Read Online The Hustler: The Story of a Nameless Love From Friedrichstrasse by John Henry Mackay - Free Book Online
Authors: John Henry Mackay
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shoulders and his eyes lurked behind his glasses.
And how unclean, how old! “Coming with me? A quickie. Three marks—”
Again only three marks! But what was he to do?
“Where to then?”
“Just come along!” They walked into a side street, entered a house, climbed up empty, dead-silent, carpeted stairs.
“Here? But if someone comes?”
“No one is coming.”
And no one came.
Below again, after the short stay, for the first time his stomach was turning from disgust. He wanted his money.
The old man, in the nearest doorway, brought out a wallet whose thickness aroused confidence.
“Wait here a moment. I just have to make change quickly,” and slipped around the corner.
Gunther waited. He waited five, ten minutes. He waited a quarter of an hour. Meanwhile he was thinking about where he would go now and what he would eat.
He waited a half hour.
Finally he realized that he had been gypped!
What a scoundrel! What a swindler! Taking away a poor boy’s hard-earned money! And the man had money, he had seen it! But if he saw him again, he would have the man arrested! Fix him for good, and on the spot! Tears came to his eyes.
He crept back to Unter den Linden and sat down.
He brooded.
It served him right. Why had he not obeyed Atze! He had told him more than once, “If you go for a quickie, get your money first!” Now he was empty-handed.
This too in addition to everything! He had no more will for it, none at all. First to go with such a skunk, and then to be cheated besides!
He was brooding and rummaging through his pockets. Not a six-pence, not one penny left. Only a broken matchbox and a squashed cigarette butt. He smoked it up.
He had to have money—this very day—no matter where it came from. Where did it usually come from? But from now on he would look those guys over! No one was to come to him again with a “come along and pay later”! Not him again!
He looked up and glanced around.
There was nothing walking by. No one was even looking at him.
But over there on the bench? That young man?
Was he not looking over at him?
Was he one?
He did not look like it. But he was looking over. At him?
No matter. It must be tried.
He got up.
2
Young Hermann Graff had “settled in,” as they say—to the city and to his work.
His days had meaning. He gave it to the evenings by reading at home or by attending a theater and a good concert. Yet mostly during these magical spring days—each one better than the last in the purity of the air and the gentle luster of the first sun—he made trips in the environs. Out to Treptow or to Wannsee. And on Sundays, out to Potsdam, which he loved above all.
He also spent many an evening under the trees of the Tiergarten, where he soon knew every turn of the paths. When tired of wandering around, he sat in one of the outdoor cafes on the Spree near “In den Zelten.” In one cafe was a table in a corner, far from the other guests. There he sat many an evening, the Spree below, and above him the branches of old trees.
This spring was so lovely that it seemed impossible not to be happy. In such hours, alone with himself and the magical charm around him, why wasn’t he?
For he was not entirely happy.
Something was missing. He also knew very well what it was.
He lacked a friend to share this joy with him, to be beside him in his walks and trips, to be with him after the long day’s work.
A young friend, a quite young friend, still impressionable, before whom the world lay as a closed book full of suspense and mystery, whose title only was known, whose first pages he wanted to turn and read with him, explaining to him what he still did not yet understand and was not yet able to understand.
A young friend whom he loved—and who would love him in return.
Such a friend—did destiny have him in store for him? Where was he?
Search for him? Where? No, and again no.
One day he had to stand before him and smile at him: “Here I am!”
These first weeks had
And how unclean, how old! “Coming with me? A quickie. Three marks—”
Again only three marks! But what was he to do?
“Where to then?”
“Just come along!” They walked into a side street, entered a house, climbed up empty, dead-silent, carpeted stairs.
“Here? But if someone comes?”
“No one is coming.”
And no one came.
Below again, after the short stay, for the first time his stomach was turning from disgust. He wanted his money.
The old man, in the nearest doorway, brought out a wallet whose thickness aroused confidence.
“Wait here a moment. I just have to make change quickly,” and slipped around the corner.
Gunther waited. He waited five, ten minutes. He waited a quarter of an hour. Meanwhile he was thinking about where he would go now and what he would eat.
He waited a half hour.
Finally he realized that he had been gypped!
What a scoundrel! What a swindler! Taking away a poor boy’s hard-earned money! And the man had money, he had seen it! But if he saw him again, he would have the man arrested! Fix him for good, and on the spot! Tears came to his eyes.
He crept back to Unter den Linden and sat down.
He brooded.
It served him right. Why had he not obeyed Atze! He had told him more than once, “If you go for a quickie, get your money first!” Now he was empty-handed.
This too in addition to everything! He had no more will for it, none at all. First to go with such a skunk, and then to be cheated besides!
He was brooding and rummaging through his pockets. Not a six-pence, not one penny left. Only a broken matchbox and a squashed cigarette butt. He smoked it up.
He had to have money—this very day—no matter where it came from. Where did it usually come from? But from now on he would look those guys over! No one was to come to him again with a “come along and pay later”! Not him again!
He looked up and glanced around.
There was nothing walking by. No one was even looking at him.
But over there on the bench? That young man?
Was he not looking over at him?
Was he one?
He did not look like it. But he was looking over. At him?
No matter. It must be tried.
He got up.
2
Young Hermann Graff had “settled in,” as they say—to the city and to his work.
His days had meaning. He gave it to the evenings by reading at home or by attending a theater and a good concert. Yet mostly during these magical spring days—each one better than the last in the purity of the air and the gentle luster of the first sun—he made trips in the environs. Out to Treptow or to Wannsee. And on Sundays, out to Potsdam, which he loved above all.
He also spent many an evening under the trees of the Tiergarten, where he soon knew every turn of the paths. When tired of wandering around, he sat in one of the outdoor cafes on the Spree near “In den Zelten.” In one cafe was a table in a corner, far from the other guests. There he sat many an evening, the Spree below, and above him the branches of old trees.
This spring was so lovely that it seemed impossible not to be happy. In such hours, alone with himself and the magical charm around him, why wasn’t he?
For he was not entirely happy.
Something was missing. He also knew very well what it was.
He lacked a friend to share this joy with him, to be beside him in his walks and trips, to be with him after the long day’s work.
A young friend, a quite young friend, still impressionable, before whom the world lay as a closed book full of suspense and mystery, whose title only was known, whose first pages he wanted to turn and read with him, explaining to him what he still did not yet understand and was not yet able to understand.
A young friend whom he loved—and who would love him in return.
Such a friend—did destiny have him in store for him? Where was he?
Search for him? Where? No, and again no.
One day he had to stand before him and smile at him: “Here I am!”
These first weeks had
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