The Hustler: The Story of a Nameless Love From Friedrichstrasse

by John Henry Mackay

  That was the tasteful expression with which he was always greeted—this time too.

  He seemed not to hear it. He sat there looking with his black eyes in his white face, from one to the other around the table—then began again from the beginning, always without saying a word. They were glad when he came. For there was a saying that he brought luck. Always, whenever he showed up, in the street or elsewhere, whoever met him soon after found a rich john. Not because johns ran from his into other arms. On the contrary—many johns who had been with him took him again and praised his quiet indefatigableness.

  Corpse Eddy was also otherwise indefatigable. He could walk the whole night through, until early morning, up and down Friedrichstrasse, from Oranienburg all the way to Halle Gate, with his long, hard strides—ten times there and back—without becoming tired. With his upright posture, staring straight ahead, he appeared to see nothing and nobody. Yet he saw everything. If he sensed an approach, he calmly turned into the next cross street and stopped. If he was not followed, he just as calmly returned and walked on.

  Thus he sat there now, calm and upright, looking from one to the other, from little Kuddel over to Gunther, to whom he gave an uncanny feeling, and on to Hamburger and Karl the Great and back again.

  “What are you looking for now?” someone snapped.

  He gave no answer. He never answered.

  But he had finally been noticed.

  “Corpse Eddy, where’d you come from? Out of the grave?”

  *

  The letter had been read, and now they spoke about other things.

  About hard times.

  You couldn’t make anything decent any more, either on the streets or in the lounges. The foreigners were missing, the rich Americans and Swedes, with their dollars and kroner.

  Brown George finally awoke and heard what was being talked about.

  “There’s nothing for it,” he said yawning, with a deep sigh, “we’ll have to use blackmail!”

  But that was not to be taken so seriously. For they all knew, when they tried extortion, they themselves got the worst of it. Who still let himself be blackmailed today? Certainly not a Berliner.

  Karl the Great, tired of all the chatter around him, called for cards.

  “Now then, are we going to play today or not?”

  The cards arrived, the dice rolled. They all played in groups, and the Hustler Table resounded under the fists of all the small and large hands which fell on it with every trick.

  Kuddel’s letter, however, was forgotten, swept under the table and trampled into illegible scraps under the young feet.

  It never reached the one for whom it was intended, and that was perhaps the only thing that was to be spared him.

  *

  At eight o’clock the cards were thrown together, the checks were paid—not without many loud arguments with the waiter, who was prepared for everything—and they broke up. Some went to their steady relations or had a date. Others went to see whom they could waylay in Friedrichstrasse or the Passage, or they rode to the west—everyone for himself, but all to “make out.”

  Saxon and Gunther headed for the Adonis Lounge, which the latter was still to get to know this evening. He had been irritated, to be sure, but he did want to go to Uncle Paul’s often. It was really pleasant there.

  Tall Willy crept after them.

  Karl the Great, however, true as gold, went to his little jeweler.

  6

  There followed an evening such as Gunther had never experienced before! Despite the rather early hour, it was already very lively in the Adonis Lounge.

  After all, it was Saturday.

  At the large, round table in the right corner, a birthday was being celebrated with champagne and schnapps.

  Two females. One (with a gigantic feather hat and in a fiery red dress) was incessantly filling glasses—held out to her on all sides—from the bottles in the ever-refilled ice pail at her side. She was the birthday girl. The other was really a man, but felt herself “entirely female.”

  All the boys, large and small, were sitting or pressing around the table to get their share.

  Thus it happened that Saxon and Gunther, as soon as they entered, were called over by two country bumpkins who, having been left unnoticed because of the unusual occasion, were not yet taken, and sat down at their table. The two men, stimulated by the nearby carousing and not wanting to be left out, began to run up a monstrous bill, eagerly urged on by the sly Saxon.

  Before the dancing, with which the evening in the lounge really began, they were all four so drunk they no longer knew what bars they had gone to afterwards or how many or where they ended up.

  Enough that when late the next afternoon Gunther drowsily woke, sat up, and looked around, he found himself in a room completely unfamiliar to him.

  He was in the best room in the most expensive hotel in the west. He had not the slightest idea how he had come here.

  His head ached terribly and he could hardly open his swollen eyelids. But he was able to see that in the bed next to him lay a hairy man, with untidy, gray hair and a long mustache hanging over his half-open mouth. The man was still fast asleep and snoring loudly.

  Good God! That was not one of the pair he had met yesterday in the lounge! He did not know him at all, had never seen him before! But then he must have seen him yesterday or today. Only he no longer knew. He knew not the least thing that had taken place. How did he meet this man and get here? He did not have the faintest notion. And how his head hurt!

  He climbed out of bed and plunged his head deep into the washbasin.

  Somewhat awakened, he looked around the room.

  It was a nice sight! Discarded clothing hung on the chairs, dusty boots sat in the corner, the beds were soiled, and this man lay there and rattled.

  Gunther shook him on the shoulder, but the brute did not stir.

  What time was it anyway?

  Was it morning? Was it noon?

  From the breast pocket of the man’s thrown-off coat peeped a thick wallet.

  For a moment Gunther thought: It’s a good opportunity. But no: he did not steal. He was a decent boy. He did everything else, but not that.

  He rang the bell.

  After a considerable time a young man appeared at the door. In elegant pajamas, with leather slippers on his dainty feet, he came dancing in and looked around at the mess, his hands propped on his strikingly prominent hips. He turned up his fine little nose and said with conviction, “Pooh, you pigs!”

  Gunther knew him. It was Josie.

  Josie’s real name was Joseph, but since it would have been perverse to call him Joe, he was more appropriately named Josie. He, or rather “she,” occupied something like a confidential position at the hotel. She was porter and waiter at the same time, and was glad to be available (when it paid, of course) as a substitute for the young guests, in case a gentleman arrived without one.

  “Pooh, you pigs!” she said again. “And how it stinks here!” She threw open all the windows. The rotten humid air mixed with the hot haze of the street that entered the room.

  Gunther, still wearing only a shirt, was searching out his things, from the clothing that was scattered around, and groaning as he dressed himself.

  When he was almost ready, he said, “Stop grumbling, Josie. Instead help me get the john awake. I haven’t got my money yet.”

  Josie showed no desire at all for that activity, and only shrugged her shoulders disdainfully.

  But then they did try together: jogging and shaking, tugging and pulling. Nothing worked.

  Finally Josie resolutely picked up the full water jar and poured it over the snorer’s face.

  That worked. He tore his eyes open, let out a curse, and sprang out of the bed onto both feet.

  Then he leaped like a tiger onto his coat, snatched out his wallet, and, sitting on the edge of the bed, began slowly to count its contents, down to the last of the abundant bills, while the two speechlessly watched.

 
The result appeared to satisfy him. With a grunt he took out a twenty-mark bill and looked at the two boys with his nasty-looking bloodshot eyes, as if he wanted to remember which he had arrived with.

  Then he threw the bill at Gunther.

  Gunther had had enough. He finished dressing and made his escape.

  On the stairs he could still hear Josie’s shrill voice as she squabbled over the payment.

  Outside, in the still and deserted streets of this Sunday afternoon, he thought only about how he could get rid of his awful headache. He could think of no way, so he hailed an open coach and had himself driven to the Adonis Lounge. There he sat for the next two hours drinking seltzer, with and without raspberry flavoring, in monstrous quantities.

  At the same time, not far distant, his friend was wandering the streets, looking for the name of a hotel that did not exist.

  *

  For naturally Hermann Graff had waited in vain for him that afternoon.

  From half past two on, he had stood or sat at his open window, again and again leaning out so that he could see him coming down the street. But he never came.

  The heat of the day was unusual for this time of year. It was like a day in midsummer.

  Half past three came, and then four o’clock. The coffee had become cold and the mountain of pastry, every piece of which he had carefully and lovingly selected at the confectionary only two hours earlier, had sunk together.

  Why did he not come?

  Now it was almost five.

  His first joyful and excited anticipation had passed away, uneasiness had seized his heart, and now he felt only a dull, oppressive fear, as he restlessly paced his room.

  Only fear now: a torturing, indefinite fear, as of an approaching, unknown disaster.

  It helped little that he said to himself again and again that this uncle, who had so unexpectedly shown up, must have stayed on, seeing how badly it was going for him. The uncle probably wanted to help him, find a position for him before traveling on (and did thereby not only what he had a right, but a duty, to do; only what any other decent person—and he, Graff himself—would have done in the same case).

  Or perhaps—and here fear clenched his heart—he had taken him home with him, to take care of him there.

  But then he is gone forever and lost to me again—and irretrievably!

  For Gunther would not even be able to write to him. He did know the house where he lived, but not his number and probably not the name of the street; and above all he did not even know his last name, which was necessary to get a message through to him. If he wanted to write at all! This was hardly credible, given their brief acquaintance, his obvious indifference, his whole inexplicable nature.

  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.

&nb
sp; 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!