The Hustler: The Story of a Nameless Love From Friedrichstrasse

by John Henry Mackay

  He agreed.

  “All right, tomorrow then. And what will you do until then? Where are you staying? You’ll also need something—”

  But here Gunther made a heroic decision (which would pay off) and said, “No, let it go, Hermann. My uncle left me so much that I can get by until tomorrow.”

  “That on top of everything else!” thought Hermann, who was touched. And he had been able to doubt him! He felt ashamed. But of course he had to give him something, so it was again the usual. After some resistance, it was also accepted (and only too gladly!).

  Thus they separated and made an appointment. “Tomorrow at three o’clock, again here on the bridge.”

  “Do go to a good theater,” was added. “That’s the best way to spend the evening.”

  This time it was the boy who watched and waved with his hand, as Graff tore himself away hesitantly and with a heavy heart. He had to hold himself from turning back and grasping him in an embrace.

  *

  He worked deep into the night. The work came easily.

  As he fell asleep it occurred to him that he had forgotten again to inquire after his family name, the name of his hotel, and many other things. But not for a moment did he doubt today that they would meet again. They could talk about those things in the coming days.

  Happiness had arrived: They had met again. The boy was transformed. He had smiled, had been friendly and almost trustful towards him. And—he had said “Du”!

  A thoroughly honest boy, whom he had severely wronged. But he would make it up to him.

  He would come. They would meet again. Get to know one another. They would—

  With a happy smile he fell asleep, slept free from all the ghosts of the past days and nights, and with the same happy expression on his face awoke and went to work. One of his colleagues asked, quite astonished, if he had received some inheritance!

  No, he had not received an inheritance. Something much, much more beautiful had happened to him.

  In a few hours he would see him again.

  Happiness makes one feel so secure.

  10

  He came. They met in the middle of the bridge.

  Gunther, to be sure, somewhat drowsy, for even though he came directly from his hotel, he had gone to bed late, and had again drunk more than was good for him.

  Hermann also somewhat tired from his work in the night, but happy as never before in his life, carrying a small handbag with the necessary toilet articles for the night.

  They would go to Potsdam, to the Potsdam he liked so much. And tomorrow he wanted to show him everything: the old castle and the splendid parks in the morning; in the afternoon, the blue lakes and bays of the Havel River and the still woods.

  The trip to Potsdam passed rather quietly. They were not alone in their second-class compartment. A loud group from Berlin West (the best society with the worst possible manners) was riding with them—ladies and gentlemen.

  Gunther looked out the window; Hermann was happy.

  As always when they were together and he just looked at him, this feeling of an inner joy seized him so strongly that he was completely absorbed in him.

  So it was today. He desired nothing more than to sit like that forever, opposite him, and be allowed to look at him.

  Only once did he bend forward and speak in a soft voice. “You really do have dimples, Gunther, when you laugh.”

  The boy almost became angry, but said nothing. What all this man saw in him! What if the old lady next to him heard, the one in the silk dress with the wobbly breasts, who was staring at them so brashly and inquisitively?

  In Potsdam they first looked for an accommodation for the night and found it in one of the lovely old houses on the canal, a house from the good old times. There they had a comfortable room, looking out across the water at old trees.

  Then they went out again to eat. Gunther paid no particular attention to anything: the distinguished quiet of the streets, the gables and emblems of the simple, yet noble houses, the church with its famous cupola. He gave all the more attention to the excellent dinner, which they ate on the terrace of a large restaurant on the water, while underneath them the steamboats glided by, with music and the laughter of merry people echoing up to them.

  They spoke little and only about indifferent things.

  For the older man had resolved to allow nothing to trouble these first hours of their being together—not to torment him with questions, not to intrude, to completely enjoy them in the sight of him alone.

  Tomorrow, tomorrow when they would be together the whole day from morning till evening, tomorrow in the long hours of being together undisturbed, everything would come out without pressure and by itself, every question and each doubt could be addressed and clarified. Tomorrow evening they would no longer be strangers, as they still somewhat were today.

  Tomorrow evening they would be friends and, hopefully, for their whole lives!

  *

  They were in their hotel.

  Hermann shed his coat and vest, opened his little bag, and washed himself carefully, as he did every evening before going to bed.

  When he turned around, he saw that Gunther was already lying in bed. He must have stripped off his clothes and shoes in a jiffy.

  He asked, “Are you tired, Gunther? Do you want to go to sleep right away?”

  He received no answer.

  He was just looked at.

  He began to wonder.

  “Well then, good night, my boy—and sleep well!”

  Again there was no answer.

  The boy was lying on his back, his hands clasped behind his head, looking at him with his now quite gray eyes, seriously, as if examining him.

  Then, when the other, even more astonished, made no move and asked no more questions, he quickly turned on his side, drew the cover up over himself, and budged no more.

  What was this? Was he already asleep? He approached the bed. His head was almost entirely buried in the pillows. Only a tuft of his dark-blond hair showed. He did not move. He’s fallen asleep, he thought. How quickly it happens at that age!

  He walked to the open window and looked out at the quiet streets, the canal with its black water, and the tree tops under him. How hot it really was! He was breathing with difficulty.

  What had that been, that just now!

  The way he had looked at him before he turned over—it was so strange, so . . . almost inquisitive. At the same time so . . . superior.

  Superior, yes, that’s what it was.

  Just as if he wanted to say, “I already know what you want. I know it very well. But you must not think that I have come here with you for that?

  The look burned into him. How little he knew him! But how was he to know him, after these couple of days, these few hours.

  Strange, that look and this silence had been very strange—and not friendly.

  It burned into him.

  Was he really asleep?

  He walked back into the room and to the bed again.

  He was sleeping. There was no doubt that he was sleeping now.

  He had to look at him.

  He could not have been quite asleep before. At least, as he fell asleep he must have made a strong movement, which had tossed the featherbed, that horribly heavy featherbed (ineradicable in Berlin), to the floor.

  For he was lying there now almost naked.

  He also was lying again on his back.

  His short shirt had been shoved up. His legs were lightly drawn up toward his chest.

  He was sleeping. He was quite fast asleep.

  The young man stood spellbound.

  How beautiful he was! How divinely beautiful! Never had he believed that a human being, that he could be so beautiful!

  How beautiful were his legs! How tender his knees and hips! How well-proportioned his still-so-childlike breast! How undeveloped still his slim shoulders, those still-so-thin arms! And how beautiful were those hands, those slender hands, the only part of this body he ha
d come to know, those hands that he had held in his own and which he loved almost more than that face!

  That face, however, fully visible now on the white pillows, that face appeared to him all at once strange again. The eyes firmly closed, as if lifeless, now hidden under the long lashes, the slightly open mouth with its white teeth, the somewhat low forehead, and those smooth cheeks—that face, he did not recognize it, did not yet know it. Only one thing about it was familiar: the corner of the mouth, drawn up even now in sleep—that corner of his mouth so oddly distorted in defiance and displeasure.

  The mouth, however, that mouth there was the most foreign thing to him in this face. It was not the mouth of a child, not the mouth of someone still young. It was the mature mouth of an adult, with a trace of bitterness and of experience, of satiety, even of disgust with life—a mouth quite foreign to him.

  He was sleeping, but apparently with bad dreams. His breath was labored. What was bothering him? What was he fretting about?

  What burden was pressing on this small heart, which was beating so irregularly under his breast? So restlessly beating under his hand?

  For he had laid his hand, tenderly and lightly, almost fearfully, on the place where he believed he heard it beating. How brown it was, this breast, how warm and soft!

  The breast was brown, a light brown. Like old ivory. As trite as it sounds, that word fits here, he thought.

  He stood there for a long while, not daring to move, bent over the face of the sleeping boy, looking into the face that he loved like nothing else in the world. He tried to read in the face what he did not understand and could not explain to himself. It remained a puzzle, an inexplicable puzzle for him.

  Then he felt with alarm how his reason was beginning to vanish and give way in the scent of this body. Quickly, like a criminal about to act, he drew back his hand and stepped away from the bed.

  Back to the window.

  He was done in. He had overtaxed his strength. If he had stood there, only a minute longer—

  He grasped the crossbars of the window with both hands. No—he would not! He must not! It would be stealing. He was no thief, who stole in the night. He was a decent person. He had always been. Not in sleep! No, not in sleep!

  He laid his burning forehead on his cold hands at the crossbars.

  How hot it was, how unnaturally hot!

  One day was like another—scorching with burning sun, although it was not yet midsummer.

  Outside, the streets echoed the steps of passersby. Good and satisfied citizens of this town, returning home to their wives after their late evening beers. Their ample and ordinary words faded away with their steps. A cat was spitting in its lovemaking on a neighboring roof. From the square across the way, diagonally opposite him, a clock struck. Then all was still again.

  No, not in sleep!

  He wanted to awaken the boy, kneel down by the bed, and tell him everything—the whole truth. That—that he loved him. And that he could bear it no longer!

  Would he understand him? Could he understand him?!

  That he was no longer innocent, no longer entirely innocent, his eyes had just now convinced him. But then, what boy was still entirely innocent at that age!

  But what did he know? How much, how little? What?

  And how was he to tell him? Could it be said at all?

  Said in words? No.

  Then his temples became quite cold again.

  A voice inside seemed to call to him:

  Wake him up! Take him! Wake him with your kisses! Wake his sleeping body and his sleeping soul, wake them with the kisses of your love, until they both become yours!

  But another voice said:

  No, let him sleep, let him sleep out his innocent sleep! Don’t wake him up! An hour is coming (and it is near) in which he will give you both, freely, conquered by your love. And only then is it happiness!

  And it continued:

  For, if you wake him and want to take him, and he twists from your arms, astonished, shocked, and horrified—not suspecting, not knowing, not feeling what you want from him—how could you bear that!

  Or, if he does not resist, gives himself to you, drunk with sleep and only half conscious, from a feeling of gratitude or thankfulness, and you both stand face to face in the morning in shame and regret at having seduced, having been seduced—how could you live on after such an hour!

  And again he took control of himself with superhuman strength.

  He extinguished the gas flame.

  What did it help?

  The night was still as bright as the day.

  His face averted, he once again approached the bed and lightly pulled the shirt over the knees and the sheet over the naked body of the sleeping boy. It could not press on him like the heavy pillow. He would not notice it.

  Then he quickly undressed himself and lay down in the other bed next to his. He wanted to sleep. He must sleep.

  He finally succeeded.

  That in his sleep he had unconsciously grasped for the small hand that lay beside him, he noticed only on awaking, when he still held it fast in his own.

  Graff awoke first.

  He carefully released the hand so as not to awaken him, and sat up. His first glance was at the bed next to him. The boy was lying in the same position in which he had fallen asleep, half on his back, but his face almost entirely in the pillows, so that he could see nothing of it, and he was fast asleep.

  He felt himself refreshed, and gave himself entirely to the joy of being together with him: what a day today was to be! This day belonged to him. Nothing human or divine was to rob him of this day!

  When he had finished washing, shaving, and dressing, which in his case—doing everything with exactness and care—took quite a while, he walked to the bed and laid his hand on the shoulder of the sleeping boy. He did not stir at first, then he grumbled, made a reluctant movement, woke up, and looked around him.

  “Good morning, Gunther! Did you sleep well?”

  The boy sat up and rubbed his eyes.

  “No,” he said crossly, as he saw the already dressed man in front of him, and his look became angry.

  Hermann laughed. “It appeared as though you did! But come on, lazy bones, get up and get ready. It’s almost nine.”

  The bell rang.

  The proprietor, who had received them yesterday, arrived and asked through the door for their wishes.

  “Well, what will it be, gentlemen? Coffee? Yes? And since it’s Sunday, also pastry, I suppose?”

  “Yes, of course, that too, and plenty . . . and bread and fresh butter.”

  When he turned around, Gunther was still sitting in bed, his knees drawn up against his chest, both arms wrapped around them, and looking at him again with that look of yesterday evening—examining, as if curious, as if he wanted to get to the bottom of him.

  Hermann could not figure him out. Just what did he want? He was a strange boy.

  While Gunther washed himself, lazily and superficially, and slowly dressed, he described his plans for the day. He received no answer.

  He still has the night’s sleep in his eyes and senses, he thought.

  But when breakfast came, he saw with pleasure that his stomach, at least, was wide awake. He went at everything, and the mountain of pastries sank down visibly. He still said nothing, and Hermann watched with amusement.

  What moods such boys could have!

  Then, when they were finished and he was packing his bag, getting ready to go, he heard the boy behind him stand up, shove his chair back, and say, “I’m going back to Berlin now!”

  He turned around. He believed he had not heard correctly.

  “What do you want to do? Back to Berlin? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  But Gunther only repeated himself, and quite calmly: “I’m going back to Berlin.”

  “But, for heaven’s sake, why? What will you do there? Didn’t we agree to be together today? So tell me at least, what this is suddenly supposed to mean?”

/>   The upper lip twitched nastily, but no answer came.

  Hermann stood there, now likewise speechless, and he knew neither what to say nor what to do.

  What was this supposed to be? What did it mean?

  Then fear for the day gripped him, which was threatening to vanish from him.

  If he had become crazy, this boy who stood there defiantly and spitefully staring ahead, then he had to be the reasonable one.

  That’s why he was the older. Just not become angry too. With love—With goodness—

  He walked up to Gunther, gripped him with both hands under his armpits, lifted him up, and sat him on his lap.

  Holding his arm fast around him, his mouth next to his ear, he spoke, softly at first and falteringly, then ever faster and more urgently.

  “Gunther, my boy, now listen to me one time! Look, I have looked forward to this day with you today like a child does to Christmas. You have no idea what I’ve gone through, what I’ve suffered this last week. And now you want to leave. Without any reason—you want to return to hot Berlin, with its dust and its noise. No, my dear boy, you won’t do that to me, will you Gunther? You won’t do that to me?”

  He saw how the lip continued to twitch, always more strongly, and he continued, anxiously, imploringly, almost pleading.

  “Don’t you know yet how dear you are to me? Don’t you feel it? I never told you, but still you must feel it, Gunther—from each and every thing!”

  Silence and defiance on his knees.

  “Gunther, so tell me at least, why? Why so suddenly? What has come into your mind all of a sudden? Why don’t you speak? Why are you being such a stranger to me? We want to get to know one another so as to become friends, and how is that to happen, if I’m not allowed to look into you as into an open book! Why do you still not speak? At least say something, so that I can understand you! Have I done anything to you? Have I offended or hurt you? Come, be good, my dear boy, trust me! Tell me why you want to leave!”

  And, now desperate over the silence, which would not yield, his words stumbled over one another: “Isn’t it so, Gunther, you’re staying with me today? Say yes, say that you won’t go back to Berlin, say yes, my dear boy, dearer than anything!”