Hermann had only half listened. Never in his life had he believed a human being could be so happy, beyond all measure, superhumanly happy, as he was. He promised. He would have promised anything. He would have promised within twenty-four hours to fetch the moon from the sky.
Gunther continued, precociously wise and serious:
“See here, you also have things to do and must work. You need only give me what you can, I’ll certainly be satisfied with it. So it’s agreed. And you don’t ask me about anything else. I can’t stand being questioned.”
That, too, was promised.
For he who promised it was thinking at that moment only of how wonderful was the profile of these red, somewhat arched lips.
They were to be his. No, they were his.
He pulled him to himself and kissed them. And was kissed in return.
*
Everything was transformed.
Never in his life would Hermann Graff have thought such bliss possible as there was in these first days.
They were a dream, a dream of happiness and bliss! Incompre-hensible—quite incomprehensible!
Waking in the morning was a joy unknown since the days of his innocent childhood. Work was play, and even waiting was the ardent, agreeably painful happiness of an hour, for hours of a greater happiness.
For his fear, his fear—will he return?—had vanished.
He returned. He would return again.
The world was transformed, the people, everything.
In his office he was asked more than once: “You must have won the lottery, haven’t you?”
He had won it. (Finally.) As he believed.
*
Only at their third time together did he dare place a condition from his side too. But it had to be.
He did it almost timidly.
Struggling, he said, “I will not question you, Gunther. It is to be as you wish. But—you must understand what I’m saying to you now—you are never, never to tell me where you are coming from and where you are going. You must understand. I couldn’t bear it. If you believe you can’t live otherwise—I am not your guardian and am not to make rules for you. Only I am not to know. And the past—well, let’s bury the past, speak about it no more, think about it no more. You understand me? Come to me!”
And he drew him to himself.
Gunther had listened, but not very accurately. He by no means understood everything. But he understood this much, that he was to tell nothing, and that was alright with him.
One surely did not always have to tell everything right off.
Thus the pact was concluded between them.
*
Besides, there was enough to do in these first days.
What all had to be taken care of!
There were so many things to be purchased. He could no longer go out, with the weather getting cooler, in the thin, light summer outfit which he was still wearing. A warmer, darker one for the winter was absolutely necessary; also an overcoat for the really cold days, which no longer seemed distant. Sturdy shoes and warm underwear, and everything that went with them besides, so as to fit him out again.
They went from shop to shop, selected, conferred, and bought.
It was an entirely new joy for the older man (and naturally, with every new piece, a joy and happy surprise, too, for his beloved boy).
Of course, it was not all done in a morning and with uncounted hundred-mark bills, as that time with the servant Franz. But in return it was much pleasanter.
Not that his new friend kept an account. He would have been ashamed to do so now. To add it up—now, when happiness had come to him! It was necessary and so had to be. Thus he drew from the bank what was needed, and not for a long time did he add it up, to see if it was much or little. (It was much.)
Then, too, a room had to be taken care of. However, Gunther had already made arrangements. He had grown tired of always sleeping in a different bed and in that miserable hotel. He had moved in, as he truthfully said, with an acquaintance, a very decent boy “who works and is only occasionally in on it with us.” They lived with a nice old lady who looked after them. Thus he needed to pay only half and had at the same time company, if he ever felt alone.
“Feel alone!” thought Graff. “Am I not always and at any time here for him?” (He forgot that he was occupied during the day.)
He did not say it. He only asked if he might not be allowed to see the room sometime, in order to see how they lived together.
Not that he wanted to come there often, he added immediately, already fearful again. Only—what a joy it would be for him to make their new and surely bare room really comfortable. (He would also very much have liked to see the other boy at least once.)
But Gunther would hear absolutely nothing of this. He even kept secret where it was and the name of his roommate.
“I certainly can’t take a gentleman up there!” he said. “What would my landlady think of it?”
As if I were one of these “gentlemen,” the rejected man thought again. But he now said nothing more and regretted already that he had even asked.
*
The story of the room and having a roommate was not a hoax. Gunther no longer lied at all, simply because he did not need to lie any more. He was truly serious about changing his life in a certain respect. No more lounges and no more Friedrichstrasse.
Chance also came to his aid.
Through one of the other boys—boys became acquainted with one another like dogs—he had fallen into quite different circles from those in which he had moved up to now.
He moved in closed circles of gentlemen who did not cruise the street in order to look for boys to have a good time with. They also did not run after them and go to the lounges (or indeed only occasionally). These circles were supplied—one did not exactly know how: one boy just brought another along and all were first carefully examined, to see if they were trustworthy, before they were granted the honor of being accepted.
They came together, first of all, to be in company—”among themselves.” The gentleman who already had a young friend brought him along. Those who had none hoped to find one here.
Faithfulness was taken seriously only in certain cases, but then very seriously. There were scenes: petty jealousies, disputes, tears, separations, and reconciliations.
They were all more or less well-to-do people. Wholesale merchants, attorneys, artists—all the higher professions were represented.
Most of them had to be very careful and almost all of them were—especially the married ones. For there were also such among them.
All were polite and friendly among themselves and with the boys, and the tone remained altogether within the bounds of outward decorum and never became common. They took a deep interest only in their current favorites. How deep this went, however, mostly eluded observation at their gatherings.
They met by preference in their homes, if that was possible: they gave invitations and were invited in return. Sometimes they organized regular parties, which were merry and loud, without degenerating into orgies.
It was like a secret fraternity with unwritten laws, which, however, were all the more strictly observed.
They were “real gentlemen” who, if they gave someone a cigarette case, did not wish to have him believe it was silver when it was only nickel alloy—who acted handsomely, without exactly being extravagant. And during the day they gave themselves to their work.
Gunther felt quite at ease in this new society.
He did not have a steady relationship and he did not find one. He also preferred not to, now that he had his Hermann.
And (oddly) the gentlemen were fond of him, took him along—now this one, now that one—but always they dropped him again.
There was no jealousy or argument over him.
Hermann really doesn’t need to be jealous, thought the boy. (But Hermann knew not the least thing about all this.)
There had to be a reason for this, and it must have been in his cool
ness and lack of sensuality. He was found to be good-looking and trustworthy, but really boring.
He no longer suffered any kind of need. He always had money in hand, sometimes quite a bit. But it did not stay there and ran through his fingers.
He had no more cares and needed to have none for the next day.
And if he did: he knew now, of course, to whom he had recourse for help always and at any time.
*
Thus they slowly grew accustomed to one another.
Naturally Gunther could not come by day.
But from five-thirty on he was expected. And with what painful longing, with what tormenting restlessness, with what anxious doubts still: Will he come today or will he stay away?
When he came—what joy! Then Gunther was either already at the corner and went right up with him, or he stationed himself at the wall opposite and softly whistled (with the whistle that, in the first days, they had practiced with so much laughter). Then the window flew open, he went up, the door was already standing open, and he was in the arms that embraced him as if they had not just yesterday held him.
Then, either they spent the evening together: they would eat in the room first or in some decent restaurant, and spend the rest of the evening at the circus, at the Winter Garden, in some cinema—whatever he wished.
Or: he “had to leave soon.” In giving this news, which always cut the disappointed man to the quick, he sought to make a sad face. Sometimes he stayed, only to start up unexpectedly. “How late is it already? I don’t have any time more.”
Then he would leap up, give him a quick kiss, and make a hasty departure. He never said where he was going. He never promised to return. He never said when it would be.
And he never stayed overnight.
For one thing, his real life began only in the evening, when “the other gentlemen” had time. Then, too, Hermann also did not want it, however passionately he would have preferred to keep him with him. He had taken the room for himself and himself alone. Even if his strange landlady would (as he supposed) have noticed nothing, it would have seemed to him a breach of contract and thus have gone against his sense of justice. He had to grit his teeth when Gunther himself—he had nothing else planned for the evening—once harmlessly said, “But do let me stay with you until early in the morning,” and with his impish face added: “I could sleep on the sofa.”
During the day he could, of course, receive whomever he wished.
No one had a right to question him. He would just refuse to allow it.
So were the days in the first period, when he came.
But there also were those days when he stayed away completely. One day, two—
Then Graff waited, restlessly walking to and fro, again and again going to the window in fear of having missed the whistle—or standing there, staring at the wall. Then he waited—one hour, two, into the third—until his stomach reminded him that he must eat something, and his heart told him that for today it was useless to wait any longer. Then, downcast, he walked around the corner to the small, quiet pub, or he got out food he had previously bought, to gulp it down with a cup of tea which he made himself—not bitter or even wounded (there was just no helping it), but still sad and disappointed, latching onto just one thought:
“Tomorrow! Tomorrow he will certainly come, since he didn’t come today. If it were only tomorrow already.”
Tomorrow—would it be: “Do I have time today? Today let’s stay together the whole evening. Where shall we go?”
Or would it be: “I’ve just quickly come up to tell you that I can’t stay today. You’re not angry with me, are you?”
No, he was not angry. He was never angry. How indeed could he be angry with him!
*
It required the entire patience of an overpowering love to endure this waiting, this eternal insecurity, the long hours of disappointment after hoping in vain. Only the certainty that he would return gave the young man the strength to get through them.
For that he would return, that he would no longer stay away—of this he dared grow more convinced daily. This certainty lulled his tormented spirit again and again.
The boy was glad to be with him, without doubt.
He saw it already in the way he flew to his neck after entering. He saw it in the way he little by little put off the inevitable hour of departure and obviously left reluctantly.
And why should he not be glad to be with him?
He was always greeted with joy, as if they had not seen one another for God knows how long; sweets were always on the table for him or in the pocket of his overcoat; there were always the cigarettes that were just then his favorite brand (a new kind every three days); everything was always as if it were there just for him; and—he was never questioned!
Where was he better looked after than here, with this good friend whose concern and kindness never tired? Here he was not only welcome, he was longed for, whenever he came. Here he had unlimited rule: over each feeling, over each thought.
With the natural cunning of his years, he had soon caught on to this. It flattered his youthful vanity to see himself so desired, so loved.
He let himself be pampered, spoiled, courted.
That was just right: everything revolved about him and him alone. So it should and must be.
It was precisely this that he had wanted and had found nowhere else. And it was what the other boys did not have, at least not like this. Never had any person, not even approximately, been like this to him.
A feeling told him that it was better not to speak of his friendship to any of the other boys. Either they would laugh at him or he would be sounded out and envied. So he kept silent when he was questioned about where he had been and where he was coming from or where he intended to go; where he had got this new outfit and these new boots. (Well, he was making out, what concern was it of the others!)
And the best part was: he could come and go without ever being questioned. He was never nagged. He absolutely could not stand constant nagging.
And Hermann?
What had he to say about his life? Nothing. He knew nothing about his life. He kept his promise. His only fear was that he could break down and thus lose him again. He had grown patient, infinitely patient. He resigned himself to sharing, since he could not completely possess him, since he could not have him entirely for himself alone, as his dream had been.
He lived now only in him. He was himself only in his proximity. If he was not always happy—in some hours he was completely happy!
*
Only at times, in the first weeks, were the old feelings still stronger than himself. Then it could happen, when had him on his knees and was holding him, that his arms would become limp with the thought: Who held him like this yesterday, perhaps just now? His arms would fall, the boy would slide down and look up at him in surprise:
“What’s the matter with you now?”
Or crossly:
“You know, I can never figure you out. Sometimes like this, sometimes like that. Not at all like—”
Like the others, he had wanted to say. But he did not say it. He, too, thought of his promise. And also of how good he had it here. That was not be thrown away!
Then his friend gave up thinking and doubting.
He forced himself to. It served no purpose. Things were like this and could not be otherwise. One argument, one demand, one simple question would be the end. Only in this way could he keep him. Only thus in time win his love, which would then belong to him alone, offered freely and of his own accord. The hour would—it must—come!
His love would compel it.
*
“Manny,” Gunther said. He was standing behind him and looking at his work, the crossed-through words and the incomprehensible signs drawn with red ink on the margin of the long paper strips. He had become bored and was standing with his hands around the neck of his friend, trying to get under his collar. He knew he liked that.
The working man jerked around.
/> Gunther pretended innocence: “Well now, Manny. That’s really your name.” What, he still didn’t know the abbreviation for manikin?
No, and he found it silly. One could call a dachshund that (or at most a tactless wife her husband), but not a person.
“Now, don’t get upset. I won’t call you that again, if you don’t like it.”
He silently resolved to call him that again at the next opportunity. It was always good to know what would make someone angry.
Actually, he really did not want to anger him, for during those weeks he had truly formed a kind of attachment to this friendly, always patient, always loving friend, who was so entirely different from all the others.
With Potsdam, however, he did prefer not to try any more.
“Are you still angry with me about Potsdam?” he had asked. But here, for the first time, Hermann truly became bad-tempered (bad-tempered, not angry).
“Just keep quiet about Potsdam!” Then immediately he became nice and calm, but serious: “All that should and must be forgotten between us!”
Gunther sensed how much the mere mention hurt his feelings, even if he did not understand.
*
Things became better as the weeks passed by. Slowly, but definitely better. Rarely did his boy now stay away a whole day, and when that did happen, it was clear that he himself felt bad about it.
What had prevented him? Graff did not ask, but he would now spontaneously give an explanation: he had had an appointment; a “date”; a chance meeting with some acquaintance or other “from earlier,” who then did not let him go.
“Don’t be angry with me!”
No, he was not angry. He was never angry. He could not be angry with him.
The weather was awful. After the long, extraordinarily hot summer came first a changeable September, then a noticeably cooler and rainy October, and now it was already November, with the first snowfalls and cold, gloomy, sad days from which the last sun of the year crept away.
The Hustler: The Story of a Nameless Love From Friedrichstrasse Page 18