Madonna in a Fur Coat Read online

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You aren’t going to look for me in the Atlantic again … that’s what we agreed.’

  ‘Yes. Tomorrow we can meet during the day.’

  ‘Where?’

  I stared at her stupidly. I hadn’t thought of that. In a plaintive little voice, I asked: ‘Is that why you called me back?’

  ‘Of course … You really are nothing like other men … The first thing they do is make sure they have everything pinned down. You just up and leave … The person you’re seeking doesn’t always just pop up wherever you want them to be, like tonight.’

  Now a terrible doubt overtook me. I wondered, fearfully, if all that lay ahead was an ordinary affair. I could never agree to that. I could never see the Madonna in a Fur Coat in that way. I would rather be dismissed as foolish and immature. Even so, the very thought made me sad … I imagined her laughing behind my back after I’d left – mocking my innocence and lack of courage. I imagined myself losing hope in everyone and everything and cutting myself off from the world for ever.

  But now my mind was at ease. How ashamed I was, to have entertained such impudent suspicions! How grateful I was to the friend who had chased them away! Drawing upon reserves I’d not known I had, I said, ‘You are an exceptional woman.’

  ‘Don’t rush to conclusions … With someone like me, you need to be cautious.’

  I took her hands in mine and kissed them. Most probably tears were welling up in my eyes. For a moment she came closer, almost close enough to embrace. Seeing the warm glow in her eyes, I thought my heart might stop. Heaven was only centimetres away. But then, suddenly stern, she pulled her hands away and stood up straight. ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘On Lützow Street.’

  ‘So you aren’t far from here … Why don’t you come and pick me up here tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘Which apartment do you live in?’

  ‘I’ll wait for you at the window. There’s no need for you to come up.’

  Turning the key in the door, she stepped inside.

  This time I hurried away quickly. My body had never felt lighter. I was guided by her image. I was murmuring something under my breath. What was it? Paying closer attention, I realized that I was saying her name over and over, and caressing her with sweet words. From time to time I couldn’t help myself and let out a quiet little laugh. By the time I’d reached the pension it was almost dawn.

  For the first time since childhood, I drifted off to sleep without meditating on the meaningless of existence and despairing of the day just passed, which had been no more than a repetition of the one before, and had led nowhere.

  The next day I stayed away from the factory. Towards half past two in the afternoon I made my way through the Tiergarten to Maria Puder’s apartment. I wondered if I was too early. I was reluctant to disturb her, knowing how tired she would be, after working so late into the night. My compassion for her knew no bounds. I imagined her lying in her bed, her hair spread out across her pillow, her breathing slow and deep, and it seemed to me that there could be no greater vision of happiness.

  All my life, I’d kept my heart closed. I had never known love. But now, all at once, the doors had flown open. My unspent passions had been released, to illuminate this one magnificent woman.

  I was only too aware that I still knew next to nothing about her. My judgements were formed of my own dreams and illusions. At the same time, I was absolutely sure that they would not deceive me.

  All my life, I’d been waiting for her. Searching for her. Scanning my surroundings for some sign of her. Bitter experience had given me second sight, and had it ever been wrong? Too often I had allowed reason and experience to cloud my judgement, for my first impressions were largely correct. I’d tell myself I had been too quick to judge. I’d make allowances, only to discover, sooner or later, that I’d been right in the first place, and wrong to have been swayed by external factors.

  Now Maria Puder was someone for whom I could set no conditions or requirements, if I was to live. At first it felt strange to accept this. How could I long so for someone whose existence I’d only just become aware of? But wasn’t it always like this? Some things we never know we need until we find them. And now, when I looked back on my life, it seemed empty and idle, if only because she’d not been in it. All my life, I’d shied away from human company, never sharing my thoughts with a soul. How pointless this seemed now, and how absurd! I’d thought that it was life itself that had ground me down – that my sadness stemmed from spiritual malaise. After spending two hours with a book, and finding it more pleasurable than two years of real life, I’d remember again that life had no meaning, and sink back into despair.

  But since first setting eyes on that painting, everything had changed. I’d lived more during the past two weeks than in all the years of my life put together. Every day, every hour, was full, even when I was asleep. It was not just my tired limbs that were coming to life. It was also my soul, revealing to me the sublime vista it had kept buried for so long. Maria Puder had taught me I had a soul. And now, overcoming a habit of a lifetime, I could see a soul in her. Of course, everyone else in the world was similarly endowed. But most would come into this world and leave it without even knowing what they had missed. A soul only came forward when it found its twin, when it felt no need to rely on mere words to explain itself … It was only then that we truly began to live – live with our soul. At that moment, all doubts and shame could be set aside. All rules could be broken, as two souls joined in embrace. All my inhibitions had disappeared. All I wanted was to pour out my heart to her, the good with the bad, the weaknesses with the strengths, holding nothing back, baring my soul. I had so much to say to her … enough to fill a lifetime. All my life, I’d been silent. Whenever I’d been tempted to speak, I’d quickly changed my mind. ‘Why bother?’ I’d say to myself. ‘What difference will it make if you speak?’ In the past, I’d been just as quick to let emotion get in the way – to decide, on slim evidence, that a certain person could never understand me. But this time, my first impressions stood fast: she would understand me perfectly.

  Skirting the southern side of the Tiergarten, I took my time, finally arriving at a canal. I could see Maria Puder’s house from the bridge. It had only just gone three. The sun was shimmering on the windowpanes: I couldn’t make out anyone behind them. So I leaned against the railing on the bridge and looked down at the still waters. Soon those same waters were quivering in a haze of raindrops. In the far distance, a barge was unloading fruit and vegetables, while a row of handcarts waited on the pier. Leaves fell from the trees that lined the canal, drawing spirals through the air. So much beauty in this dark and dreary scene! Oh, to breathe in this moist air! This was how life should be lived: attuned to nature, its every flutter and sway, while time moves inexorably forward. Rejoicing in every moment, finding a lifetime in each and every one, in the knowledge that these moments were revealing themselves to me as to no other. Never forgetting that there existed another with whom I could share all my thoughts. I just had to wait …

  What could be more uplifting than this? Soon we would be wandering down these wet roads together. Finding a dark and quiet place to sit down. Locking eyes. I had so much to tell her – things I had never even admitted to myself. Thoughts that had arrived only to flit away a moment later, to make room for the next. I would take her hands in mine and rub them warm. I would, with just one word, be at one with her.

  It was nearly half past three. I wondered if she was awake yet. Would it be right to go straight over to her house and wait there? She’d told me she’d look for me from the window. Would she guess I was waiting over here? Was she really planning to join me? I drove the doubt from my mind. Just to ask such a question betrayed a lack of trust, which was undeserved: I had built up an idea of her, only to want to kick it down. But now I was assailed by a thousand possibilities. Perhaps she had fallen ill. Perhaps she had already left the house on pressing business. That had to be it. It
wasn’t natural for happiness to arrive so suddenly. With every passing minute, my panic increased. My heart began to race. It happened only once in a lifetime – a night like that. It couldn’t be right to expect another. I was already looking for ways to console myself. I might have been unwise, I told myself, to take my life down a new path. For all I could see there was darkness. Wouldn’t it be easier to return to my old silence, my old numbing routine?

  I turned to see her walking towards me. She was wearing a thin raincoat, a lavender beret, low, heeled shoes, and a smile. She held out her hand.

  ‘Is this where you’ve been waiting for me? How long have you been here?’

  ‘An hour.’

  My voice was trembling. Taking this as a complaint, she teased me with a reproach: ‘You’re the one to blame for that, sir. I’ve been waiting for the last hour and a half. It was only just now that I managed to spot you. And then only by chance. It seems that you preferred to stay here, enjoying the poetry of nature, instead of coming to stand in front of my building!’

  So she had been waiting for me. Which meant I was important to her. I looked into her eyes. I might have been a kitten, being stroked: ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Why are you thanking me?’

  Then she put her arm in mine before I could answer: ‘Come on, let’s go.’

  With that, I surrendered myself. We set off at a brisk pace. I was afraid to ask where we were going. Neither of us spoke. And how I savoured that silence, even as I ate myself up, racking my brain for something to say. But my beautiful thoughts had deserted me. The more I searched for them, the more my mind emptied out, until it was nothing more than a throbbing, piteous piece of meat. But when I glanced over at her, I saw not a trace of agitation. She had her dark eyes fixed on the ground before her. Though stonily silent, there was the hint of a smile as she let her left hand fall on my arm. With her right hand she seemed to be pointing at something in the distance.

  I looked up at her face again. Her thick, wild eyebrows were furrowed. She was mulling something over. I could see thin blue veins in her eyelids. Her long black eyelashes were quivering, as tiny droplets of rain glimmered on their tips. Her hair was getting wet.

  Suddenly turning, she asked: ‘Why are you staring at me?’

  I had already asked myself the same question: how could I gaze at a woman with such open ease, when I had never done so before? And why, even after she had challenged me, was I bold enough to persist? I was even able to say: ‘Don’t you want me to look?’

  ‘No, it’s not that, I was just asking … Maybe I do want you to. Maybe that’s why I’m asking.’

  She looked at me meaningfully. Unable to bear the force of those dark eyes, I asked: ‘Are you originally German?’

  ‘Yes, why do you ask?’

  ‘You aren’t blonde and you haven’t got blue eyes.’

  ‘True enough.’

  Again, she almost smiled, but this time I sensed some hesitation.

  ‘My father was Jewish,’ she said. ‘My mother is German. But she’s not blonde either.’

  Curious, I asked: ‘So that means you’re Jewish?’

  ‘Yes … but I hope you don’t mind my asking. Are you an enemy of the Jews?’

  ‘Nothing of the sort … we don’t harbour that kind of animosity. But it hadn’t occurred to me that you might be Jewish.’

  ‘Yes, I’m Jewish. My father is from Prague. But he converted to Catholicism before I was even born.’

  ‘So you would call yourself Christian.’

  ‘No … I have nothing to do with religion.’

  We walked for some time. She had stopped talking. I had no more questions for her. Slowly we made our way to the outskirts of the city. I was beginning to wonder just where we were going. I didn’t suppose she’d be taking me on a country walk in this weather. The rain was still falling, at the same rate as before. At one point Maria said: ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Aren’t you curious?’

  ‘I’ll go wherever you take me … Wherever you like.’

  She turned to look at me. Her pale, moist face was like a white flower covered in dew: ‘How obedient you are … don’t you have any ideas of your own? Any desires?’

  I reminded her of what she’d said the night before: ‘You forbade me to ask anything of you.’

  She fell silent. I waited a few moments, before continuing: ‘Or didn’t you mean what you said last night? Or maybe you’ve changed your mind?’

  ‘No, no!’ she cried, with some vehemence. ‘I meant every word …’

  Then she fell back into thought. We had come to the front of a large garden surrounded by an iron fence.

  ‘Shall we go inside?’

  ‘What is this place?’

  ‘A botanical garden.’

  ‘It’s up to you.’

  ‘Well then, let’s go in … I always come here. Especially on rainy days like this.’

  There was no one inside. We spent some time wandering along the sandy paths. Despite the advanced season, they were lined on both sides by trees that still had their leaves. We passed ponds ringed by moss-flecked rocks and grassy banks and flowers of all colours. Large leaves floated on the surface of the water. Inside vaulting greenhouses were plants and trees from warmer climates. Gazing at their thick trunks and tiny leaves, Maria said: ‘This is the most beautiful place in Berlin. There are hardly any visitors at this time of year. It’s practically empty … and then these strange trees always remind me of all the faraway lands I long to see … I pity them, you know – for having been uprooted from their natural soil and brought here to be grown under artificial conditions, with such exacting care. Did you know that Berlin has only a hundred days of sun a year, and the remaining two hundred and sixty-five days are overcast? Can hothouses and artificial lighting ever be enough for leaves accustomed to so much heat and light? Somehow they survive. They manage not to wither away … but can we call this life? To take a living plant from its natural environment, and keep it in such awful confinement, just so a few enthusiasts can enjoy them … isn’t that a kind of torture?’

  ‘But aren’t you one of those enthusiasts?’

  ‘Yes, but every time I come here, I leave feeling desperately sad.’

  ‘Then why do you come at all?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  She sat down on a wet bench. I sat down beside her. Wiping the raindrops off her face, she said: ‘When I look at these plants, I end up thinking about myself a bit. Maybe they remind me of my ancestors, who lived in the same lands as these strange flowers and trees many centuries ago. Because weren’t we uprooted, just like they were? Banished from our lands, and sent to wander the world? They can’t mean the same to you, though … Truth is, they don’t mean that much to me … it’s just that they give the chance to think, and to imagine. You’ll see – I live more in my head than anywhere else. In comparison, my real life is a dull dream … You might find my work at the Atlantic depressing, but I myself have no fixed opinion … In fact, I sometimes even find it amusing … In any case, I took on the job because of my mother. I have to look after her and there is no way for me to support us on a few paintings a year … Have you ever tried your hand at painting?’

  ‘Just for a while!’

  ‘Why did you stop?’

  ‘I saw that I had no talent.’

  ‘That’s not possible … just from the way you were looking at the paintings in the gallery, I could tell that you do … Now you might have said that you saw that you lacked the courage. But it’s not done, is it, for a man to admit to such a thing … I’m talking about you now. Because I do have the courage. I want to make paintings that express how I see people, and sometimes I may even be successful. But that, too, is meaningless … There is no way for those I scorn to understand what I’ve done, while those who do understand are in any event above scorn. By this I mean to say that painting, like all arts, answers to no one – it falls short of its aspirations. In
spite of which it is the most important thing I do. That is why – that is the only reason why – I do not wish to live off my paintings. Because then I wouldn’t be doing what I wanted, but what people wanted of me … never … never … I would rather sell my body on the street … because for me, it has no importance …’

  She punched my knee hard. ‘And so that’s the way it is, my dear friend. In the end, we’re no different. You were there last night when that drunkard kissed my back, weren’t you? Why wouldn’t he … he has every right … he’s spending money … and they say that my back is very enticing … Would you like to kiss it, too? Do you have the money?’

  I sat there, tongue-tied. I was blinking furiously and biting my lips. Noticing this, Maria frowned. Her face seemed paler than ever. ‘No, Raif, I don’t want it … anything but this … If there’s one thing I cannot bear, it’s pity … The moment I see you pitying me is the moment I say goodbye … you’ll never see my face again …’

  Seeing how shocked I was – seeing that I was the one to be pitied just then, she put her hand on my shoulder. ‘Don’t take this personally,’ she said. ‘It’s just that we shouldn’t shy away from speaking openly about things that could hurt our relationship later. It’s at times like this that cowardice can be damaging … What will come of it? If we find we cannot get along, then we’ll just say goodbye and go our separate ways … Where’s the tragedy in that? The essence of life is in solitude – wouldn’t you agree? All unions are built on falsehood. People can only get to know each other up to a point and then they make up the rest, until one day, seeing their mistake, they turn their backs on sadness and run away. Would this ever happen, if they stopped believing in their dreams and made do with what was possible? If everyone accepted what was natural, then no one would suffer disappointment, no one would curse fate. We have every right to see our situation as pitiful, but we must confine our pity to ourselves. To pity another is to assume superiority and that is why we must never think we are superior to others, or that others are more unfortunate … Shall we go?’