Read Online The Hustler: The Story of a Nameless Love From Friedrichstrasse by John Henry Mackay - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: John Henry Mackay
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come and gone without having brought him.
He thought and thought.
The boy must, of course, be a boy who was not his friend just because he gave him presents. The same interests must bind them together (although he did not really know what kind of interests they would have to be). They must be able to talk together, about anything and everything, just as friends talk about everything together (although he was not really clear about what all they would talk about).
Such a friend could not be found in the street.
But where else? That was the big question.
However, it was probably only in the street that chance could bring them together.
He himself knew no one in Berlin. He sought no acquaintances. To make visits; to be invited into families, possibly with still marriageable daughters; to join a club in order to talk shop—the very thought filled him with secret dread.
Only chance could bring this good luck to him.
Only a happy chance. Not such a fateful one as on his first afternoon, when so much came together: the sudden liking, that secret attraction, this indescribable feeling: Was this he? And then that entirely incomprehensible disappearance at that very moment and forever and ever!
He still sometimes thought of him, of that strange boy from the Passage, who had run away from him.
He pictured him again: the disheveled, dark blond hair, the light walk, the curious blue-gray eyes. And that—that peculiar twitch of the upper lip.
But he no longer pictured him so distinctly. It escaped him, this strange face; it grew pale, disappeared. The moment had been too brief.
*
Today he was not thinking of him at all, as he often did not for whole days. Almost four weeks had already gone by since his arrival.
He was coming from the Tiergarten, and wanted to go to the library to consult a book he needed for his work.
Walking down the middle promenade of Unter den Linden, he smiled over the contrasting colors of the first, new green leaves on the trees, and of the golden yellow, freshly raked gravel.
Then his foot stopped still: On one of the benches a boy was sitting, his arms propped on his knees, and his face buried in his hands so that only his bare head and the back of his neck showed. But that neck—where had he seen that neck before? The blood streamed to his heart as he walked on.
He turned around. He had to turn around.
The boy was sitting there as if asleep.
Was it really he? Could it be he? It was not possible!
Graff felt he could not continue on. He walked the few steps back and sat down (as his legs gave way under him) on the almost empty bench opposite. It would have been quite impossible for him to go closer to make sure. What if it really was he? And he recognized him and ran away again?
He only looked across as if spellbound. If it really was he, he was wearing a completely different suit than on that day. But a straw hat like the one he had been holding in his hand at that time lay on the bench beside him. In place of the heavy boots, the boy had on worn-out and obviously too large oxfords. The suit itself appeared to be thrown together, as if it had not been purchased or selected for him: the coat was too big, the pants too short.
But it was he. It must be. That neck! That hair!
He could still recognize nothing of the face buried in his hands.
His thoughts raced. Should he walk over, sit beside him, remain still and wait until the boy looked up? Should he then speak to him, ask him if he recognized him? Ask him why he ran away so quickly that time?
He could not do it. A growing uneasiness, even more a secret fear welled up in him, holding him in his place. He could only watch steadily, waiting for the first signs of life to return to the small, bent-over figure.
Minutes passed, five, ten—he did not know how many.
Finally the boy moved, let his hands drop, stretched himself, looked around, and then, as it seemed to Graff, also looked over at him, at where he was sitting. The boy’s
He thought and thought.
The boy must, of course, be a boy who was not his friend just because he gave him presents. The same interests must bind them together (although he did not really know what kind of interests they would have to be). They must be able to talk together, about anything and everything, just as friends talk about everything together (although he was not really clear about what all they would talk about).
Such a friend could not be found in the street.
But where else? That was the big question.
However, it was probably only in the street that chance could bring them together.
He himself knew no one in Berlin. He sought no acquaintances. To make visits; to be invited into families, possibly with still marriageable daughters; to join a club in order to talk shop—the very thought filled him with secret dread.
Only chance could bring this good luck to him.
Only a happy chance. Not such a fateful one as on his first afternoon, when so much came together: the sudden liking, that secret attraction, this indescribable feeling: Was this he? And then that entirely incomprehensible disappearance at that very moment and forever and ever!
He still sometimes thought of him, of that strange boy from the Passage, who had run away from him.
He pictured him again: the disheveled, dark blond hair, the light walk, the curious blue-gray eyes. And that—that peculiar twitch of the upper lip.
But he no longer pictured him so distinctly. It escaped him, this strange face; it grew pale, disappeared. The moment had been too brief.
*
Today he was not thinking of him at all, as he often did not for whole days. Almost four weeks had already gone by since his arrival.
He was coming from the Tiergarten, and wanted to go to the library to consult a book he needed for his work.
Walking down the middle promenade of Unter den Linden, he smiled over the contrasting colors of the first, new green leaves on the trees, and of the golden yellow, freshly raked gravel.
Then his foot stopped still: On one of the benches a boy was sitting, his arms propped on his knees, and his face buried in his hands so that only his bare head and the back of his neck showed. But that neck—where had he seen that neck before? The blood streamed to his heart as he walked on.
He turned around. He had to turn around.
The boy was sitting there as if asleep.
Was it really he? Could it be he? It was not possible!
Graff felt he could not continue on. He walked the few steps back and sat down (as his legs gave way under him) on the almost empty bench opposite. It would have been quite impossible for him to go closer to make sure. What if it really was he? And he recognized him and ran away again?
He only looked across as if spellbound. If it really was he, he was wearing a completely different suit than on that day. But a straw hat like the one he had been holding in his hand at that time lay on the bench beside him. In place of the heavy boots, the boy had on worn-out and obviously too large oxfords. The suit itself appeared to be thrown together, as if it had not been purchased or selected for him: the coat was too big, the pants too short.
But it was he. It must be. That neck! That hair!
He could still recognize nothing of the face buried in his hands.
His thoughts raced. Should he walk over, sit beside him, remain still and wait until the boy looked up? Should he then speak to him, ask him if he recognized him? Ask him why he ran away so quickly that time?
He could not do it. A growing uneasiness, even more a secret fear welled up in him, holding him in his place. He could only watch steadily, waiting for the first signs of life to return to the small, bent-over figure.
Minutes passed, five, ten—he did not know how many.
Finally the boy moved, let his hands drop, stretched himself, looked around, and then, as it seemed to Graff, also looked over at him, at where he was sitting. The boy’s
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