The Hustler: The Story of a Nameless Love From Friedrichstrasse by John Henry Mackay
Authors: John Henry Mackay
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cool, smooth skin of his cheek on his fingers, and he continued, urgently, as if imploring, so that the boy, keeping still and not moving under the hot hand, in spite of himself heard and remembered the words:
“One more thing, Gunther! Listen to me carefully.
“If your uncle, despite his original intention, should stay longer in Berlin and you can’t get away, or if something else should come up, so that you can’t come tomorrow, then remember that on Monday and each day of next week, somewhat after five o’clock, I’ll be on the bridge and will wait for you there. Are you listening—each day at five or a little later on the bridge!”
A tram car rattled up. It was the right one. They shook hands hastily. Gunther felt a paper bill in his hand and jumped onto the tram.
The man left behind walked slowly down the misty streets, his head lowered and without looking around him.
*
This new disappointment pained him more than he was willing to admit.
What was this now, this unexpected hindrance because of this uncle so suddenly dropped down from the skies!
He did not want to go out again. The day he had looked forward to was now spoiled. So he bought some food for his supper and walked on home.
He sat at his desk and propped his forehead in his hot hands.
What was to become of all this? How was he to find a position for him? How could he support him until one was found? The boy could not just spend night after night in one of these certainly objectionable hotels, which were at any rate not cheap. He needed things besides! That suit, so unsuitable for him, like his shoes, was already worn and covered with spots. And his underwear especially! From what he had seen of it, it was urgently in need of replacement. He must have a job, a place where he belonged, a room with dependable people who looked out for him.
He made a calculation.
If it went on this way and he gave Gunther five marks daily, by the end of the month that would amount to almost his whole salary. It was therefore unthinkable that the two of them could get along on his salary, not even if Gunther had a position (which probably would be as miserably paid as all those positions).
He himself lived quite simply, and his innate sense of order compelled him to get along with what he had. But he had, as he himself knew, one great trait: like on his first day in Berlin he had stopped at a large hotel, even if only in its cheapest and smallest room (it had cost a couple of marks more, but was still so much better than the best room in a second-rate hotel). So, too, he paid a lot only for good things, for good material and good underwear, and when he went to a concert or to the theatre, it was not the seats up in the third balcony that he took. He bought only the most necessary things for himself, but when he bought, he bought the very best (because, as he knew, that was at the same time always the most economical).
To be sure, he still had a couple thousand marks in the bank, the inheritance from his parents. But that money had to stay in there: for emergencies, his own unemployment, sickness.
Thus he calculated, or at least tried to calculate. But then he shoved everything away from him.
He did want to help him. He was really fond of him. It just had to work out, one way or another.
If he was fond of him—and how fond of him he was already!—then he had to put his trust in him. There really was no reason to doubt his sincerity or to mistrust him. That he wanted to go to his landlady yesterday, to pick up his things, was understandable: he really needed them. And this visit today—what was so remarkable about it? Everyone comes to Berlin sometime, why not his uncle?
No, he wanted to be glad—glad that he had found him again, glad that he had come, and had returned, and that they had been together, if only so briefly and quickly. Above all, he wanted to look forward to tomorrow, when he would have him here, here in this room and then all to himself
“One more thing, Gunther! Listen to me carefully.
“If your uncle, despite his original intention, should stay longer in Berlin and you can’t get away, or if something else should come up, so that you can’t come tomorrow, then remember that on Monday and each day of next week, somewhat after five o’clock, I’ll be on the bridge and will wait for you there. Are you listening—each day at five or a little later on the bridge!”
A tram car rattled up. It was the right one. They shook hands hastily. Gunther felt a paper bill in his hand and jumped onto the tram.
The man left behind walked slowly down the misty streets, his head lowered and without looking around him.
*
This new disappointment pained him more than he was willing to admit.
What was this now, this unexpected hindrance because of this uncle so suddenly dropped down from the skies!
He did not want to go out again. The day he had looked forward to was now spoiled. So he bought some food for his supper and walked on home.
He sat at his desk and propped his forehead in his hot hands.
What was to become of all this? How was he to find a position for him? How could he support him until one was found? The boy could not just spend night after night in one of these certainly objectionable hotels, which were at any rate not cheap. He needed things besides! That suit, so unsuitable for him, like his shoes, was already worn and covered with spots. And his underwear especially! From what he had seen of it, it was urgently in need of replacement. He must have a job, a place where he belonged, a room with dependable people who looked out for him.
He made a calculation.
If it went on this way and he gave Gunther five marks daily, by the end of the month that would amount to almost his whole salary. It was therefore unthinkable that the two of them could get along on his salary, not even if Gunther had a position (which probably would be as miserably paid as all those positions).
He himself lived quite simply, and his innate sense of order compelled him to get along with what he had. But he had, as he himself knew, one great trait: like on his first day in Berlin he had stopped at a large hotel, even if only in its cheapest and smallest room (it had cost a couple of marks more, but was still so much better than the best room in a second-rate hotel). So, too, he paid a lot only for good things, for good material and good underwear, and when he went to a concert or to the theatre, it was not the seats up in the third balcony that he took. He bought only the most necessary things for himself, but when he bought, he bought the very best (because, as he knew, that was at the same time always the most economical).
To be sure, he still had a couple thousand marks in the bank, the inheritance from his parents. But that money had to stay in there: for emergencies, his own unemployment, sickness.
Thus he calculated, or at least tried to calculate. But then he shoved everything away from him.
He did want to help him. He was really fond of him. It just had to work out, one way or another.
If he was fond of him—and how fond of him he was already!—then he had to put his trust in him. There really was no reason to doubt his sincerity or to mistrust him. That he wanted to go to his landlady yesterday, to pick up his things, was understandable: he really needed them. And this visit today—what was so remarkable about it? Everyone comes to Berlin sometime, why not his uncle?
No, he wanted to be glad—glad that he had found him again, glad that he had come, and had returned, and that they had been together, if only so briefly and quickly. Above all, he wanted to look forward to tomorrow, when he would have him here, here in this room and then all to himself
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