Even though I was twenty-four, no woman had ever entered my life as a romance. Back in Havran, the few escapades I’d had with older neighborhood friends were nothing more than drunken adventures whose meaning I couldn’t grasp, and my natural shyness kept me from wanting to repeat them. Women, for me, were unapproachable creatures, far from the material world, that spurred my imagination and took part in the thousand and one adventures I lived when I lay under the olive trees on hot summer days. For years, I had been secretly in love with our neighbor Fahriye, and in my imagination I often had relations with her that even bordered on indecency, yet whenever I met her on the street, I would suffer such violent palpitations that I felt I might collapse, and my face would burn as I searched for a place to hide. During Ramadan nights, I would sneak out of the house and hide across from her door to watch her leave for the teravih prayers with her mother carrying a lantern, but as soon as the door opened and the yellowish light revealed their black feraces, I would turn my face to the wall and start trembling for fear they would notice me.
Whenever a woman pleased me in any way, my first impulse was to run from her. When we came face to face, I feared that every movement and every glance would betray my secret, and I would be overcome by an indescribable, almost suffocating shame that made me the most wretched person on earth. I don’t recall ever looking directly into any woman’s eyes—not even my mother’s. Lately, especially during my time in Istanbul, I had resolved to fight this absurd timidity. Through friends, I met some young girls and tried to be at ease with them. But the moment I sensed even a hint of interest from them, all my intentions and resolutions vanished. I was never an innocent man: when I was alone, I lived out scenes with these women in my mind, scenes that even the most skilled lovers could never have imagined. I could feel, far more intensely than in reality, the intoxicating pressure of warm, throbbing lips on my mouth.
But that painting in the fur coat that I saw at the exhibition had taken hold of me so completely that I couldn’t even bring myself to imagine touching her. I couldn’t envision a love scene with her, nor even picture us sitting face to face like two friends. Yet the desire to go and gaze at that painting, to lose myself for hours in those eyes that I was sure were not looking at me, grew stronger by the day. I would put on my coat and head back to the exhibition, and this continued for days.
Every day, always after noon, I would go there. I would wander through the corridors, pretending to look at the paintings, moving slowly but with great impatience, forcing my steps that wanted to reach their true destination. I would stop in front of the Madonna in a Fur Coat as if by chance, and lose myself in it, staying until the doors closed. I noticed that the exhibition guards and many of the painters who were there every day had begun to recognize me. As soon as I entered, a smile would cross their faces, and their eyes would follow this strange painting enthusiast for a long time. In the last few days, I had even given up pretending to look at the other paintings. I would go straight to the woman in the fur coat, sit on one of the benches there, and alternate my gaze between her and the floor, when my eyes grew tired.
This behavior of mine was bound to arouse the curiosity of those at the exhibition. And sure enough, one day what I feared happened. A young woman I had encountered in the hall several times—I had gathered from her conversations with the long-haired, black-suited, big-tied painters that she too was a painter—approached me and said:
“Are you very taken with this painting? You come to look at it every day.”
I raised my eyes quickly, then lowered them again. Her overly familiar and slightly mocking smile had a bad effect on me. The long-toed shoes standing a step in front of me seemed to stare at my face, waiting for an answer. Her legs, which I couldn’t deny were shapely, emerged from under her short skirt; occasionally they flexed slightly, creating a soft wave that spread under her stockings up to her round kneecaps. Seeing she had no intention of leaving without an answer, I said:
“Yes! It’s a beautiful painting…” Then, I don’t know why, I felt the need to tell a lie, to offer some kind of explanation, and murmured:
“It looks a lot like my mother…”
“Ah, so that’s why you come and stare at it for hours.”
“Yes.”
“Is your mother dead?”
“No.”
She waited as if expecting me to continue. Without raising my head, I added:
“She lives far away.”
“Really? Where?”
“In Turkey.”
“Are you Turkish?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you were a foreigner.”
She let out a light laugh. With a very casual manner, she sat down next to me. When she crossed her legs, her skirt rode up behind her kneecaps, and I noticed my face burning as usual. This seemed to amuse her even more. She asked again:
“Don’t you have a photograph of your mother?”
This woman’s pointless curiosity irritated me. I could tell she was doing it just to mock me. The other painters were looking at us from a distance, probably grinning.
“I do, but… this is different,” I said.
Her voice grew slightly more serious: “Really? So this is different.”
And immediately she let out a little laugh.
I made a move to get up and flee. She noticed and said:
“Don’t let me disturb you. I’m going… I’ll leave you alone with your mother.”
She stood and walked a few steps. Then she stopped abruptly and came back close to me. In a tone completely unlike her previous chatter—serious, even a bit mournful—she said:
“Would you really have wanted a mother like that?”
“Yes… How much I would have wanted one!”
“Really…”
She turned and walked away with quick, youthful steps. I raised my head and looked. Her short hair bounced on the nape of her neck, and because she had her hands in her jacket pockets, the tight suit hugged her body closely.
When I realized how my last sentence had given away my lie, I was stunned. I got up immediately and, unable to dare look around, rushed out into the street.
A feeling came over me, like saying goodbye to a person I had met and connected with on a journey, but been forced to part from too soon. I knew I could never set foot in that exhibition again. People—people who understood nothing about each other—were driving me away from this place too.
As soon as I returned to my pension, I thought about how the old meaningless days would start again—how at dinner I would listen to plans for Germany’s salvation or the complaints of middle-class people who had lost their fortunes to inflation, and then shut myself in my room with the stories of Turgenev or Theodor Storm. And I realized what meaning my life had begun to take on in those last two weeks, and what it meant to lose it. A possibility—a possibility I had not even dared to believe existed—had crept up close to my empty, meaningless existence, and then, suddenly, as abruptly and inexplicably as it had come, it was gone. I only understood this now. For as long as I could remember, I had spent all my days, without knowing it and without admitting it to myself, searching for a person, and that was why I had fled from everyone else. That painting had convinced me, for a time at least, that finding that person was possible, that I was even very close to her. It had awakened a hope in me that could never be put to sleep again. That was why this disappointment was so great. I withdrew even more from those around me, retreated further into myself. I thought of writing to my father and telling him I wanted to come home. But what would I answer if he asked, “What did you learn in Europe?” I decided to stay a few more months and, during that time, learn enough about “soap-making” to satisfy him. I applied again to the same Swedish firm and, despite receiving an even colder reception, began attending the factory regularly. I carefully noted the formulas and methods I learned in a notebook, and tried to acquire and read books written on this trade.
Frau van Tiedemann, the Dutch widow at the pension, had also been getting closer to me. She would give me the children’s novels she bought for her ten-year-old son, who was in a boarding school, and ask for my opinion. Some evenings after dinner, she would come to my room on some trivial excuse, stay for a long time, and chatter away. She would wag her index finger with a knowing smile and half-close her eyes. One afternoon, she suggested we go for a walk, and as we were returning in the evening, she insisted and dragged me into a beer hall. Without noticing, we had been drinking until late. Although I had had beer occasionally since coming here, I had never been like I was that evening. I remember at one point the whole room seemed to spin around my head, and I lost consciousness and slumped into Frau van Tiedemann’s lap. When I came to, I saw the kind widow wiping my face with a handkerchief she had asked the waiters to dampen. I said we should go home. She insisted on paying the bill herself. When we got outside, I noticed she was swaying no less than I was. We walked along, clinging to each other, bumping into passersby. It was close to midnight, so the streets weren’t too crowded. At one point, as we crossed to the other side, something happened: when we reached the opposite pavement, Frau van Tiedemann’s foot caught on the curb. The somewhat plump woman, trying to hold onto me to keep from falling, ended up throwing her arms around my neck—probably because she was taller than me. But this time, even after she had regained her balance, she didn’t let go; instead, she squeezed me tighter in her arms. I don’t know if it was the alcohol, but I, too, forgot all about my shyness and held her tightly. Suddenly I felt her hungry lips on my face—this woman of about thirty-five. Though her breath was a bit warm, this overflow of affection spread through me like a heavy but beautiful fragrance. A few people passing by laughed and wished us happiness. At that moment, my eyes caught a woman coming toward us from under a lamppost about ten steps ahead. I felt my whole body begin to tremble with an indescribable agitation. The woman still clinging to me, noticing this, grew even more fervent, showering my hair with kisses. But I was already trying to free myself, wanting to look at the woman approaching us. It was her. Her face, which I saw for an instant, flashed in my foggy mind like lightning. It was the very image of the painting I had seen at the exhibition—the Madonna in a Fur Coat, with her pale face, black eyes, and slightly long nose, inside the wildcat fur. She walked with that characteristic sad and weary expression, as if unaware of her surroundings. When she saw us, she was surprised for a second, and at that moment our gazes met. I thought I saw something like a smile pass through her eyes. I shook myself as if I had been whipped on the neck. Even in my drunkenness, I understood all too well the horror of meeting her for the first time in such a state, and what it meant for her to pass her first judgment on me with such a smile. Finally, I wrenched myself free from the older woman’s arms. I wanted to immediately run and catch up with the Madonna in a Fur Coat. Without knowing what I would do or say, I went as far as the corner. I looked around for minutes—no one was there. Frau van Tiedemann had come up to me again: “What’s wrong with you?” she asked. She took my arm and dragged me toward home. On the way, she pressed my arm against her body and leaned toward my face. Her warm breath now began to feel unbearably heavy to me. Yet I did not resist. I had never learned to resist anyone in my life. The only thing I could do was run away, and even that I couldn’t do now—she would catch me in three steps. At the same time, that encounter had stunned me. The alcohol was wearing off, and I tried to think coherently, to recall the eyes that had fixed on me and smiled just minutes earlier. But all of this now seemed like a dream, terrible visions my fevered mind had conjured up. No, I hadn’t seen her. I couldn’t have met her in such a situation. It was all a nightmare brought on by the woman beside me embracing me, kissing me, breathing in my face… I wanted to get home, throw myself into bed, fall asleep immediately, and escape these senseless delusions. But the woman had no intention of letting me go. The closer we got to the pension, the more exuberant her movements became, and her arm, strengthened by unappeased passion, squeezed me tighter.
On the stairs, she threw herself at my neck again. I freed myself with a quick move and dashed upstairs. She came running after me, shaking the stairs with her heavy body, panting and gasping. As I tried to insert the key into my door, Herr Döppke, the former colonial merchant, appeared at the other end of the hallway. He was walking slowly. I realized he had been waiting up for us, and I took a deep breath. Everyone at the pension knew that he harbored sweet intentions toward this widow, who was still quite well-off and in the full fire of her womanhood. It was even said that the woman was not entirely indifferent to these sincere feelings, and that she had certain plans for binding this robust bachelor, who kept his vigor despite being over fifty, with soft ties. The two friends paused for a moment when they met in the corridor. I quickly entered my room and locked the door from inside. A hushed conversation began outside and went on for a long time. The questions, asked cautiously, were answered without offense, and it seemed the explanations had a soothing effect on ears determined to believe. After a while, the footsteps and whispers moved toward the other end of the corridor and disappeared.
I fell asleep as soon as I got into bed. Toward morning, I had troubled dreams. The woman in the fur coat appeared in various forms, tormenting me with that terrible, crushing smile. I wanted to tell her something, to explain something, to justify myself, but I couldn’t. The sharp expression in her black eyes locked my jaws. The more I saw myself condemned by her unchangeable judgment, the more I writhed, sinking into deep despair. I woke up before dawn. My head ached. I lit the lamp and tried to read. The lines blurred before my eyes, and in the middle of the white pages, amid the mists, two black eyes appeared, silently and inwardly laughing at my wretchedness. Even though I knew that what I had seen the previous evening was only a hallucination, I couldn’t calm down. I got up, dressed, and went out into the street. It was a cold, damp Berlin morning. There was no one on the streets except delivery boys leaving milk, butter, and small loaves of bread at houses with handcarts. A few policemen at the corners were tearing down revolutionary posters pasted to the walls during the night. I walked along the canal toward the Tiergarten. Two swans glided on the still water, motionless as toys. The meadows and benches in the park were soaking wet. On one of the benches lay a crumpled newspaper and a few hairpins. Seeing them reminded me of the previous evening. Frau van Tiedemann must have dropped quite a few hairpins at the beer hall and on the streets; and now she was probably sleeping peacefully beside old Herr Döppke, her next-door neighbor, not thinking that she would have to get up before the maids woke and slip back into her own room.
I went to the factory earlier than usual and greeted the doorman very warmly. I was determined to throw myself into work with both hands and thus escape the distressing delusions born of idleness. I took lengthy notes in my notebook beside the soap vats where rose oil was added. I noted which factories manufactured the presses that stamped the soap. I already saw myself as the director of the large, modern soap factory I would set up in Havran. I imagined how the pink, egg-shaped soaps stamped “Mehmet Raif – Havran,” wrapped in soft, scented paper, would spread all over Turkey.
By noon, I noticed my distress had eased and I was beginning to see life in a rosier light. I realized how I had upset myself over such meaningless things, and I blamed it all on my daydreaming and my habit of withdrawing into myself and brooding. But from now on, I would change. I would also cut down on reading outside of professional books. What reason was there for a well-to-do young man like me not to be happy? My father’s olive groves, two factories in Havran, and a soap-making facility were waiting for me. I would buy out my sisters’ shares—they were both married to wealthy men—and live as a respected merchant in my hometown. The enemy had been driven from the homeland, and the national army had saved Havran. In his letters, my father grew ecstatic, stringing together one patriotic sentence after another. Even we, here at the embassy, had held a large gathering to celebrate the excitement of the victory. Occasionally, breaking from my usual silence, I would offer advice to Herr Döppke and the unemployed officers around him about how Germany could be saved, based on what I knew of the Anatolian campaign… So there was nothing to be upset about. Why should a meaningless—or even meaningful—painting, a novel built on imaginary events, play a role in my life? No, from now on I would change completely.
Yet, when evening came and darkness fell, a pointless melancholy settled over me. I decided to eat out so I wouldn’t have to face Frau van Tiedemann at dinner, and I drank two double beers. But despite all my efforts, my earlier optimism would not return. There seemed to be something constantly pressing and crushing around my heart. Hoping a walk in the open air would lift this foul mood, I quickly paid the bill. Outside, a fine rain was falling, and the sky was overcast. The red reflection of the city’s many lights could be seen on the low clouds above. I came to the wide, long street called Kurfürstendamm. Here the sky seemed even brighter, and even the raindrops falling from hundreds of feet above were stained an orange color. The street was lined with cabarets, cinemas, and theaters. Despite the rain, people were strolling along the sidewalks without a care, their composure intact. I walked slowly, thinking about random, disconnected things. It was as if I wanted to push away a thought that kept insisting on coming to my mind. I read every sign, examined every neon advertisement. I walked up and down this street, which stretched for miles, several times like that. Then I turned right and headed toward Wittenberg Square.
Here, on the pavement in front of the big store called KaDeWe, some young men wearing red boots and makeup like women were walking around, looking at passersby with inviting eyes. I took out my watch. It was past eleven. Time had moved on that much. My pace suddenly quickened, and I headed toward Nollendorf Square, which was nearby. This time I knew exactly where I was going. The previous night, I had encountered the Madonna in a Fur Coat there, around this very time. The square was empty. A policeman was pacing in front of the large theater building on the south side. I entered the street that faced me and came to the spot where, the night before, Frau van Tiedemann and I had stood entwined. As if the person I was looking for might suddenly appear, I fixed my eyes on the lamppost ahead. Despite having told myself so many times that what I saw the previous night was an illusion, a drunken delusion, here I was now, waiting for her—that woman, or perhaps that illusion. The structure I had built up since morning had crumbled into dust. I was still the same as before: far from the world, always a plaything of my own imaginings and my inner world.
Just then, I saw a person crossing the square and coming toward the street where I was standing. I hid in the doorway of one of the houses and waited. When I peeked out, I recognized the woman in the fur coat approaching with short, firm steps. This time there was no mistake. I wasn’t drunk. The dry sound of her shoes echoed off the houses on both sides of the quiet street. My heart began to ache as if it were shrinking, and to beat with terrible speed. The footsteps were very close now. I leaned against the door, my back to the street, pretending to fumble with the lock as if I were about to open it and go inside. When the footsteps stopped right behind me, I made a great effort not to fall or cry out, and I grabbed the wall beside me. The woman continued on her way. I stepped out from my hiding place and began to follow her very closely, afraid of losing sight of her again. I hadn’t seen her face. Even though I had been so afraid of meeting her, now I was walking five or six steps behind her. If I was so anxious about her seeing me that I looked for a place to hide, why had I come here and waited for her? And now why was I following her? Was it really even her? What made me assume that a woman who passed through a street at a certain hour one night would necessarily pass the same way the next night? I wasn’t capable of answering any of these questions. I followed her with a palpitation that never lessened, and the more I thought about the possibility of her suddenly turning around and seeing me, the more excited I became. My head bowed, I walked, seeing nothing but the asphalt pavement, following her footsteps. Suddenly, the footsteps stopped. I froze in place. I bowed my head even lower and waited, like a condemned man. She didn’t say anything. Only after a few seconds did I notice that the spot where I stood was brighter than the rest of the street.
Slowly, I raised my eyes. The woman was nowhere to be seen. A few steps ahead, there was a fairly famous cabaret with its entrance brightly lit with electric lights. The word “Atlantic,” written in blue bulbs on a large sign that jutted out onto the street, flashed on and off, and below the lettering were more bulb-formed shapes that looked like ocean waves. A man nearly two meters tall, in a gold-trimmed uniform and red cap, standing at the door, bowed and invited me inside. “Welcome,” he said. There was a very meaningful smile on his face. The thought suddenly crossed my mind that this woman might be a regular customer here. Her coming at the same time every evening suggested it. Taking a deep, relieved breath, I took off my coat and entered the hall.
Inside, it was crowded. In the center, in a sunken area, was a round dance floor. Across from it was an orchestra, and along the sides were high, secluded booths. More than half of these booths had their curtains drawn. The couples inside occasionally came out to dance, then re-entered their booths and pulled the curtains shut. I took a seat in one that seemed to be unoccupied. I ordered a beer. My palpitations had passed. I looked around leisurely. I hoped to find her—the woman in the fur coat, the one who had kept me awake for weeks—sitting at one of these tables with some young or old rake, and that seeing how this woman, to whom I had given such great importance and such deep meaning, put herself on display would cure me of all my empty fantasies. She wasn’t at the tables around the dance floor. She must have entered one of the booths. I felt myself smile bitterly. I was angry at myself for persisting in seeing people as something other than what they were. Even at twenty-four, I still hadn’t freed myself from the naivete of my childhood. What excessive impressions a simple, even perhaps not beautiful, painting had made on me, what vast hopes it had stirred! I had attributed so much meaning to that pale human face, enough to fill books, and I had found in it qualities that did not actually exist.