It was pretty dark on the embankment, now that the summer evening had faded into blackness. Only occasional gas lamps gave any light. It was as though the city authorities had decided that those pavements that led only to offices and warehouses and an indefinable muddle of minor streets scarcely needed lighting. The shops at the street corners were closed. On the further corner there was a Kneipe, the outpost of a great brewery, a dull place with frowsy lace curtains and a lamp outside and placards fixed to the walls, a place nevertheless that attracted numerous clients, singly or in twos, sliding in, sliding out.
You could hardly distinguish the faces of the people moving here and there. There were not very many, you might think at first, but if you stayed a while, undeterred by the smell of dirty water and the creeping dankness, you became aware of a hum, a continuous shuffle. Men standing singly in the shadows of the black buildings, smoking for the most part, now and again striking a match. Men walking slowly up and down, some well dressed, others rougher, peering into the shadows. There was little traffic, perhaps every fifteen minutes or so a cab might pass – who would want to travel down this baleful street? The prevailing sound came from the water, the water that snakes through Berlin. Now and again the faint murmur of voices grew louder as the speakers gained confidence, or subdued steps sounded on the cobbles as two sets of legs set off together.
The man walked hesitantly over the bridge, as though not knowing where he was going. A bystander could hardly have made out his face, his hat was pulled down so low. In spite of the warm evening, he wore a dark coat. He stared at the ground. In the deep shadow of a high building, he stopped and looked around.
He had been noticed. His coat did not disguise the fact that he was wohlgeboren or that there was a pleasant face half-concealed under the hat. He did not stay long beside the bridge, made as though to leave but lingered in the shadows. Though his face did not alter, attentive eyes might have realised that he was steeling himself, that his shoulders were growing steeper. Someone moved towards him.
‘Hast du Feuer?’ this person said, holding out a cigarette.
The man peered at his questioner. He saw a fresh young face, blond, rough, good-natured, at least it seemed so, moving closer to him. He felt, in this inhospitable, rustling street where drops of moisture fell now and again from the saturated buildings onto the pavement, the warmth of a body, tobacco on the breath. He produced his cigarette lighter, realised it was silver, wished he had brought a cheap one, lit the cigarette. The young man’s fingers grazed his.
‘Danke,’ said the young man quite loudly, not like the flitting whisperers who seemed to form an invisible audience. He smiled and nodded. Then, a little hesitantly, ‘Ich bin Karl,’ he said and held out his hand.
Friendly he certainly seemed. But how would he be in some greasy hotel room, or under a railway bridge? The man shook his head violently. His mouth contorted like a frog’s. He turned his back on Karl, and hastened down the embankment and across the bridge to the safe world of busy streets and trams and cafés. He told himself he would never return to such a place. He could not understand why he had ever gone there. This would be the last time.