The Hustler: The Story of a Nameless Love From Friedrichstrasse by John Henry Mackay Page A
Authors: John Henry Mackay
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alone! For the whole afternoon!
He wanted to think only about tomorrow!
*
There were still all kinds of things to take care of.
At first he thought of asking his landlady to set the coffee table for the afternoon for two people, but he immediately dropped the idea.
His relationship to her in these first weeks had become ever more distant. They often did not see each other for whole days. In the mornings his breakfast was set on a chair outside his room punctually at eight o’clock, and he took it in himself. Then when he came home in the afternoon or evening, he found his room made up, everything in flawless order: never was there a paper on his desk touched, he never had to ask a question or for a favor, there was never cause for any kind of complaint or grievance. He fetched fresh water from across the hall himself when he needed it, and he made his own tea. Punctually on the first of every month, his bill lay on his table. Just as punctually the next day he would leave the amount beside it.
Thus everything was just as he liked to have it, just as he wished. And yet, he felt there was something uncanny about the house. He was here, she was there—in the back rooms, which he never entered, of whose number and size he had no idea.
And it was quiet here. Almost too quiet. Hardly a car wandered into the street, where it was difficult to turn around. He seldom heard the doorbell ring. Then, always only a light shuffle and a muffled whispering could he hear (so as not to disturb him, he supposed). He never saw a soul on the stairs—in this forlorn house on a hidden city street. And then, over there stood the eternally silent, windowless wall.
Before the shops closed, he went out once more to shop for the next day: another cup (for him—his from now on, to drink from when he was here), especially good cigarettes, and a half-bottle of sweet wine (for it should be pretty lively—tomorrow!). He came back loaded with parcels and for the remainder of the evening gave himself over to his dreams.
His dreams were all woven around a blond, young head, a small, pale, and already beloved face, a tender, slim, figure, which soon—soon now!—was to sit there, opposite him, in that chair—in the comfortable one there. And this hand, his hand, would again be allowed to lie against the soft, cool, and smooth cheek and softly caress it.
5
Saxon waited patiently in hopes of a repeated, generous share in a five-mark bill. He would have waited until evening and then half the night, without wasting a word over it, if there was something to be gained.
Gunther finally arrived.
“Well, how was it?” Saxon inquired. “Did ya get it, yes? Well then, let’s go on to Uncle Paul’s. You’ll be amazed. There’s not another plate of pig’s knuckle for eighty pennies like it in Berlin.”
Uncle Paul’s saloon was quite close to the Friedrichstrasse Train Station.
All the chauffeurs and cab drivers of the whole region, with all the doormen and porters of the numerous neighboring hotels, plus a colorful group of other guests filled the saloon from early morning until closing time in the evening. It was a pure gold mine, and its fame was well founded.
Behind the bar stood the proprietor himself. Why he was called Uncle Paul by everyone from time immemorial, probably neither he nor any other person knew. His name was not Kruger and he had not the slightest resemblance to the great Boer leader. He had a fat, good-natured pug face, and his oversized, red, fleshy hands dripping constantly with beer. He did not know the word tired. He was always ready for a loud laugh, but he could be damned nasty if a bill was not settled the way it had to be—at his place!
In the farthest corner of the large pub stood a round table. This was the famous Hustler Table.
Uncle Paul tolerated the table, its name, and the customers at it, because they always ate well and plenty. Nor were they louder there than was usual in the pub, and finally, the little
He wanted to think only about tomorrow!
*
There were still all kinds of things to take care of.
At first he thought of asking his landlady to set the coffee table for the afternoon for two people, but he immediately dropped the idea.
His relationship to her in these first weeks had become ever more distant. They often did not see each other for whole days. In the mornings his breakfast was set on a chair outside his room punctually at eight o’clock, and he took it in himself. Then when he came home in the afternoon or evening, he found his room made up, everything in flawless order: never was there a paper on his desk touched, he never had to ask a question or for a favor, there was never cause for any kind of complaint or grievance. He fetched fresh water from across the hall himself when he needed it, and he made his own tea. Punctually on the first of every month, his bill lay on his table. Just as punctually the next day he would leave the amount beside it.
Thus everything was just as he liked to have it, just as he wished. And yet, he felt there was something uncanny about the house. He was here, she was there—in the back rooms, which he never entered, of whose number and size he had no idea.
And it was quiet here. Almost too quiet. Hardly a car wandered into the street, where it was difficult to turn around. He seldom heard the doorbell ring. Then, always only a light shuffle and a muffled whispering could he hear (so as not to disturb him, he supposed). He never saw a soul on the stairs—in this forlorn house on a hidden city street. And then, over there stood the eternally silent, windowless wall.
Before the shops closed, he went out once more to shop for the next day: another cup (for him—his from now on, to drink from when he was here), especially good cigarettes, and a half-bottle of sweet wine (for it should be pretty lively—tomorrow!). He came back loaded with parcels and for the remainder of the evening gave himself over to his dreams.
His dreams were all woven around a blond, young head, a small, pale, and already beloved face, a tender, slim, figure, which soon—soon now!—was to sit there, opposite him, in that chair—in the comfortable one there. And this hand, his hand, would again be allowed to lie against the soft, cool, and smooth cheek and softly caress it.
5
Saxon waited patiently in hopes of a repeated, generous share in a five-mark bill. He would have waited until evening and then half the night, without wasting a word over it, if there was something to be gained.
Gunther finally arrived.
“Well, how was it?” Saxon inquired. “Did ya get it, yes? Well then, let’s go on to Uncle Paul’s. You’ll be amazed. There’s not another plate of pig’s knuckle for eighty pennies like it in Berlin.”
Uncle Paul’s saloon was quite close to the Friedrichstrasse Train Station.
All the chauffeurs and cab drivers of the whole region, with all the doormen and porters of the numerous neighboring hotels, plus a colorful group of other guests filled the saloon from early morning until closing time in the evening. It was a pure gold mine, and its fame was well founded.
Behind the bar stood the proprietor himself. Why he was called Uncle Paul by everyone from time immemorial, probably neither he nor any other person knew. His name was not Kruger and he had not the slightest resemblance to the great Boer leader. He had a fat, good-natured pug face, and his oversized, red, fleshy hands dripping constantly with beer. He did not know the word tired. He was always ready for a loud laugh, but he could be damned nasty if a bill was not settled the way it had to be—at his place!
In the farthest corner of the large pub stood a round table. This was the famous Hustler Table.
Uncle Paul tolerated the table, its name, and the customers at it, because they always ate well and plenty. Nor were they louder there than was usual in the pub, and finally, the little
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