The Hustler: The Story of a Nameless Love From Friedrichstrasse (18 page)

He always returned to Franz in the kitchen. He was the only person with whom he could speak.

But he spoke little and almost nothing to him. He had much too much to do, his hands were full, and he was not able to spend time on the boy, even had he wanted to.

Franz, there could be no doubt, was the model of a gentleman’s servant. He was on his feet the whole day. He shopped, he took care of all the rooms—with the help of an elderly married couple, who otherwise resided out of sight in the basement. He cooked, and indeed excellently (even when the Count was out and they were alone). He kept the accounts of all payments, conscientiously and honestly. He was attached with obvious devotion and respect to his master, of whom he never spoke other than in the third person. By the Count, he was singled out by being spoken to now and then, occasionally even with something like a conversation.

With time Gunther grew accustomed to the silence of the Count on their afternoon automobile trips. The regions through which they drove left him cold, but the rushing speed of the car was always fun.

Sometimes the Count stopped, looked a while at the lakes and woods, made a broad wave of his hand, and said, but as always more for himself, “Beautiful!” Often, however, he used another word, which the boy did not understand: “Superb!”

The first times that he was taken along in the evening were not so easy for him. They went first to one of the large restaurants of a first-class hotel. There, always in a previously reserved corner, they ate things he would never have believed existed or could be eaten. The Count never told him how to behave; he never corrected him. Even at the most comical moments, he remained invariably serious and calm. He seemed not to notice that Gunther ate his fish with a knife or, in the case of lobster, wanted to eat the claws too. He never became impatient or bad-tempered. He was never unfriendly. But he was also never friendly.

Little by little, however, merely through his example, through his calm and dignified, in critical moments somewhat emphasized movements, his imperturbable way of acting, he brought it about that his youthful companion sought to imitate him. He no longer looked around on all sides when they entered a room. He no longer tucked his napkin in his neck. He no longer attacked his meal, but learned to wait until the person sitting opposite began. And he learned little by little, if with difficulty, to handle knife and fork. That was the hardest.

He also grew accustomed to answer without betraying the least emotion, when waiters bent over to him with silver platters and asked if they might serve him more. He almost always said, “Yes.” But later also “Yes, please.”

He was conspicuous through his natural charm, and many benevolent but always discreet glances were cast, especially by elderly ladies, at the boy whose appearance was so rare in these places.

And indeed he made a flawless appearance in his black evening suit, the low-cut vest, and the small, black tie around the stiff shirt collar.

The Count nodded, they got up, and drove to some theater or music hall. There a box was always reserved for them.

What he did not at all understand was that he was to sit in front of the Count. Surely that was improper. But little by little he caught on to the custom that the young people sat in front of the older ones here.

They watched and did not speak.

Sometimes he heard the Count behind him softly say to himself: “Beautiful!” (or that other foreign word).

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” And the boy nodded, although it could hardly have been directed at him.

This nodding was the first thing he learned from the Count. It was also so very convenient.

Sometimes, after the performance, they went for a quarter hour in some large bar. He never received more to drink than he could handle.

It seemed to be entirely indifferent to the Count if they were seen together. He probably had not too many acquaintances. If they met one by chance, he walked by them either wordlessly with a slight greeting and almost like a stranger, or his greeting was a brief word and a quick handshake, without a glance at him.

Evidently the Count stayed out of people’s way as much as possible. He seemed to tolerate their proximity with difficulty. He overlooked them. Doubtless no one would have dared to approach him, so unapproachable was his attitude. They always sat by themselves, but—as was said—not because the Count would have been embarrassed to be seen with him, but because he wanted to be alone. He belonged to society, but society was not necessary to him.

He seldom had visitors at home.

Only once did Gunther meet his master on the stairs, showing out an elderly gentleman with a hook nose and green eyes which fixed sharply on him.

“My little groom,” said the Count perfunctorily. (Everyone knew that he had no stable, never rode, and understood nothing about horses.)

But the visitor betrayed no emotion.

Moreover it did not appear to be the Count’s intention for his companion always to keep silent. The Count constantly listened with that certain obliging politeness (which never left him), and once or twice even the shy and clumsy remarks that the boy dared to make obviously amused him. But he never followed them up, never encouraged him to continue, added nothing, replied with not a word—and so it always remained with these rare and onesided outpourings.

Gunther felt instinctively, too, that never under any circumstances was he allowed to ask questions. Franz had also brought this to his attention: “The Count does not like to be questioned. What have you to ask about anyway?”

He also never once had to answer, for he was never questioned.

Never questioned, for example, as to whether he enjoyed what he was eating, whether he would like to have more, whether he enjoyed what they were watching, never about anything in his life. Not even his name. The Count seemed not even to know his name. Since he was never called, he no longer needed to remember what his name was supposed to be. He was glad of that, for he was still angry over the stupid name Michael, when he already had such a nice one.

(Gunther knew nothing of a conversation between the Count and Franz, who had given a report on the first evening.

“He appears to be a quite a decent boy. Somewhat limited.”

“Just what is his name?”

“Michael. I called him Michel, which seemed to anger him.”

This was indignantly rejected.

“Impossible! Quite impossible! We must give him another name. What was the other one called?”

“Edmund, Count.”

“Also impossible. Better to give him no name at all.”

And there it remained. Gunther was just not named. His true name was to remain an eternal secret in the house.)

He only had to be there.

*

And he was.

If they spent the evening at home, then after dinner, which the Count took alone in the small dining room, he was always called in and it was like the first evening—the Count reclined in his lounge chair; he, naked, lay on the bearskin opposite him.

The nights were like the days, equally humid and oppressive.

The Count read, looked up, looked at him, read further.

Sometimes he read out loud: verses in a foreign language, with an odd voice, as if sounding from a distance but very melodious.

“Beautiful, is it not?” he asked, when he let the book drop and stared ahead for a long time.

No, it was not at all beautiful, it was very boring. Gunther also had understood not a word.

He twisted this way and that. He lit a cigarette, careful that no spark fell on the fur, threw the butt into the ashtray next to him, and was bored with it all. Or he lay on his back, his knees drawn up and crossed, and played with the pink toes of his feet in the air, until the Count stood up with a nod or he had fallen asleep from sheer boredom.

Then Franz came, took him in his arms, and carried him off.

Again and again he thought, especially in the first weeks: Is it just to go on like this? What does he actually want from me? Always just to look at me? It seemed to be so.

The Count wanted to have him about: spotlessly washed, well dressed, and talking as little as possible—in the afternoons on excursions, just as in the evenings at dinner and in the theatre.

And look at him: stretched out there, illuminated by the soft light of the wax candles in the high chandeliers, whose reflections played over his naked body.

Nothing else.

Like a dog, thought Gunther sometimes. Just like a dog. Only a dog is called and sometimes petted. He was never called. Never even touched.

One evening, during dinner in the Adlon, the Count, as if by chance, reached into his pocket and laid a case down before him. A nod indicated that he was to open it. It contained the gold wrist-watch that Gunther had wanted so long. He had to put it around his wrist himself. It was difficult at first. But the Count did not help him. It was as if he shunned even the least contact with him.

“Pretty, is it not?”—the boy, who had turned quite red from joy, heard the him say.

He did not dare to thank him out loud.

He felt himself wounded in his vanity, in his pride. It occurred to him that the Count had not so much as given him his hand in these almost three weeks.

Why was he disdained? (Like once already—where had that been?—oh yes, that time in Potsdam, by the monkey, the one he had run away from.) Why was he disdained? The man must know whom he had before him—who he had been—when he had picked him up “from there” himself!

On this evening when, as usual, they were again together in the garden room and Gunther was lying on his fur (happy over his watch, which now formed his only clothing, yet secretly angry), he saw how the Count made a movement, as if he were searching for something. Then he knew that it was a glass of liqueur that he wanted, and he sprang up, before Franz could be rung for, in order to bring it.

He brought it himself. He remained standing near the lounge chair. He was excited.

He saw how the Count brought the glass to his mouth, tipped and emptied it, and set it down again. And how he then, as if astonished, looked up at him.

He remained standing where he was.

But an expression which he had never before seen on the always indifferent face caused him to crawl onto his fur again. It had been an expression, not of repugnance—that would be saying too much—but of unconcealed aversion to seeing him standing so close to him. He threw himself sulkily onto the fur, ostentatiously turning his back to the Count. He bit his lip. He could have cried, as on the first evening, but not from fear.

He did not see how the Count complacently looked at his tender, slim back, and longer than usual (in just the same way he looked at his paintings).

Nor did he hear him murmur to himself, “The devil knows where the rascal got those hands and feet! If only he were not so hopelessly stupid!”

Else he would have been able to say to the him that he had them from his father, who had perhaps also been a count. As for his stupid-ity—what did the he know about it, since he never spoke with him?

But he never again repeated this, his first and only attempt.

*

Otherwise everything was fine and good, if it had not been so horribly boring.

Again and again he put Franz to the test.

Could he not help with something or other?

“Just let it be. I’ll do it myself. Besides that’s not what you’re here for.”

And when he still hesitated:

“Go on out. Have fun. You’re got money. Only,” Franz raised a warning finger, “only—not there—”

“But if the Count is waiting for me?”

“The Count never waits,” said Franz indignantly.

So he dressed—for the first time—in his splendid sailor suit, took a taxi, and rode to the largest and finest motion picture house in Berlin West. And no one would have dared to ask the member of the imperial yacht club in the box if he was eighteen years old.

But one could not always go to a cinema.

He felt bored, prowled through the rooms, to Franz in the kitchen, and looked at him so long, he was thrown out again.

“Go on out! Why are you always sitting around here? You can do whatever you want. Go and have fun.”

One day he had not seen the Count for twenty-four hours. He questioned Franz.

“The Count is on a trip. But don’t worry, you can stay on here. The Count will come back.”

“When?”

“The Count never says how long he will stay away.”

5

If the many free hours before had been boring enough, they now became unbearable.

He could no longer endure being so alone.

If he had believed that Franz would now have more free time for him, he was thoroughly mistaken. For his “fiancee” immediately appeared on the scene and strutted around the house.

Gunther could not stand the red-haired female. She looked at him askance, always disdainfully, and made offensive remarks to which he could not reply.

No, he could stand it no longer, this whole crazy life! Was it even living?

No one to whom he could tell anything! Ever and always alone! Never before, since he was in Berlin, not even in the first days of the futile search for Max, did he feel so abandoned as now—now, when things were going well for him beyond all measure, when all the other boys would have burned with envy, had they known.