Kürk Mantolu Madonna Read online

  ‘Yes, I did. Do you mind?’

  ‘What kind of question is that? Thank you.’

  ‘Oof! You are always thanking me for everything.’

  ‘In the East we are polite in that way … Do you know what I was thinking? How that man just kissed you and I wasn’t even jealous.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘And I’m curious to know why I wasn’t.’

  We looked at each other for a while. We searched each other’s eyes, but this time with trust.

  ‘Tell me a little about yourself,’ she said.

  I nodded to let her know I would. Earlier in the day I’d stored up so many things to tell her. But now I couldn’t remember a single one. My mind was spinning with new thoughts. Finally, I just started talking. In no particular order, I told her about my childhood and my years of military service, and the books I had read and the dreams I had held dear. I told her about Fahriye, the girl next door, and all the bandits I’d met after the war. I shared with her things I had until now shared with no one, or even admitted to myself. I was unburdening my very soul. This being the first time I had ever tried to explain myself, I wanted to be utterly candid, hiding nothing. But in my zeal to tell the whole truth, I put too much emphasis on my shortcomings, thereby distorting it.

  The floodgates had opened. My memories and emotions, suppressed for so long, came rushing through. When I saw how intently she was listening and reading my face for what I couldn’t put into words, I opened up even more. Sometimes she would nod approvingly. At other times, she was open-mouthed with surprise. When I became overly agitated, she caressed my hand. When there was a note of reproach in my voice, she smiled at me with compassion.

  At one point I stopped talking, as if propelled by some unknown force. I looked at my watch. It was nearly eleven. The tables around us were empty. I leapt from my seat. ‘You’re going to be late for work!’ I cried.

  She gathered up her things. Squeezing my hands more tightly than before, she rose from her chair. ‘You’re right,’ she said. As she adjusted her beret, she added: ‘What a beautiful conversation we’ve had!’

  I walked her to the Atlantic. We hardly spoke along the way. We were both lost in thought, as we tried to understand what to make of our evening. As we approached our destination, a shiver ran through me.

  ‘Because of me, you weren’t able to go home for your fur coat. You’ll catch a cold.’

  ‘Because of you? That’s true … because of you … but I am the one to blame … At any rate, it doesn’t matter … let’s just walk faster.’

  ‘Shall I wait for you and walk you home?’

  ‘No, no … no need for that … We’ll meet tomorrow.’

  ‘As you like.’

  Maybe she was snuggling closer to me because she was cold. Outside the door that once again spelled Atlantic in electric bulbs, she stopped and held out her hand. It was as if she were wrestling with an idea. Then she pulled me over to the wall. Though she brought her face close to mine, she kept her eyes fixed on the pavement, and in a rushed whisper she asked: ‘So you’re not jealous of me then? Do you really like me that much?’

  Now she looked up to gaze curiously into my eyes. I felt my chest tighten and my throat go dry, for no words could express my feelings. I was afraid that every word, indeed, every sound I uttered, might cloud those feelings and rob me of this bliss. Now there was a little fear in her expression. As I sank into despair, tears welled in my eyes. That’s when her expression relaxed a little. She closed her eyes for a moment, as if to listen more closely. Then, taking my head in her hands, she kissed me on the mouth for the first time. A moment later, she had turned away to slip through the door of the club.

  I rushed back to the pension. I needed time to think, to reflect on all that had passed. My precious memories of the night just gone were in need of a sanctuary, far from the noise of everyday recollection. In the same way that I had, only moments earlier, not dared say a word, lest it tear my sublime joy asunder, I now feared that the rough and tumble of my imagination would destroy the harmony I still felt inside me.

  The pension’s dark stairwell now seemed quite charming and the corridor’s stale air almost sweet.

  From then on, I met Maria Puder every day. Together we wandered about the city. We almost never ran out of things to say to one another after that first night. If we talked about the people and vistas we saw along the way, it was because they offered us a chance to expand on our ideas and determine what we had in common. This intimacy came from thinking alike; in truth, it came from accepting one side of an idea while preparing to pay the price demanded by the other. But isn’t this how souls come together, by holding another’s every idea to be true and making it their own?

  Mostly we visited galleries and museums. She offered instruction on the old masters and contemporary art, and we had heated discussions about their value. We returned to the botanical gardens several times and twice we went to the opera in the evening. But it was difficult for her to leave such a place by half past ten, so we stopped going. Then one day she said: ‘It’s not just a matter of bad timing, but there are other reasons I don’t want to go to the opera. Singing in the Atlantic after leaving such a place feels so absurd, and so vulgar.’

  I now spent only my mornings at the factory. I hardly ever saw the others in the pension. Occasionally Frau Heppner would latch onto me, saying: ‘You seem to have let someone snap you up!’ I would just smile, and leave it at that. I was particularly keen to keep Frau van Tiedemann from finding out. Maria would have seen nothing wrong in it, but I suppose that, being from Turkey, I felt the need for discretion.

  Yet there was really nothing for us to hide. Since that first evening, our friendship remained within the agreed boundaries, with neither of us ever referring to that interlude in front of the Atlantic. In the beginning it was curiosity that kept us talking. We were always looking for new things in each other. Over time, curiosity gave way to habit. If, for whatever reason, we couldn’t see each other for a few days, we’d begin to miss each other. When at last we met, we would walk down the streets hand in hand, as happy as children who’d been kept apart too long. How I loved her! I had opened my heart to the world I saw in her. Clearly she liked me too, and wanted to be with me. But she never allowed our relationship to progress. One day, when we were strolling through the Grunewald Forest on the outskirts of Berlin, she threw her arm around my neck and leaned against me, her hand dangling over my shoulder. She was drawing little circles in the air with her finger. On a whim I grabbed her hand and I kissed her palm. Straight away she pulled away, softly but with clear intent. Nothing was said. We carried on walking. But the message was clear enough to stop me from ever losing control of myself like that again. Sometimes we would talk about love. It was strangely dispiriting to hear how easily she could examine it from a distance. Yes, I had agreed to all of her conditions, and accepted them all. Nevertheless, I sometimes contrived to bring the discussion back to us. On these occasions we would analyse our friendship. In my opinion, love was not an absolute category. There were many kinds of love, just as there were many ways in which people could show their affection for one another. The name and the shape changed to fit the circumstances. In denying the love between a man and a woman its true name, we were deceiving ourselves.

  Whereupon Maria wagged her finger and laughed: ‘Oh no, my friend, no,’ she said. ‘Love is nothing like the simple compassion you describe, and neither is it a passion that comes and goes. It is something altogether different, something that defies analysis. And we are never to know where it comes from, or where it goes on the day it disappears. Whereas friendship is constant and built on understanding. We can see where it started and know why it falls apart. But love gives no reasons. So think about it. There are many people in this world that we like. I, for example, have several dear friends. (I might say that the esteemed gentleman comes top of the list.) Now am I in love with all of these people?’

  I continued to pres
s my point: ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘You are a little in love with all those people you care for.’

  Maria’s answer was not what I was expecting. ‘So then why did you tell me that you weren’t jealous?’

  Unsure of what to say, I thought for a time before saying: ‘If a person truly has the ability to love, then he can never monopolize his beloved. And neither can his beloved monopolize him. The more he spreads his love, the more he adores his one and only true love. When love spreads, it does not diminish.’

  ‘I thought Easterners thought differently about these things.’

  ‘That’s how I think about it.’

  For a time, she stared into the distance, lost in thought, before saying: ‘For me, love is something else entirely. It’s beyond all logic and impossible to describe or define. It’s one thing to like someone. To be consumed, body and soul, by desire is quite another. That’s what love is to me – desire that’s all-consuming. Desire that’s impossible to resist!’

  Speaking more confidently now – as if I’d caught her out – I said: ‘What you’re talking about is the moment. The moment that the love already inside you comes, through mysterious forces, to concentrate its full force on a single point. Just as warm sunlight can, by passing through a lens, turn to fire, so too can love. It’s wrong to see it as something that swoops in from outside. It’s because it arises from the feelings we carry inside us that it strikes us with such violence, at the moment we least expect.’

  This particular discussion ended there, but we returned to the subject later. I’d come to the idea that neither of us was 100 per cent right. Hard as we might try to be open with one another, it was clear that we were driven by a host of other thoughts and desires that we did not begin to understand. While we agreed on a great deal, there were things about which we disagreed, and where we could agree to disagree, in deference to a larger goal. We were not afraid to reveal to each other the most secret corners of our souls and then quarrel. All the same, there were areas we left untouched, if only because we had no idea what they were. But I sensed their importance.

  Having never known such intimacy before, I was desperate to protect it. And perhaps what I desired most was to possess her wholly and absolutely, body and soul, but I was so fearful of losing what I already had that I did not dare look away from it. I was, in effect, watching the most beautiful bird in all creation and keeping perfectly still for fear of frightening it away with a sudden movement.

  But a dark thought still haunted me – that this stillness might, in the end, be more damaging than fearful hesitation. That it might stall what was alive between us, until it was as cold as stone: with every step not taken, we would be taking one step further apart from each other. Though these fears burned in silence, they troubled me more with every day.

  But to behave differently I would have had to be another person. I knew I was going around in circles, but I had no idea how I might get to the heart of the matter, for I did not know what or where it was. I was no longer shy, no longer retiring. No longer did I shun company. I was willing, perhaps to an extreme, to be my true self, for all to see: but always on condition that I left the heart of the matter untouched.

  I am not sure how capable I was then of thinking about all this with any clarity or depth. It’s only now that I can go back to that time and see myself as I was twelve years ago and come to these conclusions. Time has likewise allowed me to think again about Maria.

  I knew then that she was prey to a host of conflicting moods. Some days she was listless, even cold. Some days she would be bursting with energy, showing me such fervent interest as to take my breath away, and even provoking me. But then it would pass, and we would go back to being friends. Like me, she could see that we had arrived at an impasse and that we might be stuck there for ever. But though she did not find in me what she desired, there were things in me she cherished enough to refrain from doing anything that might push me away.

  Fearful of what might happen, lest these warring emotions came out into the light, we kept them hidden deep inside our hearts. Thus we went back to being two dear friends – always seeking each other out, always looking for new ways to please each other, and always the richer for it.

  Then suddenly everything changed, setting us on an entirely new course. It was towards the end of December. For Christmas her mother went to the outskirts of Prague to visit distant relatives. Maria was pleased.

  ‘Nothing in the world tries my patience more than those pine trees decked out in candles and stars,’ she said. ‘It’s not because I’m a Jew. Considering that I find these meaningless rituals utterly ridiculous, and the people who find joy in them even more so, it goes without saying that I don’t have any time for Judaism either, or its strange and unnecessary rules and rituals. In any case, my pure-blooded German mother is a Protestant. She’s only attached to these rituals because she’s old. If she calls me an atheist these days, it’s not because she gives any great importance to the rules of religion, but because she’s worried I might rob her of her final years of peace.’

  ‘Don’t you find anything special about New Year?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘How is it different from any other day? Was it distinguished by nature for any particular reason? And how important is it to mark the passing of another year? That’s not nature’s work either – it’s a human fabrication. The road we embark on the day we are born is the road we travel until the day we die, and however we choose to divide it up, it’s pure artifice. But let’s leave philosophy to one side and go somewhere for New Year’s, if that’s what you want … My work at the Atlantic finishes before midnight, to make room for all their special attractions. So we can go out together and get drunk like everybody else … It’s good to go wild every once in a while and get lost in the crowd … What do you say? After all, we’ve never danced together.’

  ‘No, never.’

  ‘I actually don’t really enjoy dancing, but sometimes the person I’m dancing with does and so I find a way to bear it.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’ll like it.’

  ‘Neither am I … but never mind, friendship is all about making sacrifices.’

  On New Year’s Eve we had dinner together, lingering at the table until it was time for her to go to work; when we got to the Atlantic she went backstage to change, whereupon I took myself over to my old table. The hall was festooned with streamers, tinsel and gaudy lanterns. Most of the customers looked as if they were already drunk. They were traipsing across the dance floor, kissing and groping. It all left me feeling strangely depressed.

  ‘So what’s all the fuss,’ I thought to myself. ‘Really, what was so special about this night in particular? We make things up to suit what we need to believe. It would be better if everyone just went home and got into bed. What are we supposed to do? Hug each other and go home like all the rest? With one big difference: we aren’t going to kiss … I wonder if I can even remember how to dance?’

  During my months at the Academy of Fine Arts in Istanbul, a few of my friends had taken dance lessons from the White Russians who were everywhere in the city at that time, and from them I’d learned a few steps. Indeed, I’d come close to mastering a certain kind of waltz … But how could I be sure of pulling that off tonight, after more than a year and a half? ‘You fool,’ I said to myself. ‘You’ll never make it through an entire dance.’

  Maria’s act ended sooner than I expected, and then all hell broke loose. Each customer had a different idea of what they wanted to see next. As soon as Maria had changed, we moved on to a large establishment called the Europa, opposite the Anhalter train station. This was a far cry from the small and intimate Atlantic. As far as the eye could see, there were hundreds of couples swirling around a massive dance floor. The tables were covered with bottles of all colours. Some people were already asleep, heads lolling or resting in another’s lap.

  Maria seemed strangely agitated. Punching me in the arm, she said: ‘If I’d known that you were just go
ing to sit here and mope, I would have asked another young man to escort me.’

  I was astonished to see how quickly she knocked back the glasses of the deliciously dry Rhein wine that they kept bringing to our table. She insisted that I do the same.

  It was after midnight that the place went truly wild. The air rang with shouts and laughter as the band belted out one old waltz after another, and the dancers swept across the floor. Here it was, in all its starkness: the frenetic jubilation of a country no longer at war. And how they saddened me, these emaciated creatures with their protruding cheekbones and glimmering eyes, which seemed to me to be possessed by a dreadful malady! These young men, giving themselves over to an unbounded exuberance. These young women, so convinced they were rebelling against society as they surrendered to sexual desire.

  Putting yet another glass in my hand, Maria whispered: ‘Raif, Raif. This won’t do at all … Can’t you see how hard I’m trying to avoid sinking into despair? Just let it go. Better to slip out of our skins for just one night. Imagine that we are no longer ourselves. We are two other people, lost in this great crowd. Take a good look around you – are any of these people really what they seem to be? Let me tell you what I won’t stand for: being the odd ones out. Pretending to be the only ones with brains for fine feelings. Time to drink and be merry!’

  She was, I could see, well on her way to being drunk. She’d been sitting across from me, but now Maria came around the table to sit beside me, draping an arm over my shoulder. My heart was pounding. I might have been a bird caught in lime. I noticed, too, that she thought I was upset. But nothing could be further from the truth. I was, if anything, taking my happiness too seriously: I was, one might say, too happy to smile.

  They were playing another waltz. Leaning over, I whispered: ‘Let’s dance then. But I’m really not very good …’

  Pretending she hadn’t heard the second half of my sentence she leapt up at once: ‘Let’s dance!’