When I turned my head, I saw her coming toward me. She wore a light coat, a navy blue beret on her head, and low-heeled pumps on her feet. Her face was smiling. When she reached me, she extended her hand.
“Were you waiting for me here? How long?”
“For an hour!”
My voice trembled with excitement. Mistaking it for a complaint, she said with a half-teasing reproach, “Your own fault, sir. I’ve been waiting for you for an hour and a half. I just happened to notice a moment ago that you’d chosen this poetic view instead of coming to the front of the house!”
So she had been waiting for me. So I was someone who mattered to her. I looked into her eyes like a petted little cat.
“Thank you.”
“What are you thanking me for?”
Without waiting for my answer, she took my arm. “Come on, let’s go.”
I started walking, obeying her. She took short but rapid steps. I was afraid to ask where we were going. Neither of us spoke. Although I was extraordinarily content with this silence, I was devouring myself with the thought that I absolutely had to say something. Not a single trace remained of those beautiful ideas that had just been passing through my mind, each one more important and interesting than the last. The more I forced myself, the more I felt my head emptying completely and becoming even more pitiful, my brain nothing but a throbbing lump of flesh. When I glanced sideways, I saw no trace of my own agitation and excitement in her. Her black eyes were fixed on the ground, her face held a stony, immovable calm, and at the corner of her lips was that faint curve resembling a smile. She continued on her way. Her left hand rested lightly on my arm. Her slightly raised index finger seemed meaningful, as if pointing at something in the distance.
When I looked at her face again, I saw that she had raised her thick, slightly unruly eyebrows as if thinking. The fine blue veins on her eyelids were visible. Her black, thick eyelashes trembled slightly, and a few tiny raindrops sparkled on them. Her hair was wet in places.
Suddenly she turned her head toward me. “Why are you looking at me so intently?”
This question also came alive in my own mind: how was it that I was staring at her at length, without hesitation, without even thinking that this might be the first time I had looked at a woman so carefully? And how was it that even after she asked this question and turned her eyes to me, I continued to look at her without losing my courage? With a boldness that surprised even me, I said:
“Don’t you want me to?”
“No, it’s not that. I just asked… Maybe I do want you to, and that’s why I asked.”
Her eyes were so black and so meaningful that I couldn’t resist.
“Are you originally German?” I said.
“Yes. Why did you ask?”
“Your hair isn’t blond and your eyes aren’t blue.”
“It’s possible.”
A movement crossed her face, resembling her usual smile, but also appearing somewhat hesitant.
“My father was Jewish,” she said. “My mother is German. But she isn’t blond either.”
I asked curiously, “So you’re Jewish?”
“Yes… Or are you an anti-Semite too?”
“Not at all… We don’t have such things. But I hadn’t guessed.”
“Yes, I’m Jewish. My father was from Prague. He converted to Catholicism before I was born.”
“So you’re Christian by religion?”
“No… I mean, I have nothing to do with any religion.”
We had walked quite a distance. She didn’t continue. I didn’t ask anything else. We were slowly coming to the outskirts of the city. I began to wonder where we were going. Surely we weren’t going for a countryside stroll in this weather. The rain continued in the same steady manner. At one point Maria asked:
“Where are we going?”
“I don’t know.”
“Aren’t you curious at all?”
“I’m following you… Wherever you want.”
She turned her damp and pale face toward me, like a white flower covered with dew drops. “You’re very docile… Don’t you have any opinions, any desires?”
I immediately brought up what she had said last night. “You forbade me from asking you for anything.”
She didn’t answer. After waiting a moment, I continued, “Or were you not serious last night? Or have you changed your mind today?”
She denied it vehemently. “No! No!… I still feel the same way…”
She fell back into thought.
We had arrived in front of a large garden with an iron gate. Slowing her steps, she said, “Shall we go in here?”
“What is this place?”
“The Botanical Garden.”
“You decide.”
“Then let’s go in… I always come here. Especially in rainy weather like this.”
There was no one inside. We walked for a long time on the sandy paths. Both sides were lined with many trees that, despite the advanced season, had not shed their leaves. Around the large, rocky ponds were various grasses, flowers, and mosses of different colors. Broad leaves covered the surface of the water. Inside the tall greenhouses were plants from warm countries, thick-trunked trees with small leaves. Maria said:
“This is the most beautiful place in Berlin… At this time of year, it’s so deserted you could say there are almost no visitors… And these strange trees always remind me of distant countries I long for… When I see that they’ve been uprooted from their accustomed places and brought here, and are being kept alive with such artificial measures and care, I feel a bit sorry for them. Do you know, in Berlin, only a hundred days a year are clear and sunny; two hundred and sixty-five are overcast. Can the projectors and artificial suns of the greenhouses satisfy the leaves of these trees, which are used to light and heat? Yet they live, they don’t wither… But can you call this living? Isn’t it a form of torture to take a living creature from a climate suited to it and subject it to these miserable conditions for the pleasure of a few curious people?”
“But you are one of those curious people…”
“Yes, but every time I come here, my heart fills with deep sorrow.”
“Then why do you come?”
“I don’t know.”
She sat down on one of the wet benches. I sat down next to her. Wiping the raindrops from her face with her hand, she said, “When I watch the plants here, I think a bit about myself too… Perhaps I remember my ancestors, who may have lived in the same places as these trees and strange flowers centuries ago. Aren’t we also uprooted and scattered like them? But this wouldn’t interest you… To be honest, it doesn’t interest me much either… It only gives me the chance to think about many things, to let many things live in my head… You’ll see, I’m a person who lives in her head more than in the world… My real life is nothing but a boring dream to me… You might have found my job in the Atlantic very sad, but I’m not even aware whether it is or not… Sometimes it even amuses me… Anyway, I’m doing this job because of my mother. I have to take care of her, and there’s no way I can make a living from the few paintings I do in a year… Have you ever worked with painting?”
“A little.”
“Why didn’t you continue?”
“I realized I had no talent.”
“Impossible… How much talent you have for painting was clear from the expression on your face when you looked at the paintings at the exhibition… Say you realized you had no courage. For a man to be so timid is not very nice… I’m saying this for your sake. As for me, I have courage… I want to paint and reflect my judgments about people in my work, and maybe I succeed a little… But it’s all in vain… The people I despise can’t understand it, and those who could understand are not deserving of contempt. So painting, like all arts, is without an audience—that is, incapable of addressing those it truly intends to… Yet, despite this, it’s the only thing in the world I take seriously… For that very reason, I don’t want to make a living by painting. Because then I’d have to do what’s asked of me, not what I want… Never… Never… I’d rather put my body on the market… Because it has no importance to me!…”
She slapped my knee in a rough, friendly way.
“See, my dear friend, what we’re doing is no different… Last night, when some drunk was kissing my back, you were there, weren’t you? Of course he kissed it… He has the right… He’s paying money… And they say my back is attractive… Would you like to kiss it too? Do you have the money?”
I was struck dumb. I blinked rapidly and bit my lips. When Maria noticed this, she frowned, her face turning paler than ever, like lime, and said:
“No, Raif, I don’t want that. Absolutely not… The thing I can’t stand is pity… The moment I feel you pity me, it’s goodbye!… You won’t even see my face!”
Seeing that I was completely bewildered, that I was the one truly pitiable, she put her arm around my shoulder.
“Don’t be offended by my words,” she said. “We shouldn’t shy away from speaking openly about things that might later muddy our friendship. Cowardice in such matters is harmful… What would happen? If we realize we can’t get along, we’ll say goodbye and part ways. Is that such an important disaster? Can’t you still accept that being alone is the essence of life? All closeness, all unions are false. People can only approach each other up to a certain point; beyond that, they pretend. And when they one day realize their mistake, they despair and leave everything behind and run away. But if they were content with what was possible, and stopped mistaking their fantasies for reality, it wouldn’t be this way. Everyone would accept what’s natural, and there would be neither disillusionment nor heartbreak… In this state, we are all pitiable, but we should pity ourselves. To pity someone else is to think you are stronger than them, and we have no right to consider ourselves so great or others more wretched than us… Shall we go now?”
We both stood up. We shook the raindrops that had gathered on our coats. The wet sand crunched under our feet.
The streets had begun to darken, but the lamps were not yet lit. We returned the same way we had come, walking fast along the same paths. This time I was holding her arm. I nestled against her like a small child, tilting my head toward her. Inside me was a strange mix of joy and sorrow. Whenever I saw how much her feelings and thoughts resembled mine, I rejoiced, feeling our closeness more strongly. But at the same time, I was afraid, because I realized that on one point she differed from me: she never wanted to hide the truth from herself, never wanted to deceive herself at any cost. Because a vague feeling whispered to me that once you have fully seen a person—no matter who they are—and not hidden what you have seen from yourself, you can never become completely close to them.
But I didn’t want to be that truthful. I understood that I couldn’t bear any truth that would distance me from her. After finding in each other the most essential and precious things for our souls, wouldn’t it be more humane and more merciful to overlook the remaining details—or rather, to sacrifice small truths for a great truth?
It was certain that this woman, who passed sound and correct judgments on everything, thought this way as a result of her bitter experiences in life and the corrupting influences of her environment. Because she was forced to live among people she didn’t like or enjoy, and to smile at them unwillingly, she had fallen into such deep resentment and suspected everyone. As for me, having spent my whole life away from people and hardly being disturbed by them, I wasn’t angry at anyone. The only thing gnawing at me was a great sense of loneliness, and it was also under the influence of this loneliness that I was ready to deceive myself on many points when faced with a person I felt was close to me.
We had reached the center of the city. The streets were bright and crowded. Maria Puder was thoughtful and seemed a little sad. Timidly, I said:
“Is something bothering you?”
“No,” she replied. “There’s nothing to bother me. In fact, I’m pleased with our walk today… I’m definitely pleased…”
It was clear she was thinking about other things as she said this. In her eyes, which occasionally met mine, there was a distracted look, and in her smile a foreignness that frightened me. At one point she stopped in the middle of the street.
“I don’t want to go home,” she said. “Come on, let’s eat somewhere together. We can talk until I have to go to work.”
I welcomed this unexpected proposal with unnecessary excitement. But seeing that this only alienated her further, I quickly pulled myself together and looked down. We entered a fairly large restaurant on the western side of the city. Inside, it wasn’t very crowded. In one corner, a Bavarian women’s orchestra in national costumes was playing noisy tunes. We sat down at a table by the wall and ordered food and wine.
Her stillness had transferred to me. I felt a groundless restlessness and oppression. When the woman noticed this, she tried to shake off her thoughts, to open up a little, and to smile. She tapped my hand, which was resting on the table.
“Why are you pouting?” she joked. “Young men eating with a woman for the first time are usually more cheerful and talkative.” But it was clear she didn’t believe what she was saying herself. Indeed, she quickly returned to her former state. To have done something, she let her eyes wander over the surrounding tables. She took a few sips of the wine in front of her and suddenly turned to me, looking straight into my eyes:
“What can I do? What can I do? I just can’t be any other way!” she said.
What did she mean? I only sensed it vaguely. I felt that the thing she said she couldn’t do was the same thing that had been troubling me for a while, but I couldn’t clearly define its nature.
Her eyes seemed to want to get stuck wherever they looked, and she could only tear them away with difficulty. Her face, as dull and white as mother-of-pearl, was occasionally crossed by faint, barely perceptible shivers. She began to speak again. There was a sudden trembling in her voice, a barely suppressed excitement:
“Don’t be angry with me…” she said. “It will be better if I speak to you plainly, so you don’t get false hopes… But don’t be angry… Last night I came up to you… I asked you to take me home… Today I suggested we walk together… I said let’s have dinner together… I practically latched onto you… But I don’t love you… I’ve been thinking about this all along… No, I don’t love you either… What can I do? I might find you pleasant, even attractive; I might see that you have qualities different from all the men I’ve met so far—but that’s all. Talking with you, discussing things, arguing, fighting… Getting angry, making up again—these will certainly please me…
“But love? I can’t do that… Now you’re probably wondering why I’m saying all this out of the blue… As I said, so you won’t be angry with me later for expecting something else… I want to let you know now what I can give you, so that afterward you won’t claim I played with you. No matter how different you are, you’re still a man… And all the men I’ve met, when they understood this—that I don’t love them, can’t love them—left me with great sorrow, even anger… Goodbye… But why did they think I was to blame? Because I didn’t give them something I never promised, something they only kept alive in their own heads? Isn’t that unfair? I don’t want you to think the same way about me… You can count that as a point in your favor…”
I was stunned. But trying to keep my composure, I said: “There’s no need for all this. The form of our friendship depends on you, not on me. It will be whatever you want it to be.”
She objected strongly: “No, no, it’s not like that at all. See? You’re just like all other men: pretending to accept everything in order to get everything accepted. No, my friend! Problems aren’t solved with such soothing words. Think about it: even though I’ve always tried to make clear and honest judgments about this subject, both to myself and to others, I haven’t reached a conclusion. Human relations, especially between men and women, are so tangled, and our desires and feelings are so incomprehensible and murky that no one knows what they’re doing and just goes with the flow. I don’t want that. Doing things that don’t satisfy me a hundred percent, that don’t seem absolutely necessary to me, diminishes me in my own eyes… One thing I particularly can’t stand is that a woman always has to remain passive in front of a man… Why? Why do we always have to run away and you have to chase? Why do we always have to surrender and you have to take us? Why must there be a domineering tone even in your entreaties, and a helplessness even in our refusals? Since my childhood, I have always rebelled against this; I could never accept it. Why am I this way? Why does a point that other women don’t even notice seem so important to me? I’ve thought about it a lot. I wondered: is there something abnormal about me? No, on the contrary, perhaps I think this way because I am more normal than other women. Because my life, by pure chance, has been far from the influences that accustom other women to accept their fate as natural. My father died when I was very young. My mother and I were left alone at home. My mother was virtually a symbol of womanhood accustomed to submitting and obeying. She had lost the habit of walking through life alone; or rather, she had never acquired it. Even though I was seven years old, I began to manage her. I recommended courage, taught her sense, supported her. And so I grew up without seeing male domination—naturally, so to speak. At school, the lethargy and ambitions of my girlfriends always disgusted me. I never learned anything to impress men. I never blushed in front of men and never expected a compliment from them. This state doomed me to terrible loneliness. My girlfriends found it against their pleasures and comfort to be friends with me or accept my ideas. Being a pleasing toy seemed easier and more attractive to them than being a human being. I couldn’t be friends with men either. When they didn’t find the soft morsel they were looking for in me, they preferred to run away rather than face an equal force. Then I understood very well what male determination and strength really are: no creature in the world chases such easy successes, and no creature is as selfish, conceited, and arrogant—yet at the same time as cowardly and comfort-loving—as a man. Once I realized this, it became impossible for me to truly love men. I saw that even the men I liked best and who were close to me on many matters would, on small occasions, show these wolf’s fangs; after sharing moments that gave equal pleasure to both of us, they would approach me with stupid looks, trying to apologize or protect me, while at the same time believing they had somehow triumphed. But in reality, it was they who were pitiable, whose weakness was revealed. No woman can be as helpless and ridiculous as a man in the grip of passion. And yet they have such misplaced pride that they mistake this state for a show of strength… My God, it drives you crazy… Even knowing that I have no unnatural inclinations, I would prefer to fall in love with a woman…”
She paused and studied my face. She drank some wine. As she spoke, she seemed to be opening up and freeing herself from her distress.
“Why are you so surprised?” she continued. “Don’t be afraid, it’s not what you think. But I wish I could be that way. I would surely be doing something that degrades the human soul less… Only I’m a painter, you know… I have my own ideas about beauty… I don’t find making love to a woman beautiful… How should I put it… It’s not aesthetic… Then again, I love nature very much… I’m always wary of things that aren’t natural… That’s why I believe I must love a man… But truly a man… A man who can sweep me away without relying on any force… A man who will love me and walk beside me without demanding anything from me, without dominating me, without humiliating me… In other words, a truly strong, whole man… Now do you understand why I don’t love you? In any case, not enough time has passed for me to love you, but you’re also not what I’m looking for… True, you don’t have that senseless arrogance I mentioned… But you’re too childish, or rather, too feminine… Just like my mother, you need someone to manage you… That could be me… If you want… But I can’t be anything more… We could be excellent friends… You’re the first man who has listened to what I’m saying without interrupting, without trying to change my mind, to convince me, to bring me around. I can see from your eyes that you understand me… As I said, we could become very good friends. Just as I’ve spoken to you openly, you can pour out your heart to me. Isn’t that enough? Wouldn’t it be better to lose even this by demanding more? I would never want that. I told you last night too—sometimes I’m not consistent… But that shouldn’t lead you to wrong ideas… On the main points, I never change… Well? Will you be my friend?…”
All these words dumbfounded me. I was afraid to make a final judgment about her, and I sensed I wouldn’t be accurate. Only one desire passed through my mind: to be close to her, not to be separated from her, no matter the cost. I didn’t need anything else. I had never been used to demanding more from anyone than what they gave me. Yet there was a strange stillness inside me. Fixing my eyes on her black, dreamy eyes that awaited my answer, I said slowly:
“Maria, I understand you very well… I also see that your experiences in life have driven you to give such a long explanation, and I am pleased to think that you are doing this to prevent things that might later shake our friendship. That means this friendship has some value for you…”
She nodded her head rapidly in confirmation. I continued: