The Hustler: The Story of a Nameless Love From Friedrichstrasse by John Henry Mackay Page B
Authors: John Henry Mackay
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crooks did want to live too. So why not at his place? He was not a crooked father, just a father to crooks, as he laughingly said.
The cops came here just as seldom as the johns did. The boys were among themselves, and safe from both.
*
It was still early in the day when Saxon arrived with Gunther so that there was sitting at the Hustler Table only a small, runty boy, at most fifteen years old, his nose hardly reaching over the table’s edge, so that he was not immediately visible.
He cried out with joy when he saw the two.
“Where did you come from? Hello Saxon! Hello Chick!” He gave each his little hand, for he knew them both from working the street.
Saxon, of course, could not contain himself.
“Gunther has got a steady relation. He was just now with him.”
Gunther became angry and gave Saxon an ungentle jab in the side.
“Oh, leave off the baloney. It’s not really a relationship.” They would have argued further, if there had not appeared just behind them three more boys: Tall Willy, Hamburger, and Brown George.
The last was a strikingly handsome boy, with thick, smooth, coal-black hair, eyes just as black, and splendid teeth, which he showed on every occasion (for he laughed easily and often). He bore his name not without right—his skin was like bronze, and the blood shone rosy through the smooth and flawless brown of his cheeks. The gentlemen “didn’t matter” to him, and he only went along when need required, but on the other hand, he could hardly rescue himself from them—or from women—and altogether was as lazy as a hippopotamus. Brown George was not without a healthy wit, although not a genuine Berliner.
Hamburger was no match for him. To be sure, he was likewise a quite handsome boy, but coarser, always in a good humor, however badly things were going for him (and often enough they went very badly for him). At the same time he was always obliging and ready to help, thoroughly honest, and armed with such a big mouth that no one lightly opposed him.
There was nothing special about the third boy, a tall person, with thick, protruding lips, which he seldom opened, and then only for some stupidity.
Hamburger had just begun to bore the five to death, one after the other, with his nonsense, when Clever Walter appeared and put an end to the flood of baloney. Clever Walter was a personality not to be taken lightly and was thoroughly aware of his worth. Despite the heat he was wearing a thick wool sweater and underneath, up to his chest—one saw their outline—a pair of knee pants that squeaked when he moved. He had a relationship with the daughter of the proprietor of the saloon. He had fathered one child already by her, and a second was soon expected. He intended to marry her one day and take over the thriving business, an intention that alone would have given him a special and unassailable prestige in this circle. In the meantime it appeared that nothing hindered him from constantly roaming the lounges and picking up whatever came along.
He was talking now, and the others listened silently. Hamburger was leaning against the wall. The two who arrived first were occupied with their pig’s knuckles while the others watched them more or less enviously.
No one noticed, or seemed to want to notice, that earlier, a pale young man had silently sat down among them without a greeting. They were used to his doing so.
Someone might say softly, “Hello, Leo!” but he appeared not to hear it, as he did whatever happened around him.
Of an indeterminate age, but obviously still young—though already past twenty—with hollow cheeks and staring eyes, he sat there with in his sickly pallor and looked straight ahead, as if he had to consider something that had slipped his mind. Then he slowly took a small box from his pocket, carefully shook a white powder onto the back of his thin hand, and drew it up through his nose. Only then did he look around the circle for the first time.
“Leo, do give me
The cops came here just as seldom as the johns did. The boys were among themselves, and safe from both.
*
It was still early in the day when Saxon arrived with Gunther so that there was sitting at the Hustler Table only a small, runty boy, at most fifteen years old, his nose hardly reaching over the table’s edge, so that he was not immediately visible.
He cried out with joy when he saw the two.
“Where did you come from? Hello Saxon! Hello Chick!” He gave each his little hand, for he knew them both from working the street.
Saxon, of course, could not contain himself.
“Gunther has got a steady relation. He was just now with him.”
Gunther became angry and gave Saxon an ungentle jab in the side.
“Oh, leave off the baloney. It’s not really a relationship.” They would have argued further, if there had not appeared just behind them three more boys: Tall Willy, Hamburger, and Brown George.
The last was a strikingly handsome boy, with thick, smooth, coal-black hair, eyes just as black, and splendid teeth, which he showed on every occasion (for he laughed easily and often). He bore his name not without right—his skin was like bronze, and the blood shone rosy through the smooth and flawless brown of his cheeks. The gentlemen “didn’t matter” to him, and he only went along when need required, but on the other hand, he could hardly rescue himself from them—or from women—and altogether was as lazy as a hippopotamus. Brown George was not without a healthy wit, although not a genuine Berliner.
Hamburger was no match for him. To be sure, he was likewise a quite handsome boy, but coarser, always in a good humor, however badly things were going for him (and often enough they went very badly for him). At the same time he was always obliging and ready to help, thoroughly honest, and armed with such a big mouth that no one lightly opposed him.
There was nothing special about the third boy, a tall person, with thick, protruding lips, which he seldom opened, and then only for some stupidity.
Hamburger had just begun to bore the five to death, one after the other, with his nonsense, when Clever Walter appeared and put an end to the flood of baloney. Clever Walter was a personality not to be taken lightly and was thoroughly aware of his worth. Despite the heat he was wearing a thick wool sweater and underneath, up to his chest—one saw their outline—a pair of knee pants that squeaked when he moved. He had a relationship with the daughter of the proprietor of the saloon. He had fathered one child already by her, and a second was soon expected. He intended to marry her one day and take over the thriving business, an intention that alone would have given him a special and unassailable prestige in this circle. In the meantime it appeared that nothing hindered him from constantly roaming the lounges and picking up whatever came along.
He was talking now, and the others listened silently. Hamburger was leaning against the wall. The two who arrived first were occupied with their pig’s knuckles while the others watched them more or less enviously.
No one noticed, or seemed to want to notice, that earlier, a pale young man had silently sat down among them without a greeting. They were used to his doing so.
Someone might say softly, “Hello, Leo!” but he appeared not to hear it, as he did whatever happened around him.
Of an indeterminate age, but obviously still young—though already past twenty—with hollow cheeks and staring eyes, he sat there with in his sickly pallor and looked straight ahead, as if he had to consider something that had slipped his mind. Then he slowly took a small box from his pocket, carefully shook a white powder onto the back of his thin hand, and drew it up through his nose. Only then did he look around the circle for the first time.
“Leo, do give me
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