MADONNA IN A FUR COAT
Sabahattin Ali
A Novella
Of all the people I've ever met, perhaps one left the deepest impression on me. Even now, months later, I still can't shake it. Whenever I'm alone with my thoughts, Raif Efendi's gentle face appears before my eyes—that slightly absent expression, those eyes that seem to want to smile in confusion when they happen upon another person. And yet he was nothing extraordinary. Quite the opposite: he was utterly ordinary, with no distinguishing features, one of those people we see by the hundreds every day and pass without a glance. Surely there was nothing in his life, known or unknown, that could spark anyone's curiosity. When we see such people, we often ask ourselves: "Why do they live? What do they find in living? What logic, what wisdom commands them to walk the earth and breathe?" But when we think this, we look only at their exteriors. It never occurs to us that they too have minds, and within those minds, brains condemned to work whether they want to or not, and consequently, an inner world of their own. Instead of concluding that they don't live spiritually because they don't show the manifestations of that world outwardly, if we were to feel curious about that unknown realm with the simplest human inquisitiveness, we might see things we never expected, encounter riches we never anticipated. But somehow, people prefer to investigate things they can already guess they'll find. Finding a hero willing to descend into a well known to harbor a dragon at the bottom is certainly easier than finding someone with the courage to go down a well whose depths are completely unknown. That I got to know Raif Efendi more closely was entirely a matter of chance.
After I was let go from my minor clerk position at a bank—I still don't know why they fired me; they said it was for economy, but within a week they'd hired someone else—I spent a long time job-hunting in Ankara. I had a few coins that got me through the summer without too much hardship, but the approaching winter meant I couldn't keep sleeping on friends' couches forever. I didn't even have enough left to renew my meal ticket at the restaurant, which would expire in a week. I took a string of entrance exams I knew were hopeless, and when they indeed proved hopeless, I somehow still felt disappointed. Without telling my friends, I applied for shop assistant positions and when the rejections came, I'd wander the streets until midnight in despair. Even at drinking tables where a few acquaintances occasionally invited me, I couldn't forget my hopeless situation. The strange thing was, the more my troubles grew and the harder it became to make ends meet from one day to the next, the more timid and embarrassed I became. When I ran into certain acquaintances on the street—people I'd previously asked to help me find work and who'd treated me decently enough—I'd lower my head and hurry past. I'd even changed toward friends I used to freely ask for meals or borrow money from without hesitation. When they asked, "How are things?" I'd answer with an awkward smile, "Not bad... I pick up odd jobs here and there!" and then I'd hurry away. The more I needed people, the more I felt the urge to escape them.
One evening, I was walking slowly along the quiet road between the station and Sergievi, trying to breathe in Ankara's magnificent autumn and create an optimistic mood in my soul. The sun, reflecting off Halkevi's windows and drowning the white marble building in blood-red patches; the mist—whether fog or dust, impossible to tell—rising above the acacia trees and pine saplings; the workers returning from some construction site, walking silently, slightly hunched in their ragged clothes; the asphalt marked here and there with tire tracks... Everything seemed content with its existence. Everything accepted everything as it was. So there was nothing left for me to do but accept too. Just then, a car sped past me. When I turned my head, I thought I recognized the face behind the window. Sure enough, the car stopped about ten paces ahead, the door opened, and Hamdi, a friend from school, stuck his head out and called to me.
I went over.
"Where are you going?" he asked.
"Nowhere, just walking."
"Come on, let's go to my place."
Without waiting for my answer, he made room for me beside him. On the way, he explained he was returning from inspecting some factories owned by the company he worked for.
"I sent a telegram to let them know I was coming. They'll have made preparations. Otherwise I wouldn't have dared invite you!" he said.
I laughed.
I hadn't seen Hamdi since I left the bank, though we used to meet often. I knew he was assistant manager at a company that dealt in machinery commissions and also handled forestry and timber, earning a decent salary. That was exactly why I hadn't approached him during my unemployment: I was worried he'd think I'd come to ask for money rather than a job.
"Still at the bank?" he asked.
"No, I left," I said.
He looked surprised. "Where did you go?"
Reluctantly, I answered, "I'm unemployed."
He gave me a once-over, studied my clothes, and apparently decided he didn't regret inviting me, because he clapped a friendly hand on my shoulder and said, "We'll talk tonight and figure something out. Don't worry."
He seemed satisfied with himself and confident. So he'd reached a point where he could even afford the luxury of helping old acquaintances. I felt envious.
He lived in a small but pleasant house. His wife was a bit plain but warm and friendly. They kissed without hesitation right in front of me. Hamdi left me to go shower.
Since he hadn't introduced me to his wife, I stood there in the middle of the living room, not knowing what to do. His wife lingered by the door, sizing me up discreetly. She seemed to consider saying, "Please, have a seat," but then decided against it and slipped out quietly.
I thought about why Hamdi had left me hanging like that. He wasn't usually careless, even paid extra attention to such formalities, and owed part of his success to that attention. I realized that one of the fundamental habits of men who've climbed to important positions is this somewhat conscious absentmindedness toward old friends who've fallen behind. And then there's that sudden humility, that avuncular switch from formal address to a familiar "you," the way they cut you off mid-sentence to ask some random trivial question, all done with the most natural air, often accompanied by a smile full of pity and condescension. I'd encountered all this so many times in recent days that it didn't even occur to me to be angry or resentful toward Hamdi. I only thought of getting up and leaving without telling anyone, escaping this uncomfortable situation. But just then, an elderly village woman in a white apron and headscarf, wearing patched black stockings, silently brought in coffee. I sat down on one of the navy-blue armchairs embroidered with gold-thread flowers and looked around. Family photos and pictures of film stars hung on the walls. On a bookshelf that seemed to belong to the wife, there were a few cheap novels and fashion magazines. Several photo albums stacked under an ashtray looked like they'd been well-thumbed by guests.
Not knowing what else to do, I picked one up. Before I could open it, Hamdi appeared in the doorway. With one hand he was combing his wet hair; with the other he was buttoning the open collar of his white Western-style shirt.
"So, how are things? Tell me," he said.
"Nothing much... I told you."
He seemed pleased to have run into me. Maybe he enjoyed showing off how far he'd come, or perhaps, thinking of my situation, he was glad he wasn't like me. It's strange, but when we see people we once walked through life with fall into misfortune or trouble, we often feel relief, as if we've dodged those disasters ourselves, and we want to show those poor souls interest and compassion, as if they've drawn onto themselves the calamities that might have come our way. Hamdi seemed to be speaking to me with that same feeling.
"Do you still write? Poems and such?" he asked.
"Now and then... Poetry, stories."
"Does it bring in anything at least?"
I laughed again. "Oh, forget about that stuff!" he said, and launched into a lecture about the successes of practical life and how things like literature, fine for school, only become harmful after graduation. He spoke as if giving advice to a small child, never considering that I might have a reply or want to argue, and he didn't hesitate to show in his manner that his confidence came from his worldly success. I stared at him in admiration, with what I felt was an idiotic smile on my face, and this only encouraged him further.
"Drop by my office tomorrow morning," he said. "Let's see, we'll think of something. You're a smart kid, I know that. You weren't the hardest worker, but that doesn't matter. Life and necessity teach a man a lot... Don't forget... Come see me early!"
As he said all this, he seemed to have completely forgotten that he himself had been one of the laziest students in school. Or maybe he spoke so freely because he was sure I wouldn't dare throw that in his face.
He made a move as if to get up. I promptly straightened and extended my hand. "I'd better go," I said.
"Why so early? But suit yourself."
I'd forgotten he'd invited me to dinner. I remembered then. But he seemed to have completely forgotten. I walked to the door. As I picked up my hat, I said, "My respects to your wife."
"Sure, sure. Just come by tomorrow. Don't worry!" He patted my back.
By the time I stepped outside, it was quite dark. The streetlamps had been lit. I took a deep breath. Even mixed with a bit of dust, the air felt wonderfully fresh and revitalizing. I walked slowly.
The next day, around noon, I went to Hamdi's company. Though when I'd left his house the night before, I'd had no intention of doing so. He hadn't made any definite promise anyway. He'd seen me off with the same platitudes I'd grown used to hearing from every benefactor I approached: "Let's see, we'll think of something, we'll work something out." But I went anyway. It wasn't hope that drove me. Somehow, I felt a desire to see myself humiliated. I almost wanted to say to myself: "You listened silently last night and accepted his patronizing attitude, didn't you? Well, then, go ahead and take it all the way—you deserve it."
An attendant first showed me into a small room to wait. When I entered Hamdi's office, I felt that same stupid smile on my face, and I got even angrier with myself.
Hamdi was busy with a pile of papers spread before him and a stream of clerks coming and going. He pointed to a chair with his head and continued working. Without daring to shake his hand, I perched on the edge of the seat. Now, facing him, I felt genuinely flustered, as if he truly were my superior, even my benefactor, and I considered this treatment entirely fitting for my degraded self. How much distance had opened up between me and my school friend—who'd picked me up in his car just last night—in little more than twelve hours? How ridiculous, how superficial, how empty were the factors that governed human relations, and above all, how little they had to do with actual humanity.
Neither Hamdi nor I had truly changed since last night; we were still exactly who we'd always been. Yet certain things we'd learned about each other—small, trivial details—had pulled us in different directions. The strangest part was that we both accepted this change as perfectly natural. My irritation wasn't directed at Hamdi, nor at myself, but simply at my being there.
When the room fell quiet for a moment, my friend looked up and said, "I found you a job." Then he fixed his bold, meaningful eyes on me and added, "I mean, I invented one. Nothing too tiring. You'll follow up on some of our business at certain banks, especially our own bank. Sort of a liaison between the company and the banks. During your free time, you can sit in the office and tend to your own affairs. Write as many poems as you like. I've spoken to the manager; we'll finalize your appointment. But we can't pay you much for now: forty or fifty liras. It'll go up later, of course. So, go on. Best of luck."
He extended his hand without getting up from his armchair. I stepped forward and thanked him. His face showed genuine satisfaction at having done me a good turn. I thought that he wasn't a bad person at heart; he was just acting according to his position, and that was perhaps even necessary. But once I was out in the hallway, I hesitated for a while, torn between going to the room he'd described and just leaving the building. Then, walking slowly, head down, I took a few steps and asked the first attendant I saw for Raif Efendi the translator's room. The man gestured vaguely at a door and moved on. I stopped again. Why couldn't I just leave? Was I that reluctant to give up a forty-lira salary? Or was I afraid of offending Hamdi? No. It was the months of unemployment, the not knowing where I'd go or where I'd look for work if I walked out now. And the discouragement that had me completely in its grip. That's what kept me standing in that dim corridor, waiting for another attendant to pass by so I could ask again.
Finally, I pushed open a random door and saw Raif Efendi inside. I hadn't known him before. Yet I immediately sensed that the man I saw hunched over his desk couldn't be anyone else. Later I thought about where that certainty came from. Hamdi had told me: "I had a desk put in our German translator Raif Efendi's room for you. He's a quiet, harmless fellow, God-fearing, won't bother anyone." And at a time when everyone was being called "Mr." or "Mrs.," he still referred to him as "Efendi." Perhaps the image these descriptions created in my mind closely matched the gray-haired, horn-rimmed-spectacled, unshaven man I saw there, so I walked right in without hesitation and asked the man, who had raised his head and was looking at me with absent eyes, "You're Raif Efendi, aren't you?"
The man studied me for a moment. Then, in a soft, almost timid voice, he said, "Yes, that's me. And you must be the new clerk we were expecting. They prepared your desk a little while ago. Please, come in. Welcome."
I went over and sat down. I began staring at the faded ink stains and scratches on the desk. As one does when sitting face-to-face with a stranger, I wanted to surreptitiously study my new office mate, to form first impressions—which, of course, would be wrong—through furtive glances. But I saw that he didn't sense this desire at all. He had already lowered his head back to his work and was busy as if I weren't in the room.
This continued until noon. By then, I was staring brazenly at the man across from me. His closely cropped hair was thinning on top. Many wrinkles ran from below his small ears down toward his neck. He moved his long, slender fingers among the papers before him, translating without apparent effort. Occasionally, as if searching for a word, he would lift his eyes, and when our gazes met, a movement resembling a smile would flit across his face. Though he looked quite old when viewed from the side or above, his face—especially in those moments of near-smiling—had an expression so innocent and childlike it was almost startling. His yellow mustache, clipped short at the ends, only strengthened that impression.