The Hustler: The Story of a Nameless Love From Friedrichstrasse (8 page)

All right, then, to the Tiergarten, for all I care. But he resolved that he would no longer let himself be caught with fine words, as this had all the appearance of being. And if he let himself be dragged into the Tiergarten, tired and hungry as he was, he wanted to see money—beforehand.

Letting himself be gypped a second time on the same day was simply not going to happen!

His companion was thinking meanwhile: Of course he recognized me again! Even if he doesn’t say so. Otherwise, he would not have stopped and waited until I spoke to him. But why was he so quiet? Perhaps he was tired and preferred to sit. It was certainly not going well for him. How might it have been going for him altogether in these weeks? Did he have a job? Probably not, for otherwise how could he be free at this hour of the day? Perhaps he had no work at all. But I must not just ask him about it. That would be intrusive. He also seemed so absent in his silence. At any rate, he seemed tired, with no desire to go for a walk.

Cautiously, he asked after a long pause, during which they had reached Pariser Platz:

“Perhaps you’re tired and would rather not walk farther? Should we rather sit in a cafe and enjoy something?”

The boy only nodded as an answer.

That at least made sense. First eat and then—

*

They left Unter den Linden as a matter of course and turned into the side streets on the north.

Again the older man questioned him, always afraid that it could all suddenly come to an end and he would no longer have the boy beside him:

“We could also go to a restaurant, if you would rather?”

The boy finally opened his mouth:

“It’s all the same to me—” But he sounded almost angry, at any rate not friendly.

He was thinking to himself: Eat, just eat, and as soon as possible.

They were now near the Spree and could see the sign of a simple, but obviously quite respectable beer house.

“Perhaps here?”

They entered, finding the pub almost empty, and found a table in one of the booths in the back room. Everything was neat and clean.

They seated themselves opposite one another.

The boy immediately reached for the menu that was lying before him.

“What will you have? Please, select whatever you like,” said Graff.

Again the answer sounded unfriendly: “Doesn’t matter.” Then: “A cutlet—”

In the meantime the waitress had arrived at their table and asked what she should bring.

“Two cutlets. And beer? Yes, beer. Light. Two glasses—”

Alone again, Graff felt he must finally give an explanation.

“You seem angry with me, that I just came up and spoke to you. But we have seen one another before. I wanted—” He got no further. He felt how stupid it was, what he was saying.

The boy looked at him. He was much too hungry to follow his words, or even just to listen to them. He only said, “Why do you always say ‘Sie’ to me?”

Graff again did not know what to say or answer. However, since the beer was now before him:

“Well then, let’s say ‘Du’—” and he raised his glass.

The boy paid no attention to his answer and only drank hastily. Then the food arrived and he set himself to it without a word.

It was a relief for the other.

He did not need to say anything more now, and could just constantly gaze into the face before him. But at the same time, he felt how impolite it would be just to watch him eat. How hungry he must be! How fast, almost greedily, he was eating! He occupied himself with his own plate, but only in appearance, for he was unable to swallow a bite, he was so nervous inside. He reached for a newspaper. But he only looked at it, without reading.

Finally the boy finished and shoved his plate away, again reaching for his glass. He waited. At least he was now full. His judgment was: Not a real gentleman. But apparently quite decent. A bit crazy. But then, most of them were.

They could now get on with it, but no move was made. The other also shoved away his untouched plate and the newspaper, and now looked for the first time directly into the face opposite him.

In the dimness of the narrow room it appeared strange to him, as if he had never seen it. But it was of an enchanting beauty, so that he could now no longer take his gaze from him.

Again he felt that now he had to speak, and again he did not know what he should say. He would have preferred to remain sitting here for hours, all the time looking into that face.

The boy also kept silent. He, too, did not know what to say. And then—what did Atze say? “Always wait! You get the most that way.” A man like this, however, had never come along before. He sat there, stared at him, and didn’t make a sound.

But he was looking at him in a friendly way and was certainly altogether a decent man, with his clean-shaven face and his regular, young features. Had he just now thought of being gypped? No, he been mistaken. What would he be likely to give him?

Since something must finally be said, it was he who asked, and it was the age-old question:

“Do you perhaps have a cigarette?”

Graff hastily reached into his pocket. A smoke, of course; how could he have forgotten!

“Yes. Here, you’re welcome. I hope they’re good enough!”

As the two smoked, they became somewhat more comfortable.

The first questions came.

How was he called? His first name?

“Gunther—” And he was called Hermann.

Thus they gradually began a conversation. It dragged a bit, since the one always considered if he was questioning too much, while the other wondered more and more about this john, sitting here, ordering beer again, making no move to finally come to the goal of it all. Yet it was all the same to him. It was nice sitting here.

What questions, however, were being asked! “It’s an interrogation,” Gunther thought, and he began coolly to lie with each new question.

Work? No, he had none now. But of course he had. Lost it. Friends? Sure, he had friends, but they don’t help. You only have friends when you have money. Relatives? No, no relatives. Where does he live then? Together with another boy, but he couldn’t stay there longer, for he was already a week behind in his rent and couldn’t pay. Last night? Well, in the Tiergarten.

The questioner’s heart contracted. It was going so badly for him! Therefore his hunger! He had come just in the nick of time.

Pity welled up in him, that most dangerous of all matchmakers of love, confused him all the more, and made him ask, “May I help you? Help as a friend?” For that’s what he would like to be to him, a true friend!

Now the boy was really dumbfounded. Was this man serious or was he making fun of him? Help? For nothing? As a friend?

Then it occurred to him: a relationship! That’s what he wanted. But
he
did not want it. Atze had always said, “Just no relationship!” (He gave no reasons why not, but it sounded like an oath.) But why shouldn’t he let himself be helped, if the man here absolutely wanted to? So go to it. And right away.

The other, however, abruptly stopped questioning, and kept silent, thinking.

Then, after a quiet pause, he reached over the table and laid his hand lightly and tenderly over the slim and dirty hand opposite him. (How beautiful it was, this small and tender hand with its unclean but well-grown nails! How warm and beautiful it was, this hand, which he was touching for the first time!) And he said, as if entreating, softly and urgently:

“Let me help you, Gunther! I would like to help you! You should suffer no more need!”

He received no answer. The hand was not withdrawn. The boy looked straight ahead, crumpled up the remaining bread, and reached for a new cigarette. He heard further:

“We’ll see one another again of course. As soon as can be—even tomorrow. I just have to think it over.” Then: “I will see if I can find a position for you. I can’t promise it to you today, but I will help you, as well as I can.” Further: “Where will you sleep today? Do you know a respectable hotel that will take you for tonight? We’ll see, then, tomorrow where we can find a room for you—with good and decent people.” Finally: “Can you manage—?” and he reached into his breast pocket and drew out his wallet. (How difficult it was to offer money!) “Can you get along with this until tomorrow?” A blue bill was furtively pressed into the boy’s hand.

With a quick glance the boy had seen that the bill was five marks. Not much! But it occurred to him that he was getting it for nothing—the meal and cigarettes besides—and he became more satisfied. He quickly shoved the money into his pants pocket.

He assumed they could go now. He finally grasped that the other wanted nothing more today.

And so they left, after the bill had been settled.

Outside, near the bridge, they stopped.

Hermann again held the warm hand in his own.

“Will you be here on this bridge tomorrow afternoon at a quarter past five, Gunther, and wait for me? I’ll come from work around five. Unfortunately I can’t come any earlier. But about a quarter past five I’ll be here. And you will be too, won’t you?”

The gray eyes—they appeared now more gray than blue—looked up at him.

It sounded quite earnest, what he said: “If I’ve promised to come, I will come!”

They shook hands again and parted. The younger walked away with quick and light steps, and without looking around, but the older immediately stopped and looked after the small figure which disappeared around the corner. How beautifully he walked!

It seemed to him he should rush after him. Call him back. Say something more to him. Something important. Something forgotten. Much more. But he did not. He had to use force to tear himself from the spot on which he was standing.

*

He looked at his watch.

It was not yet eight. They had been together hardly longer than an hour. What an hour! Or had it all been only a dream?

He felt unable to return to his room.

The evening was so lovely after the hot day. Now came the cool of evening.

He walked slowly to the “Zelten.”

He found his old place, unoccupied as always.

He had seen him again!

What he had no longer hoped for, what he had almost buried and forgotten, had become reality—incomprehensible, but undeniable reality!

He had found him again. He had sat opposite him. He had held his hand in his own, just a moment before.

The fleeing shadows of a fleeting moment had taken on tangible form—
lived!

Did that picture-become-life hold what its appearance promised?

His senses, caught in the spell of those eyes, in the sound of that voice, which he had heard for the first time, in each movement of those shoulders and hands—his senses affirmed the question. His reason understood nothing yet and still tried to resist.

Now if he tried to visualize that face again, he had to succeed. For it had not been one minute, not just one second, in which the boy had shown up and disappeared again—no, he had seen that face before him a full hour, close enough to touch. With a single movement of his hand he could have reached out to it, held it, caressed it.

He wanted to call it back before him.

He tried to do it by laying his hand over his eyes, as he did when nothing was supposed to intrude between him and his thoughts.

He saw it: those eyes, whose color he was unable to name and which appeared to him unfathomable—were they gray, were they blue, were they both? Did not a green-gold gleam sometimes glimmer in the pupils of those eyes, with their strikingly long lashes and the light lines under them? The soft, smooth cheeks—did they show dimples when he smiled? (But he had not smiled a single time!) The light brown hair, thick and uncombed over the narrow and not very high forehead. The full mouth with its—as it seemed to him—no longer quite so red and fresh lips as before; and the not quite regular, but white, rows of teeth.

He saw the face before him again, and recalled what had especially struck him. Often, almost always when questioned and before answering, the upper right corner of the boy’s mouth made a light twitch, so that a tooth became visible. That was so peculiar, but also so attractive.

He saw all this before him and knew now, as he let his hand fall again, that he had never in his life seen anything more charming and infatuating than the face of this boy (named Gunther)!

Then he also tried to visualize his form: the boyishly slim, still undeveloped and so tender form, which yet had nothing at all girlish about it; the thin neck, the slender shoulders—and he saw over and over again those hands with their slender fingers, which were quite extraordinarily beautiful for such a boy. Finally, he recalled his walk, that light, careless, today somewhat tired walk.

And he knew at the same time that he would have given his life’s salvation to enclose that form just once in his arms!

No doubt, he must be from a good family. How different he was in everything from these other guys, with their uncouth, fresh, and loud conduct, their crudeness and insolence!