"Maybe I didn't need to tell you all this. But how could you know? We've only just met. It's better to be cautious... I don't have as much experience in life as you do. I've met very few people, and I've always lived with myself. I see that, even though we've come by different paths, we've both reached the same conclusion: we're both looking for a person, our own person... If we find that in each other, it would be something extraordinary... That's what really matters; the other issues are secondary... As for relations between men and women, you can be sure I've never been the kind of person you fear. It's true, I haven't had any adventures, but I've never even imagined I could love someone I didn't respect as much as myself, or someone I didn't find as strong as myself. You mentioned being humiliated just now. For a man to allow that, I think, is to deny his own personality, to humiliate himself. Like you, I love nature very much—in fact, I can say the further I kept from people, the closer I came to nature. My homeland is one of the most beautiful places in the world. Many of the civilizations we read about in history were founded and collapsed there. Lying under olive trees ten or fifteen centuries old, I used to think about the people who once harvested their fruit. On the pine-covered mountains, in places that seemed untouched by human foot, I would come across marble bridges and carved columns. They were the companions of my childhood, the subjects of my dreams. Since then, I've placed nature and its logic above everything. Let's let our friendship take its natural course. Let's not try to force artificial directions on it, or bind it with predetermined decisions!"
Maria tapped my hand on the table with her index finger.
"You're not as childish as I thought you were," she said. Her eyes wandered over me, uncertain and timid. She pushed her slightly large lower lip out even more, making her look like a little girl about to cry. Her eyes, in contrast, were thoughtful and searching. I was amazed at how many different expressions crossed her face in such a short time.
"You can tell me a lot about your life, your country, the olive trees," she began. "I'll tell you about my childhood and what I remember about my father. At least we won't have trouble finding things to talk about... But it's so noisy here. Probably because the hall is empty... The poor musicians just want to cheer up the owner with the noise of their instruments... Ah, if only you knew what the owners of places like this are like!"
"Are they very rude?"
"Rude! This is one way to get to know men up close. For example, the owner of our Atlantik is a very polite man. Not just to customers, but to every woman who doesn't have business with him... If I didn't work at his cabaret, he'd court me as delicately as a baron, and I'd be amazed by his refinement. But toward people who take money from him, he suddenly changes—and he calls this 'professional ethics'. He'd be more accurate calling it 'profit ethics'. Because his rudeness, which sometimes borders on ruthlessness and even bad manners, comes more from fear of being cheated than from a desire to maintain the seriousness of the establishment. If you saw how this man—who's probably a good family man or an honest citizen—wants us to sell not just our voices, our smiles, our bodies, but our very humanity, you'd be horrified..."
A distant association made me interrupt her.
"What was your father?" I asked.
"Didn't I tell you? He was a lawyer. Why do you ask? Are you wondering how I ended up like this?"
I was silent.
"You must not know Almanya very well yet. There's nothing unusual about my situation. I studied with the money my father left. Our situation wasn't bad. During the war, I worked as a nurse. Then I went to the academy. My small income was lost to inflation. I had to earn money. I'm not complaining about that. Working isn't a bad thing at all... What bothers me is that wanting to work without lowering our souls isn't accepted... And then, the necessity of always facing drunks and people hungry for human flesh wears on me. Sometimes they look at me in a way... I can't just call it animalistic... If that were all, it would still be natural... But it's something lower than animalistic... An animalism mixed with human hypocrisy, cunning, and pitifulness... It's disgusting..."
She looked around. The orchestra had grown even louder. A chubby woman in a Bavarian dress, her hair like corn silk, was singing cheerful mountain songs at the top of her voice, spinning around and making strange sounds from her throat.
Maria said, "Let's get up and sit somewhere quiet. It's still early." Then, looking at my face carefully, she added, "Or am I boring you? I've been talking nonstop and dragging you around since morning. Women being this forward isn't a good thing... Seriously, if you're bored, let me set you free."
I took her hands. For a long time, I didn't answer. I didn't look at her face either. But only when I was sure she understood what was going through my mind did I finally say, "I'm grateful to you."
"And I to you," she said, pulling her hands away.
When we got outside, she said, "Come on, let's go to a café near here. It's a very pleasant place. You'll see some strange people."
"To the Romanisches Café?"
"Yes, you know it? Have you been?"
"No, I've heard of it."
She laughed. "Are you one of those friends who run out of money at the end of the month?"
I smiled too and looked down at the ground.
I had heard that this café, always frequented by artists, filled up after eleven at night with older women who were pleasure-seekers, young enthusiasts, and rich women, and that at that hour, many gigolos of all nationalities and ages came there to try to make themselves appealing.
Since it was still early, only young artists were in the café. They sat in groups, arguing loudly. We went up to the upper floor via a staircase between the columns. We had difficulty finding an empty table.
Around us sat young painters imitating the French, with wide-brimmed black hats and long hair, and writers with pipes in their mouths, filling pages endlessly with their long-nailed fingers.
A tall, blond young man with sideburns reaching his mouth came to our table, signaling from a distance.
"Greetings to the Madonna in a Fur Coat!" he said, taking Maria's head in his hands and kissing her first on the forehead, then on the cheeks.
I fixed my eyes on the floor and waited. They chatted about this and that. Apparently they had exhibited paintings at the same exhibition. Finally, the young man shook Maria's hand vigorously, gave me an artist-style goodbye—"Goodbye, young sir!"—and left.
I was still looking down. The woman asked, "What are you thinking?"
"You called me 'you,' did you notice?"
"Yes... You don't want me to?"
"What do you mean? Thank you!"
"Ugh! You say thank you so much!"
"We Easterners are very polite people... Do you know what I was thinking? That man kissed you, and I didn't feel jealous at all."
"Really?"
"And I'm wondering why I wasn't jealous."
We looked at each other for a long time. We looked with trust, searching for each other.
"Tell me a little about yourself," she said.
I nodded in agreement. I had planned all day to tell her many things. But none of them came to mind; completely new things were passing through my head. Finally I made up my mind and started talking randomly. I wasn't telling anything specific—I talked about my childhood, my military service, the books I read, the dreams I dreamed, our neighbor Fahriye, and the bandits I knew. Parts of me that I had until now hesitated to even tell myself came out of hiding without warning and spilled into the open. Because I was talking about myself to another person for the first time, I wanted to appear completely naked, covering nothing. I tried so hard not to lie to her, not to distort myself, not to change anything—sometimes I went so far that I emphasized the points against myself too much, and in doing so, I again strayed from the truth.
Memories and long-suppressed feelings, forever silenced emotions, poured out like a flood, growing, swelling, accelerating. Seeing how attentively she listened, how her eyes roamed my face as if wanting to understand even the parts I couldn't put into words, I opened up even more. Sometimes she slowly nodded as if in agreement, sometimes she slightly opened her mouth as if in surprise. When I got excited, she gently stroked my hand; when my words took on a complaining tone, she smiled tenderly.
At one point, as if nudged by an unknown force, I stopped speaking and looked at my watch. It was almost eleven. The tables around us were empty. I jumped up.
"But you'll be late for work!" I exclaimed.
She tried to compose herself. She squeezed my hands tighter, stood up slowly, and said, "You're right." While adjusting her beret, she added, "We were talking so beautifully."
I walked her to the front of the Atlantik bar. We hardly spoke on the way. We were both pensive and full, as if wanting to internalize the endings of this evening. Toward the end of the street, I felt a shiver go through my body.
"You couldn't go home and get your coat because of me—you'll get cold," I said.
"Because of you?... Yes... Because of you... But it's my fault... Never mind... Let's walk quickly!"
"Should I wait to take you home again?"
"No, no... Not at all... We'll meet tomorrow!"
"As you wish."
Perhaps to keep warm, she moved closer to me. As we neared the brightly lit door, she stopped, took her arm out of mine, and extended her hand. She seemed to be thinking about something extremely serious. She pulled me to the edge of the wall. Finally, she leaned toward me, eyes fixed on the pavement, and said quickly, almost in a whisper: "So you don't feel jealous, huh? Do you really love me that much?" She suddenly raised her eyes and began looking at my face curiously. At that moment, unable to find words to tell her what I was feeling, I felt my chest tighten and my throat go dry. I was afraid that every word, even every sound from my mouth, would spoil and muddy my happiness. She was still looking at my face, now with a hint of fear. I noticed my eyes welling up from helplessness. Then her face relaxed. She closed her eyes for a second, as if resting. Then she took my head in her hands, kissed me once on the mouth, turned around, and without a word, walked slowly inside.
I returned to the boarding house almost at a run. I wanted to think of nothing, remember nothing. The events of this night were too precious to even touch with my memories. Just as I had feared moments before that a small sound from my mouth would disturb the atmosphere of that unimaginable moment of happiness, now I was afraid that any tampering with my imagination would harm the extraordinary events of the few hours I had lived today and their unparalleled harmony.
The dark-staired boarding house seemed very charming to me, and all the smells filling the corridors were pleasant.
After that, I began meeting Maria Puder every day and going out together. We hadn't exhausted the things we had to say to each other that first evening. The people and scenes we constantly encountered gave us the opportunity to express our thoughts and confirm how close they were to each other. This closeness of ideas was the result of thinking the same way on every point; though the other party's readiness to accept and adopt the other's thoughts also played a part. But wasn't looking for reasons to find every conviction of the other correct and embrace it also a sign of spiritual closeness?
Mostly we went to museums and art galleries. She explained paintings by old and new masters to me, and we argued about their value. We went to the Botanical Garden a few times, and to the opera a couple of evenings. But since it was hard for her to leave there at ten or ten-thirty and go to work, we gave up on opera visits. Later she told me one day: "Not just because of the time, but for another reason, I don't want to go to the opera anymore. After leaving there, singing at the Atlantik feels like the most ridiculous, vulgar thing in the world."
I only went to the factory in the mornings. I had almost stopped seeing the boarding house residents. When Frau Heppner occasionally teased, "I think someone's stolen you away from us," I just laughed and didn't prolong the conversation. I especially didn't want Frau van Tiedemann to hear anything. Maria might not have seen a problem with that, but perhaps out of a habit left over from Turkey, I felt that was how it should be.
Yet there was nothing to hide from anyone. Since that first evening, our friendship had remained within the boundaries we had agreed upon, and the scene in front of the Atlantik had never been brought up by either of us. In the beginning, it was more curiosity that brought us together. We wondered, "What else could there be?" and talked a great deal. Later, curiosity gave way to habit. If we couldn't see each other for two or three days for some reason, we would miss each other terribly. When we met, we were as happy as childhood friends who had been separated, and we walked hand in hand. I loved her very much. I felt that I had enough affection in me to love a whole world, and I considered myself happy to finally be able to spend it somewhere. It was certain that she liked me too, that she sought me out. But she never gave any opportunity to take our friendship into other areas. One day, while walking in Grünewald, a forest near Berlin, she put her arm around my neck and leaned on me as we walked. Her hand, hanging over my shoulder, swayed gently, and her thumb moved in the air as if drawing circles. With a desire I didn't understand, I grabbed that hand and kissed her palm. She pulled her arm away immediately with a soft but decisive motion. We didn't talk about it and continued our walk. But her seriousness at that moment was clear and powerful enough to stop me from giving in to such feelings again. Sometimes we talked about love. Seeing how indifferently she analyzed the subject, as if it were something distant from herself, I felt a strange sense of crushing inside. Yes, I had accepted everything, all her conditions. But still, sometimes I would skillfully steer the conversation to ourselves and try to analyze our friendship. In my opinion, there was no separate, abstract concept called love. All the loves and sympathies that appear between people in various forms were a kind of love. They just changed names and forms depending on the context. Not giving the real name to the love between a man and a woman was nothing but a kind of self-deception.
Then Maria would laugh, wagging her index finger: "No, my friend, no. Love is nothing like that simple sympathy or even the sometimes deep affection you describe. It's something completely different—a feeling we can't analyze. We don't know where it comes from, and one day we don't know where it goes. But friendship is lasting, and it depends on understanding. We can show how it started, and if it breaks down, we can analyze the reasons. What doesn't fit into love is analysis. Besides, think—there are many people in the world we like. For example, I have many friends I truly love. (I can say the Honorable Beyefendi is at the top of the list.) Now, am I in love with all these people?"
I insisted on my view: "Yes," I said. "You're truly in love with the one you love most, and a little bit in love with the others."
Maria gave an answer I didn't expect: "Then why did you say you weren't jealous?"
Unable to find anything to say, I thought for a moment, then tried to explain: "A person who has the capacity to truly love can never limit that love to one person, nor can they expect anyone else to do so. The more people we love, the more strongly we love that one person we truly love. Love doesn't diminish as it spreads."
"I thought Easterners thought differently."
"I don't think that way."
Maria fixed her eyes on a distant point and drifted off for a while, then said: "The love I'm waiting for is different. It's outside all logic, impossible to define, its nature unknown. Loving and liking is one thing; wanting—wanting with all your soul, all your body, everything—is something else. Love, to me, is that wanting. An irresistible wanting!"
Then, as if I had caught her, I said confidently, "What you describe is a matter of a moment. The love and interest that exist within you, through some unknown occasions, at a moment that cannot be predetermined, suddenly accumulate, condense. Just as the gently warming sunlight, after passing through a lens, gathers at a point and begins to burn, that love, whose power has extraordinarily increased, envelops and ignites you. It's wrong to think of it as something that comes suddenly from outside. It's nothing but the intensification of feelings already present within us to the point of startling us."
We left the argument there, but took it up again at other times. I sensed that neither my words nor her ideas were one hundred percent accurate. It was certain that both of us, no matter how open we wanted to be with each other, were governed by some hidden, vague thoughts and desires beyond our control. However many points we agreed on, there were also places where we differed, and if one side easily adapted to the other, it was only for the sake of a more important goal. We weren't afraid to spill even the most secret corners of our souls and argue about them; yet there were sides we never touched, because we ourselves didn't know what they were. But a feeling whispered to me that these were what really mattered.
Since I had never encountered a person so close to me before, my overriding desire was to preserve her above all else. Perhaps the ultimate goal of all my wishes was to possess her completely, without any lack, with all her material and spiritual existence. But out of fear of losing what I had already gained, I hesitated to look toward that goal. Like a person watching a miraculously beautiful bird that he wants to catch, but afraid that even a small movement will make it fly away, I remained passive.
I sensed darkly that this immobility, this hesitation born of fear, was even more harmful—that in human relations one cannot remain petrified at a point; that every step not taken forward pushes one backward; that moments that do not bring you closer inevitably distance you. And I felt a silent anxiety, burning within me and growing day by day, beginning to take root.
But to act differently, I would have to be a different person. Although I knew I was constantly circling the essential point, I didn't know the paths to get there, and I couldn't search for them. My old shyness and timidity were gone. I no longer withdrew into myself; in fact, I exposed my soul perhaps even excessively—but always on the condition of not touching that essential point.