THE NARRATIVE ARC
My Platonic Relationship with Harry in Berlin
Celebrating the love that dares speak its name
Something special occurred on an early autumn day in the breakfast room of the Schweizerhof Hotel, in the gray, walled-in city of West Berlin. It marked the first meeting between two waiters, a gay American and a straight Brit both 27 years old.
Our backgrounds and personalities were quite different, though bonded in dialectal strands of the same mother tongue. Harry, pale, fair and thin, though solidly packed on his narrow frame, bore some of that toughness that growing up in the bleak, hard, steel cities of Manchester and Birmingham brings. He seemed to blend well the cocky side-street-wise kid of industrial England with the warm, sensitive and vulnerable man that I saw as well.
From our first introduction to each other we knew instinctively that we had connected, though it wasn’t until a bit later that I realized how well our grooves fit. The feeling of transience was always strong, and that in itself gave a powerful cohesiveness to our friendship. It was he who first felt and thus voiced his feelings regarding the sparkling electricity that seemed to generate from us together. In the midst of jostling across the congested street passing the ruin of the Memorial Church, in the center of the city, under an insanely brilliant October afternoon sun, he turned to me and said,
“You know, I’m just an ordinary guy but there is something special between us, something significant, a rare connection.”
As he said this, for a fraction of a second, I caught a glimpse of something wild in his eyes that registered viscerally with me. I felt a joyful, quivering knock deep within me. I realized, once again, I had fallen for a straight guy. But I made a pledge at that moment not to get carried away and eat myself up over unrequited love. I was going to accept this friendship as it was and not hope for something it couldn’t be. After running all of this through my head, I realized the light had changed and Harry was already across the street. I ran and caught up with him feeling like a schoolboy at play in the city.
Harry and I occasionally embarked upon discussions baring our doubts, frustrations, and philosophies of life. I found myself lecturing Harry on the true meaning of “security”:
“It only comes from peace and complete understanding within us, and could never be had from external phenomena including money, a home, a lover and/or family.”
My argument was perhaps theoretically infallible but maybe Harry was more realistic in saying,
“Yeah, that is true, but is it possible? For we’re human and I really like some material possessions that come with money and even though a relationship and a family is only secure on the surface, it is nevertheless comforting.”
And so on. Here as in many instances I had to welcome Harry’s more straightforward, more honest views on these airy, intellectual questions.
In that short, though nearly continuous time of our interwoven companionship, we often took walks at the end of our workday. One which stands out clearly is an excursion we took one afternoon in late October. We disembarked the overhead U-Bahn and felt instantly the flavor of the environs — Kreuzberg, one of the old working class neighborhoods of Berlin.
We walked along brick-paved, worn down streets fortified on either side by sorry looking apartment buildings in various stages of deterioration. We both breathed in the smells and sights we encountered in this colorfully dreary neighborhood: vegetable stands, “greasy spoons” Turkish style, noisy children playing in the cracked and buckling streets. I looked at Harry. He had a broad grin and turning to me, said,
“I’m so glad we came out here. I love the atmosphere.”
I adored his rather soft but still characteristically Northern dialect. He didn’t say “love” but rather “luvf.”
“Yeah, it’s another world but in the same city,” I said.
Suddenly it began to rain and we took shelter in the doorway of a church. Here we sat crouched in a corner, trying to keep dry.
We sat mostly in silence yet I felt serenely connected to Harry. As it often happens after rain late in the day, a cold fresh clarity broke out and we were off again. We felt so invigorated and relaxed that we opted to walk rather than ride the U-Bahn and so we did, directly under the overhead tracks.
I felt rejuvenated and I could see from Harry’s strident walk and beaming face that he was too. Exactly what launched these high spirits I couldn’t say, but I sensed we were so attuned to each other that we reinforced each other’s joy in the moment. The clear crisp air slapped our faces pink and we strode in a vigorous rhythm.
From time to time, I would look at Harry and see the luminous violet reflection of the sky across his face, his eyes beaming, his mouth gently forming a smile. We met not a soul as we passed multicolored high-rise dwellings interspaced with barren lots and isolated shabby remnants of the old golden days.
I realized that just walking with Harry in silence, feeling his presence, I was at peace with our friendship just as it was. I had no way of knowing if he felt similarly, but I intuitively sensed that he did. I’m sure he would agree that he was just a “regular bloke” who bonded well with men in friendship. Except for the remark he made early on, he never spoke about “us.” His eagerness to be in my company though said more than words.
We landed at our habitual dinner spot, a self-service pizzeria just off the neon-jeweled Kurfurstendamm. Here amidst the cluttered Italian décor of fishnets, plastic fruit and flowers, we devoured our meal. After a long pause of silence, Harry suddenly turned to me and said,
“You know, we are the last of the eloquent failures.”
I was startled by his words. Harry didn’t normally speak like that.
“How so?” I asked.
“Well, we are dreamers, you know, looking for an ideal world that doesn’t exist.”
“Do you mean the Berlin of the 1920s, that wild, avant-garde period?”
“Yeah, but not exactly. I’m not the eloquent one among us, more the failure,” he said with a uncharacteristic sadness on his face. He then continued,
“What I mean is that we don’t really fit into society. I’m not sure what I want, I’m only sure what I don’t want.”
“You don’t want to fall into a trap of mediocrity. Just living a life that is a day-to-day drudge,” I suggested.
“Yeah, more like that. As I said, Richard, you’re the eloquent one.”
I was happy to see his bright smile again. Good old Harry. I really loved him at that moment, but just as a brother, a friend. In fact, it occurred to me that my initial physical attraction to Harry had been gradually transforming into platonic love. And it seemed that today it hit the peak. I didn’t yet realize that so did our friendship. Its days were numbered.
A few days later, the weather abruptly changed. Autumn was over. And a cold, gray sheath hung over Berlin. There was the unmistakable smell of burning coal in the air. Yes, the long, acrid cold winter was on its way.
I was standing outside the hotel breakfast room polishing silverware, my usual afternoon task, when Harry came up to me.
“I quit,” he said.
“No, you didn’t!”
“Yeah, I’ve had enough. It’s time to reenter reality.”
I don’t know why I was stunned by Harry’s abrupt action. He isn’t one who would have given two weeks notice. I tried to maintain a brave face. Our friendship was crumbling before my heart’s eyes.
“Where are you going?”
“Back to England. I’m going to enlist in the RAF.”
“Wow, the RAF.” I was trying to picture Harry flying a fighter jet. However, I couldn’t make that imaginative leap.
“It’ll give me a focus for the next few years.”
It hit me how very different we were. Harry and I would never have connected in England or America. Only in a city like Berlin. Two expats alone in a foreign city.
“I’m heading out tomorrow on the night train.”
“Okay, I’ll come to the station and give you a proper send off!”
“Great!.”
And he was off.
That afternoon after work, I headed over to my favorite café and pulled out a yellow legal pad. I began writing a narrative account of our brief friendship. I gave it the title, “The Last of the Eloquent Failures.” I sat there for a few hours just letting it all pour out of me. The highs and lows, but mainly the highs. I wanted to give it to Harry to take with him so that he could look back on the brief but memorable time we spent together.
While I wrote page after page, I periodically stopped and reflected on our relationship. From my side, it was definitely a loving one, but because I never expected any sexual or physical affection from him, it was without stress. I simply loved Harry just as he was. Harry was an honest, uncomplicated person and probably never analyzed his feelings for me. But it was obvious that he was very comfortable being with me, despite knowing but — being English — never mentioning my sexual orientation. He always conveyed genuine brotherly warmth.
I sat back in the chair and reflected that a platonic friendship, such as the one between Harry and me, is not a substitute for romantic love; it is rather a deeply satisfying alternative, as long as one maintains a clear mind and an open heart. I congratulated myself that I had managed to do that.
I finished the story but decided to wait until the next day before photocopying it. I wanted to view it again with fresh eyes.
After finishing work the next day, I went back to the café and pulled out the story I had scrawled out the previous day. It was full of crossing-outs and arrows. I decided to rewrite it neatly. By the time I finished I was alarmed to see that it was already six o’clock. Harry’s train was departing in an hour.
I rushed to the center of the city where I knew there was a photocopy shop. As usual, when one is in a hurry, everything seemed to take so long. I then headed for the Bahnhof Zoo, the main train station in West Berlin.
According to my watch I still had a few minutes before the train’s departure. But when I reached the station, the clock indicated it was already 7 o’clock. I bolted up the stairs and looked for Harry. I didn’t see him. The conductor blew the whistle and the train started to move. Suddenly, I saw Harry standing on the steps of the train several cars towards the front. I ran along the train as it started moving and caught up to where Harry was standing. He reached out and grabbed the story out of my hand. I stood waving as he became smaller and smaller until all I saw was a waving hand far in the distance. And then even the hand disappeared as the train curved away.
I stood on the platform and processed what had just transpired. I smiled. Eloquent failures maybe but that was one classic farewell scene from the golden age of travel!
My heartfelt thanks to Debra G. Harman for her feedback and inspiration.
