The Hustler: The Story of a Nameless Love From Friedrichstrasse

by John Henry Mackay

  But when he saw how Gunther turned red and his look became angry, he said, “Well, never mind. You don’t look like it. And you won’t have murdered anyone either, you’re too small for that. So then, let’s go.”

  Gunther followed, numb and without will.

  They climbed into the next cab.

  4

  What followed now—at least in the first days—was no longer reality. It was a dream.

  The cab stopped in the Tiergarten quarter before a house that was not large, but like a palace, shut off from the street by a high fence and a small front garden.

  Franz opened the door himself, led him up the wide, softly carpeted stairs, and then first into a luxuriously outfitted bathroom with colorful tiles and a gigantic bathtub of red marble. There he was thoroughly washed from head to foot with wonderful, perfumed soap, a sponge as large as a wagon wheel, and streams of warm water. Then, wrapped in a soft bathrobe, he was given a plentiful, warm supper in a shining kitchen. Finally, in a small but snug room he was tucked into a gigantic bed, into whose pillows he sank down over his nose.

  Next to this room was that of the servant, as Franz told him. He was to sleep as long as he wished.

  But how could he sleep! That no harm was done to him, at least not for the present, he could see. But what would he have to do? Well, they surely wouldn’t murder him. He just had to wait and see. Tired from the bath and the ample food, he did finally fell asleep in the unaccustomed pillows.

  The next morning he had to get in the bathtub again. This time his hands and feet were also given expert treatment. After breakfast he rode out with Franz.

  On this day he had no time to reflect on anything. He simply fell from one astonishment into another.

  They went from shop to shop.

  There were many purchases: a light-colored summer suit of light, soft material, with long pants; a sport suit, coat and pants, with leather belt and six sport shirts that went with it; as third, an evening suit of fine black cloth, with a low-necked vest (which first had to be measured, since it was not in stock: “so as to be able to go out evenings with the Count,” added Franz, by way of explanation); and finally as fourth, yet another suit, a blue sailor-suit—nothing like the common outfit that Sailor Otto wore, but instead like a sailor of the fleet—with open collar and on the cap the insignia of the imperial yacht club. This last outfit suited him best and he would have preferred to wear it right away. But that would not do. For today, the light summer suit was the only appropriate one. (What he had on was simply left behind.)

  Then there were more purchases: linen, underwear, wool socks, silk socks, handkerchiefs, gloves, ties, a derby, a straw hat, two caps. And shoes and boots, four pairs right off: low, high, calf, patent leather, fine sheepskin, yellow and black. There seemed no end.

  Yet, it did end, with a toilet case with a hundred things in it and, as the very last in another shop, a fine leather suitcase was bought, into which most of the things were immediately packed before they returned.

  Gunther’s head no longer swam. He was completely confused. All that was to belong to him! He tried to add it up—that must surely already be a thousand marks!

  Franz, however, appeared not to be calculating, and gave evidence of astonishing experience in these matters.

  At the end they went to a barber. There his hair was cut—short, in the military manner, without topknot (and without the vulgar straight-around cut). Franz also gave instructions here, down to the smallest details.

  That evening Gunther still did not see the Count.

  “The Count is dining out this evening,” he was told.

  He had enough to do admiring all the splendid things, and admiring them again, in his room—in his room—undressing and dressing again, inspecting himself in the mirror. He could hardly eat or sleep again this evening for all the excitement.

  It was madness! If he were to tell this to Atze, he would not believe a word of it!

  *

  Everything was a dream.

  Each day a new one—incomprehensible, supernatural.

  Everything was different, everything became different from what he imagined—as far as he was still able to think at all.

  Two days later, in the afternoon, he came face to face for the first time with his new master.

  “Franz, out for a drive!” came the order.

  Two minutes later a car stopped before the door.

  They drove out—the Count leaning back in the leather cushion, Gunther opposite on the fold-down seat wearing his sport jacket, short pants, and black calf-length stockings. He was curtly greeted with a nod, as if they had known one another for a long time already, instead of having just met for the first time.

  The Count spoke not a word during the trip.

  Gunther, of course, kept silent. He would not, for all the world, have been able to bring out a word. He hardly dared look at the man opposite him.

  They drove to Wannsee on the famous automobile road. There they got out, walked into the garden of a small cafe on the water, and seated themselves at an empty table as far as possible from the other guests. The few steps already seemed to tire the Count.

  While they were drinking their coffee, he dared for the first time to glance at him.

  How old would he be? He was probably still young, but his face, a gaunt, pale face with sharp eyes, narrow, long nose, and firmly closed mouth, looked tired and bored. His hair was thin and already slightly gray.

  The few words he had spoken when ordering had been soft, but very polite.

  Moreover, he appeared to be quite content. He breathed in the somewhat cooler air here with obvious pleasure, drank his coffee in small sips, the cup held carefully in his long, ringless hand, and he also offered Gunther a yellow cigarette from his golden case ornamented with a monogram. When the boy looked astonished at the quite small and thin—little tobacco and a long paper mouthpiece—cigarette (he had never before seen such cigarettes), he spoke for the first time, but as if to himself: “Russian—smoke up in two puffs!” That he did himself, drawing the smoke in deeply and only after a while blowing it out again, before throwing it away. Gunther tried to imitate him. Oh, he could also inhale smoke! But he immediately fell into coughing, and the Count imperceptibly smiled. Then he concerned himself no further about him. But Gunther had indeed noticed that the Count first offered him a light from his wax match, before he used it himself. He still had enough composure to bring out a soft “Thanks!”

  The return trip passed by just as silently. The boy, for the first time in an automobile by day (for nights, almost always half or entirely drunk, he had often enough been put in one by his johns) and in the open country, had no real pleasure in the rushing trip.

  He kept silent and looked straight ahead in embarrassment.

  In the evening, after a meal, which was excellent and ample as always, in the kitchen with Franz (whom he dared ask nothing, for he mostly received no answer), he was summoned in. He had to undress first and was wrapped in a silken mantle.

  “Just be tranquil and undress,” Franz had calmly said, “nothing will happen to you.”

  Nothing really did happen to him.

  The Count, in light pajamas, was sitting in a deep chair, holding a book on his knees, and he motioned Gunther to the divan opposite. It was covered with the black fur of a powerful bear. The mantle had been taken from him by Franz as he entered.

  He hesitantly lay down and almost sank into the soft fur.

  He was close to crying.

  For the first time again, since that first acquaintance, he was afraid. Since then, and since he had become acquainted with Atze, he had not been fearful—of no one and nothing. He had gone along with whomever and wherever, and nothing had ever happened to him. Some had been cruder to him and some more friendly. Some had asked for this and others for that. He had said yes and no. No one had done anything to him. No, he had no more fear. He even had no fear of the criminal police (with whom, to be sure, he had not yet run int
o conflict). Here, too, he wanted to have no fear. He wanted, at least, not to show it.

  He also had no reason at all to be afraid.

  Nothing happened. Not the least thing happened. None of all the things that usually happened did happen.

  The Count looked into his book, looked up, looked at him as he lay there, looked away again, and read further.

  “Hot,” he said just once.

  It was truly very hot. The heat penetrated through the open balcony door, undiminished by the late evening, mixed with the humid fragrance of the flowers and shrubbery in the walled-in, little garden behind the house.

  He dared to move and look over at the man calmly sitting there.

  The man seemed to notice it.

  “Smoke?” he asked quite amiably and indicated the round stool beside the couch. “But don’t burn the fur. Asiatic bear.”

  Gunther only shook his head. No, he had no desire to smoke. He lay motionless.

  A long pause ensued. The Count smoked, read, looked at him, looked away, read further, and yawned.

  In his glances there was no kind of excitement, neither of pleasure or aversion. They were completely indifferent, as if it were the most natural thing in the world that he was sitting here—in his pajamas—and the boy was lying there—naked.

  The boy stretched himself out in the soft fur. He half-dozed. He was now quite sure that nothing would happen. At least not this evening. But he did not feel well.

  After an hour the Count stood up, nodded to him, and went out through the other door.

  Franz appeared with the mantle, wrapped it around the boy, and took him to bed.

  *

  Thus had the third day passed, and so, too, passed the next ones.

  He had it truly good there. Always the best food, as often and as much as he could wish. And enough money. Already on the second day he had received from Franz the first fifty marks.

  He could do or not do whatever he wished. No one questioned him. No one made regulations for him, and—no one concerned himself about him.

  If the Count was not at home—and he often was not—Gunther was allowed to go out. Wherever he wished.

  He was also allowed to walk around the house, through all the rooms of each of the two floors and in the garden. He sat in every chair and found peace nowhere.

  At first he observed all these things that were completely strange to him with curiosity and astonishment: the furniture, the silver, the carpets, the drapery everywhere on the walls, the strange and valuable objects on the tables, the beautifully bound books in the tall and sturdy cases. And all the pictures on the walls. Naturally they were a long way from being as pretty as those in the Passage, and with most of them you couldn’t tell what they were supposed to represent. But they had no doubt cost a lot of money, like everything here.

  He touched nothing. An odd shyness held him back. Everything was so strange, and nothing became more familiar to him over time.

  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.