Then they did what they both said was best, namely not go out at all. Rather they lit the lamp, prepared their own meal, and made themselves comfortable in the warm and quiet room.
The greatest thing for the boy was, having eaten till he was full, the first cigarette in his mouth (and after a little chat), to sprawl on the old sofa and (so that he would not freeze) get snug in a blanket, his legs drawn up and his arms propped on the armrest, to be able to read to the end a wonderful thriller, whose cover pictured the horrible event when the safe was opened and the corpse of the disloyal bank teller, who had been locked up in it, fell into the arms of the man recoiling in horror. Meanwhile, Hermann read printers’ proofs at his desk and now and then (really often) looked over at the breathless tension and reddened cheeks of the reading boy.
For Hermann, however, the greatest happiness was, when this charming story (or another just as charming) had been read to its end with a deep sigh of satisfaction, to sit beside him, take his head in his hands, and look into those unfathomable eyes, whose color he still did not know because it was always changing; to inhale the fragrance of his hair and lightly and lovingly caress it anew, until the cheeky rascal laughingly blew the smoke of his tenth cigarette (for today) into his face.
*
It was an odd relationship between the two, and it remained so.
Basically each would have been glad to break their contract, but neither dared to.
In the many hours of these days they naturally became closer.
But the final trust was missing.
Always there remained a barrier between them, which they were never allowed to cross. One not allowed to ask, the other not allowed to tell how he lived.
But what stories he could have told!
Thus they kept silent more and more: the one content as it was; the other happy just to see him so often, to be allowed to have him with him for hours—but always with the secret fear of losing him if he did not know how to keep him.
At times Graff thought:
It’s really comical. We have already been together so long now, almost daily, and basically I still know nothing about him—not how he has lived nor how he lives now. Ask him just once! Try it at least!
But again and again he left it undone.
Even if Gunther no longer resented questions, if he received an answer, what would he hear?
Quite shocking and strange things, which he would not comprehend and which must fill him with indignation or disgust. And which surely could help nothing, but instead harm their love.
It was (superficially) better the way things were. It was better that the veil between them not be lifted.
That here and there a word raised the veil, like a breath of air, was unavoidable. Thus it happened one day, spontaneously, that the story of the Count was told. Surely he was allowed to tell it, thought Gunther to himself. It was a case of “nothing happened.”
So his friend heard it, astonished, shaken and—since unfortunately he entirely lacked the expertise of the all-knowing Atze—without understanding a word of it. The man had probably been crazy. But still—it was bad enough that something like that existed. But he did gather from the confused and incomprehensible tale that his darling must have had it very good there in many respects, better than with him, and this pained him. But then he heard also that with him—here with him—it was really much cozier. This pleased and comforted him again.
Their conversation was otherwise mainly limited to what was immediate: how it was going for him; where they wanted to go today and whether they wanted to go out at all; what he needed—to end then in mutual silence or in a mute embrace.
For—Graff soon had to be convinced of it—his little friend had no interests at all. In no one and in nothing. What was of such burning interest to other boys of his age—sports, adventures (even a little flirt with a girl, which he would gladly have forgiven)—all that left Gunther completely cold. He practiced no sport. But of adventures he still had enough experience. And he did not concern himself with girls: “Oh, the old women! They’re all so silly, and also cost much too much money!”
A good play or one of the better films bored him. Excursions were now automatically forbidden. He did not know how to entertain himself. And when once a good book was substituted for his everlasting thriller, it was soon shoved aside with a yawn: “What nonsense!”
To resign himself to doing without an intellectual communion, and to take pleasure only and repeatedly in his bodily presence, always newly enchanting, in his smile and his sweet voice (which remained sweet, even when he talked nonsense)—what was left, except this?
*
Nevertheless he sought again and again to get behind a puzzle, which was no puzzle and therefore had no solution.
For it was and remained the discord of these years: eternal change and becoming; defiance and devotion; wanting and then again not wanting; moods, moods, moods.
Who has ever understood it? Who can understand it—the puzzle of these years?
At times, in clear hours not troubled by passion, Graff said to himself in the face of this unbounded indolence: But he is really stupid! Simply stupid!
And then again after one of Gunther’s remarks (for example, about their relationship, which surprised him): No, he’s not either! A stupid boy never says anything like that! Then, too, the entirely characteristic way in which Gunther at times expressed himself struck him. He was often droll, and much that he said pointed to an acute observation and a precocious (acquired where?) knowledge of human nature.
Besides, who was he to judge! He was no doubt quite boring himself.
Must he not appear stupid to him often enough, with his lack of knowledge of people and his inexperience?
He had to love him. Nothing further. And that he did. More and more every day.
Life without him would now seem unthinkable to him.
*
No, Gunther was not stupid. Even if his questions were not always intelligent and showed only the great lack of understanding of his age, still they were often of a childlike grace—questions of the kind one is always glad to answer for children.
Thus Gunther asked one day, quite unexpectedly, when his friend was again looking at him for a long time, as if he never wanted to take his gaze from Gunther’s face: “What is it you like so much about me, Hermann?”
The man found no answer at first.
Yes, what did he actually like so much about him? he asked himself. Everything, everything! he thought. But he could not just say that.
So he said then, after a while, smiling:
“Look angry! So. For then there appears”—he laid his finger on the upper right corner of his mouth—”then there appears this little, white tooth.”
Atze, too, had said that once.
Only he had expressed it differently:
“Man, why do you always screw up your mug! You can see right away when something is wrong with you! Just get rid of that.
Otherwise the johns will believe you want to bite them.”
*
Are you, too, glad to be with me, my darling?” he was asked in return—in a good hour.
“Yes, sure,” came the answer. “With you I’m secure. With the others you never know what they will suddenly want from you. With you, I know that you want nothing, just like with the Count.”
And at Hermann’s look:
“Only what I myself want,” and he pressed closer to him.
“Just like with the Count,” the man thought bitterly. “Only with the difference that he was completely indifferent to you, whereas I love you!”
And then as he was more intimately embraced: “Yes, only what you want! In each and every thing! Only your happiness!”
*
“You’re so quiet, Hermann,” was often said.
Happiness makes for quiet.
“Speak, you speak! I gladly hear you speak.”
“Me? But I have nothing to tell.”
And, as always
, the unspoken lay between them like an invisible wall.
On the fourteenth of November they celebrated Gunther’s sixteenth birthday. Long before, Hermann had tried to find out what he wished for most.
“Do tell me something, so that I can really delight you, Gunther,” he begged again and again. But the boy did not want to tell him:
“It’s too expensive for you.”
Finally it did come out: “A wrist watch . . . a quite simple one . . . naturally not gold, there’s no question of that . . . a simple, silver one.”
Hermann searched for a long time until he found what he wanted: a plain, silver watch, held by a light-colored leather band, which he would like and which would look nice on the brownish skin of his wrist.
He was looking forward to the day, more than the boy himself.
“You will come?”
And this time he had the courage to add: “And spend the evening with me?”
It was granted.
Yes, he would make himself free, Gunther swore (and he honestly meant it).
Make himself free? From what and from whom? thought Hermann.
The day came and a loaded table awaited the birthday boy.
It was covered in white and decorated with flowers and sixteen candles. On the table also lay all the things that must delight a young heart—this heart also, which knew so little of the joys that moved others his age. There lay neckties; gloves; a walking stick (which he had always wanted); a cigarette case (with many cigarettes of his latest favorite brand); and finally a book with suspense, adventures, and remarkable lives (which he secretly hoped would force the thrillers a bit into the background). There lay a wallet (also wished for, to carry the papers he never showed, but always carried with him in a dirty envelope). There lay shirts and underwear (again so much needed).
At his first glance Gunther thought that the one thing he most wanted was missing.
But it was not missing. As he regarded everything in silence, the watch was placed around his wrist. As while the giver did it and then kissed the slender, beloved, little hand, and felt the other in gratitude caress his cheek, he was happy, perfectly happy.
“You have outdone yourself, Hermann.”
And then a soft: “You are good.”
They celebrated here.
At first with chocolate they made themselves and cakes and pastries in such mountains that even Gunther fought against them in vain.
They celebrated further. Outside.
At first in a cinema. Not exactly in the one to which Gunther would have wished to go, but rather (he had to sacrifice something) in one of the largest and nicest, a true palace, and they saw a wonderful reproduction of human longing, human courage, and unbending will in its reality, more adventurous and exciting than any fantasy that could be imagined: saw the ship of explorers strive toward the unknown distance; saw them spend the winter in the eternal ice; the expedition of the few with their sleds and dogs through the ice and snow toward one goal; saw their disappointment and return, and finally the gripping end—the despair and death from extreme exhaustion. And as Hermann sought the hand of his darling beside him and, deeply affected, pressed it, the boy said:
“But none of that is really true.”
They celebrated further. The high point, the birthday dinner, had arrived. For that, one of the best and most distinguished restaurants in a large hotel was selected. A moment of wondering whether the boy might feel strange and uncomfortable there was banished.
Graff did not need to worry. Gunther did not appear at all astonished or even impressed. As they sat down at the reserved table, he said perfunctorily:
“I’ve been here a couple of times already.”
Hermann was dumbfounded.
“Here?”
“Well, sure, with the Count. We always sat over there.”
Nor did the surroundings for a moment affect his appetite, and he altogether conducted himself almost more confidently than his friend in the strange place.
It turned out to be a lovely evening.
Although the host found it somewhat trivial, naturally the bottle of champagne was not to be lacking. Here, too, Gunther again proved himself a connoisseur. He spoke of sec and dry, and named brands of which the older man had scarcely heard.
“But you don’t know anything at all,” Gunther remarked after making the selection himself.
At the end he declared himself “so full” that he could no longer walk, and since it appeared that Hermann, too, who obviously did not have Gunther’s strong stomach, was somewhat tipsy, his friend was allowed to take him in a cab to a spot near his house. Then Hermann (alone but happy) trudged home.
*
It was an odd relationship between the two.
And yet it became better day by day.
The gifts for his birthday had pleased the boy, indeed touched him (as far as this was possible).
They must have cost a lot of money (as had the evening) and he knew indeed that his friend was not well off.
He followed Atze’s advice badly—he did not take advantage of Hermann. For one thing, it was not in him to do so; for another, he did not need to at all.
He was quite content with what he received (and he was constantly receiving something, without even expressing the wish). The “others” had to take care of the “other” things. To get out of them what there was to get was self-evidently a matter of honor (and not all that easy). They had it. And besides, that’s what they were there for.
Thus the boy lacked nothing, and he wished that it might stay that way always.
His friend hardly desired more.
He had given up reflecting about him. He was still a puzzle to him in so many ways, and he remained such. He did not comprehend why he still wanted to go away from him—there, to where he could not and should not follow. Two souls must dwell in his breast: the inheritance of his mixed blood—from his father, this spirit (and thoughtlessness); from his mother, this robust indifference to enduring life wherever it led, this indifference to life alto-gether—his splendor and his grime.
As was said, he gave up reflecting about him.
He said to himself: “I have never been happy. But I am still young. I, too, want to be happy once. I can be so only in him, and only if I take him as he is—with all his delightful charm, with all his secret depths and shallows. I may not question him. I will not question him. I will live in him: in his smile (which for me is like no other human smile); in his breath; in the sweet scent of his youth; and—in his heart, as far as it is mine! And I will be content with what he wants to give and can give me.”
Thus he thought and was happy—was completely so in many an hour again and again.
*
One day, exactly eight days after his birthday, Gunther stayed away.
2
He did not come on that day, nor on the next. He stayed away.
The first day Hermann Graff was only sad.
Now he is already starting to stay away again, he thought.
But the next day already brought his old uneasiness.
It had been weeks since he had stayed away two days in a row. Just what could it be? He waited until nine o’clock, then went out, walked the streets aimlessly for a long time, and slept badly during the night.
With the third day, however, anxiety over him set in: What could it be? What had happened?
Something must have happened? What?
With anxiety, however, also came the feeling that something must be done. But what?
He had the shivers. For he found no answer to his own question.
As he sought further for an answer, he had to realize in plain terror that he was not in the least able to give one.
What was he to do? Where was he to look for him?
He knew neither where he lived nor with whom he lived. Somewhere up there in the northeast of the city—toward Weissensee. When they had gone out for the evening and he said (always to his friend’s joy and relief) he wanted to go �
��directly home,” he sometimes took a bus in that direction. He was not allowed to accompany him. Thus he always rode away unquestioned. (Only once, eight days earlier on his birthday, had he been allowed to take him up there in a taxi, but even then only to the neighborhood of his room, which surely was a good piece farther on.) Gunther was like that: always with a certain joy in secrecy. It went with his life.
Should he go there where he had found him: on the streets? The streets were many and long. First, of course, to Friedrichstrasse with its Passage. But no—he was no longer to be found there. Not any longer. Since he had once been arrested there, his fear was too great that he would be apprehended again and not let go. This fear was not a pretense. It spoke through each of his words, as often as the conversation turned to that area. Even when they went out together, they always, at his request, made a detour around the feared streets. So, not there. There last of all!
In the bars, the lounges? Graff was unfamiliar with them. Not one did he know even by name. And there, too, he would not be found. He no longer visited them, since he no longer made his acquaintances there.
These acquaintances, however, what kind of people were they? He had no idea, he knew nothing about them—not their names, not where they lived, not how they might look, and not what they did.
He knew nothing about him, nothing!
He did not even know his last name!
Lulled into security these past weeks, he had lived from day to day with him, sure of being allowed to see him again, if not tomorrow, then the day after—sure that he could no longer lose him.
As if it had to stay that way. As if it could not become otherwise.
Unbelievable carelessness! Inconceivable stupidity! Criminal recklessness!
Now he accused himself.
True, he had not been allowed to question him. His promise, their agreement, bound his tongue.
But he should have got out of him, with care, with kindness, with promises, yes, even with cunning, what he wanted to know and must know!
Yet, all would have been in vain! Not with cunning and persuasion, not with love and kindness, with nothing in the world would he have dragged out of him what he did not wish to say. He knew him that much already: in that respect he was like all boys (or at least the majority). What they did not want to tell, they did not tell. Had Gunther noticed his intention, he would have been cross. No, more: mean and angry, and in such a state, he might have decided never to return, to stay away, and he would have been lost to him again forever!
The Hustler: The Story of a Nameless Love From Friedrichstrasse Page 19