The Hustler: The Story of a Nameless Love From Friedrichstrasse by John Henry Mackay Page A

him in this monstrously big, strange, hostile city.
    How needy he seemed! That suit—not at all the right kind of suit for him, so randomly bought, piece for piece. By what second-hand dealer did he hunt that up! And how tired he had been! And above all, how hungry!
    He had been serious—much too serious for his young years! Could he also be cheerful, like other boys his age, really heartily cheerful and carefree?
    Still he had smiled once, and that smile had been almost the most beautiful thing about him. That was when he promised to procure work for him. Had that been the joy in being able to get out of need and into an orderly situation?
    He was not to be disappointed in him. What he wanted to do, he would certainly do, and would spare no trouble or effort in procuring him a new position. But until he was able to take care of himself, he would stand by his side. His boy should suffer no more hunger from now on and should also always have a roof over his head. That’s what he was here for now.
    Right away, tomorrow, he would ask in his office if there was a position available for him. But perhaps it was better to wait one more day and hear tomorrow what kind of work he would prefer. With a businessman or in a bank office. For that, he must know what his previous schooling was, know much more about him altogether.
    Tomorrow! How long yet until then! A whole night and half a day away! An eternity!
    And if he did not return?
    Fear rose in him.
    Then he would be lost to him again and what new, happy chance would ever bring them together again?
    No, no foolish fear. Why should he not come? He had no one here, perhaps no one in the whole world to help him!
    He would come. Surely he would come.
    What was it, then, that still tormented him? What kept him from being entirely happy in this hour? In this hour when joy and jubilation should be in his heart?
    He did not know. And yet, it was so.
    The garden cafe became more and more empty. It was already late. Night was coming, the summer night, cooler than the hot day, but not cool for him. From the water sounded the last voices of the passing rowers. Fewer and softer—lovers.
    Then it came, the longing, came on silver wings, clung to him, took possession of him, more and more, stronger and stronger, as if to smother him in its embrace. And all his thoughts were lost in the one:
    Oh, if he were here! If he were sitting here opposite me! No, here by my side! If I could see his sweet face before me again, hear again his bright voice, if I might lay my hand on his, hold it, forever, forever!
    Why is he not here? Why not with me? Why did I let him go? Just why? Why!
    *
    Meanwhile, the object of all these thoughts, overjoyed that all the foolish talk was over, had strolled down Unter den Linden.
    He no longer had any real desire to go into the Passage again, but five marks were a bit too few. At any rate he wanted to go through once, and if he did not find anyone, then before looking up his old hotel, he would spend the evening in the little movie theatre at the Stettin Train Station. An extraordinarily exciting film with Harry Piel was running, which he just had to see. (Harry Piel jumped from a burning airplane onto a speeding railroad train.)
    Nothing was doing in the Passage. He had just turned the corner into Friedrichstrasse when—Who was standing before him? Atze!
    Really and truly the vanished Atze!
    They ran into one another’s arms.
    “Man, Chick, how did you get here?” Gunther was greeted with astonishment, as if he had been the one who had stayed away.
    At first he wanted to be angry, but all anger and irritation vanished before the jovial face of the other and in the joy of having him again. So he asked, with a bare attempt at being angry:
    “Just where have you been?”
    But Atze did not answer. Instead he only shoved his arm under his and said confidentially:
    “Tell me, Chick, have you got any dough? I’m dead out. And I don’t need to tell you I’m