans they could think of, recovering fresh strength for their trips and carousing. From bathing they went to the Hustler Table at Uncle Paul’s, where some of that Saturday group were always to be found, to eat and drink. Toward evening, the Adonis Lounge became their regular hangout.

There, being a newcomer, he never lacked johns for the time being. Every evening he found ever new ones. One would try to entice him away from another, pump him full, promise him more, and in the end usually took him along. Somewhere or other. He never knew where the trip was going to end. He never lacked money, but during the course of the next day every penny ran through his hands.

Everything would have been fine and good, but for the carousing. In the lounges of the west—closed to him since the many-sided Atze had once again disappeared—there was certainly drinking, and not too scantily.

But here in the Adonis Lounge, where they were not so particular about age—and where everything swirled in confusion—boozing was to a certain extent the main event and a point of honor, and the johns even seemed to try to get the boys drunk. If they were not quite drunk at the Adonis, then they became drunk in other bars, from which they were then taken somewhere else, to a hotel or home. Or where they were simply left sitting by their johns, now irresponsibly drunk themselves.

The small and still delicate Gunther was by nature unable to hold much and was always soon drunk. Then he suffered the consequences terribly, more than the others. The amount they could throw down like water made him sick. He got so he could no longer eat and even the sight of drinks began to disgust him.

He was fed up with this life.

He longed to sleep alone again, all alone in bed, even if it was only in his hole of a room in the hotel at the Stettin Train Station. But what was he to do? He still had to get johns, else there would be no money the next day for food, bathing, and cigarettes. And the guests, like the bartenders, would really have given him the eye if he had refused to look lively and drink up with them.

He was also much too weak-willed to say no. He was already too weak to get rid of Saxon, who was a nuisance now as before and, mostly without johns himself, lay in wait like a dog for scraps from his table; and he was much too weak to simply get up and walk away or not to go there at all.

On Thursday he was in a particularly miserable mood. After awakening long past noon, he found not a penny in his pocket. Where had the ten marks gone, which he had received yesterday evening (he remembered it quite clearly) from the businessman from Frankfurter Avenue? Not to “have a good time” with him, oh no, his idea of a good time consisted exclusively in showing up once a week in the lounge, getting each newcomer to his table, treating him to drinks, but not too many, and then quizzing him about God and the world. Every newcomer, but only once each. The boys knew this and knew that ten marks at the end was the rule. Naturally the man was thoroughly lied to, but that hurt nothing. If he only listened to stories, they could be true or false. An inquisitive person, but otherwise quite harmless.

So where had the ten marks gone? He had once again slept in the flophouse, six in a room, two to a bed. The other five were long gone. One of them must have stolen from him. What a dirty skunk! The filthy cleaning girl stood at the door, broom and bucket in her hand, and yelped at him.

He had paid for the night, not for the whole day! March, out!

Where was he to go?

It was too early for Uncle Paul’s; besides, he had no money. The Adonis Lounge was not open yet. Even the small change needed to bathe was lacking.

He felt no desire at all to work the streets; it had been a long time since he had hit the pavement. Then, too, this was not the right time for it.

Besides, he would not find johns, but more likely plainclothes cops. They were on their feet the whole day.

He loitered along the parapet of the Spree, discontented and hungry, from bridge to bridge, here stopping to watch the unloading of a boatload of apples; there, how a dog was bathed, and so on to the third, then the fourth bridge. There he stopped. Hadn’t he been here often before? Right, and there was standing—actually!—the crazy guy he had met here last week, from whom he always got five marks; the one he had made believe the story about his uncle and landlady, who had wanted to find work for him. Since the last time they were together he had not thought once about the man. God knows, there he was, standing and staring ahead of him, crazy as before.