Kürk Mantolu Madonna

  I raced back to the hotel. The coffee-house gramophone was no longer playing, and the Syrian woman no longer singing. My friend was lying in bed, reading a book. He threw me a glance. ‘What’s up? Back from a night of debauchery, are you?’

  How easily people can read each other! … And there I was, trying so hard to penetrate someone else’s mind, to find out if the soul hiding inside it was ordered or in turmoil. For even the most wretched and simple-minded man could be a surprise, even a fool could have a soul whose torments were a constant source of amazement. Why are we so slow to see this, and why do we assume that it is the easiest thing in the world to know and judge another? Why, when we are reluctant even to describe a wedge of cheese we are seeing for the first time, do we draw our final conclusions from our first encounters with people, and happily dismiss them?

  For a long time I couldn’t get to sleep. I kept thinking of Raif Efendi, feverish inside his white sheets, in a room thick with the scent of his daughters’ young bodies and his wife’s tired limbs. His eyes were closed, and who could say where his soul was roaming?

  This time Raif Efendi’s illness lasted a long time. It was more than his usual cold. The doctor Nurettin Bey called in prescribed mustard paste and cough syrup. I dropped by once every two or three days, and each time his condition seemed to have worsened. But this didn’t seem to worry him. He just shrugged it off. Perhaps this was to avoid upsetting his family. But it was the opposite with Mihriye Hanım and Necla. Their behaviour was most disquieting. His wife’s long years of drudgery seemed to have robbed the woman of the ability to think: she wandered in a daze from room to room, dropping towels and plates as she rubbed mustard paste on his back; she was always misplacing things and walking around in circles looking for them. I can still see her racing in all directions, her bare feet rippling out of her flat, bent slippers. I can still feel her beseeching eyes on me. Necla was as bereft, and as desperately lost, as her mother. She was staying home from school to sit with her father. When I came to see the patient in the evening, I could tell from her red, swollen eyes that she had been crying. But Raif Bey seemed to find all this annoying. If ever we were left alone, he’d complain about it. Once he even said: ‘Honestly! What’s going on with these two? Am I on the brink of death? And what if I did die? What would they care? What am I to them?’

  Later, in a voice that was even more pained, even more cruel, he added: ‘I’m nothing to them … and I never have been. For years, we’ve lived in the same house … never once did they ask themselves who this man was they shared their life with … and now they’re worried I’m going to leave them …’

  ‘Raif Bey! Please!’ I cried. ‘What are you saying? Yes, they do seem unusually anxious, but it’s not right to talk like that about your wife and your daughter!’

  ‘Yes. They’re my wife and my daughter. But nothing more …’ He turned his head away. Mystified by his last words, I dared not ask a thing.

  To bring calm to the family, Nurettin Bey called in an expert in internal medicine. After a long examination, this man diagnosed pneumonia and, seeing the shock he had caused, he said: ‘Look here, my dear people. It’s nothing serious. He has a strong constitution and a heart in good working condition. He’ll come out of it. There’s just one thing he has to watch out for. He mustn’t catch a chill. It would be better if you took him to hospital!’

  Hearing the word hospital, Mihriye Hanım lost control of herself. Collapsing into one of the chairs in the hallway, she began to sob. While Nurettin Bey screwed up his face, as if his pride had been piqued. ‘Where’s the logic in that?’ he said. ‘He’s likely to get better care at home than in a hospital!’

  The doctor shrugged his shoulders and left.

  At first Raif Efendi was in favour of going into hospital, saying: ‘At least there I might be able to hear myself think!’ It was clear that he wanted to be alone, but when he saw how much the others were set against it, he gave up. Smiling hopelessly, he murmured, ‘They wouldn’t leave me in peace there either!’

  One day in particular stays with me. It was a Friday evening, and I was sitting on a chair next to Raif Efendi, saying nothing and watching his wheezing chest. There was no one else in the room. A large pocket watch sitting among the medicines on his bedside table filled the room with its metallic ticking. Opening his sunken eyes, the patient said: ‘I’m feeling a little better today!’

  ‘Of course you are. It was never going to go on like this for ever …’

  Whereupon, in an aggrieved voice, he said: ‘Fine, but how much longer will this go on?’

  Catching his true meaning, I was filled with dread. The weariness in his voice left me in no doubt as to what he meant.

  ‘Please, Raif Bey, can you tell me what’s happened?’ I asked.

  Looking straight into my eyes, he said: ‘Fine then. But what’s the point? Isn’t this enough?’

  At this point Mihriye Hanım came into the room. Coming over to me, she said: ‘He’s feeling better today! It looks like he’s going to pull through, thank God!’

  Then she turned to her husband. ‘We’re sending out the washing. Could you ask this gentleman to bring back your towel?’

  Raif Efendi nodded in good time. After going through a few drawers, the woman left the room. The slightest improvement in the patient had chased away all her worries. Now she was her old self, busy with housework, cooking and laundry. Like all simple people, she could go in an instant from sorrow to happiness, and excitement to calm, and like all women she forgot things quickly.

  In Raif Efendi’s eyes, I could see a deep and sorrowful smile. Nodding at the jacket hanging from the foot of his bed, he said: ‘In the right-hand pocket, you’ll find a key. Take it with you, and open up the top drawer in my desk. And bring back the towel my wife just asked for … It’s a lot to ask, but …’

  ‘I’ll bring it tomorrow morning!’

  Fixing his eyes on the ceiling, he was silent for a time. Then suddenly he turned towards me. ‘Bring me everything you find in that drawer! Whatever you find there … My wife seems to know that I’m never going back to that office. I’m bound for other parts …’

  With that, he buried his face in his pillow.

  The next day, before leaving the office, I went over to Raif Efendi’s desk. There were three drawers, on the right-hand side. First I opened the two on the bottom. One was empty, and the other was full of papers and rough translations. Putting the key into the lock of the top drawer, a chill went through me. For now I realized I was sitting in the chair that Raif Efendi had occupied for many long years, and doing something he himself had done several times each day. Quickly, I opened the drawer. It was almost empty. Nothing but a dirty-looking towel, a bar of soap wrapped up in newspaper, the lid of a food container, a fork and a threaded Singer penknife. I wrapped these up quickly. I stood up and closed the drawer, but at that moment I thought I should make sure there wasn’t anything else in there, so I opened it up again and reached into the back. And there, in the drawer’s furthest reaches, was something that felt like a notebook. I tossed that in with the rest of it and hurried away. I couldn’t stop thinking that Raif Efendi might never sit in that chair, or open that drawer, again.

  Arriving at the house, I found the household in turmoil. It was Necla who opened the door, and when she saw me she shook her head and said, ‘Don’t even ask!’ I had become one of the family by now, and no one thought to treat me like a stranger. The young girl said: ‘My father’s taken a turn for the worse again! Actually, he had two bad turns today. My uncle called the doctor, and he’s in there with him now … giving him an injection …’ With that, she ran off into the sickroom.

  I did not follow her inside. Instead I sat down on one of the chairs in the hallway, with my package sitting before me. Though Mihriye Hanım came out a few times, I felt too ashamed to hand the sorry thing over to her. Inside that room a man was fighting for his life, and it didn’t seem right for me to give any member of his family a dirty t
owel and an old fork. So I stood up and began pacing around the big table. Glancing into the mirror above the glass cabinet, I was given another shock. I looked jaundiced. My heart began to pound. The struggle across the great bridge between life and death was a terrifying thing indeed. With his wife, his daughters and his relatives gathered around him, it seemed to me that I had no right to show more sorrow and attachment than they.

  Just then my eye was drawn to a crack in the door to the sitting room. Moving closer, I saw Raif Efendi’s brothers-in-law Vedat and Cihat. They were sitting side by side on a sofa, smoking. They were thoroughly put out, these two: clearly frustrated at being confined to the house, they had banded together. Nurten was sitting in an armchair, her head resting on her arms: crying, or perhaps sleeping. Some way away, Raif Efendi’s sister-in law Ferhunde was sitting with her two children on her lap, trying to stop them making too much noise, but every word she uttered and everything she did showed what a novice she was when it came to consoling a child.

  The door to the sickroom opened and out came the doctor with Nurettin behind him. For all his nonchalance, he still looked disgruntled.

  ‘Don’t leave his side,’ said the doctor. ‘And if he has another seizure, give him one of those injections.’

  Nurettin Bey frowned. ‘Is he in danger?’

  The doctor said what all doctors say in such circumstances. ‘It’s hard to say.’

  To avoid further questions, and, even more, to save himself from being harassed by the invalid’s wife, he quickly donned his coat and hat; taking the three silver liras from Nurettin Bey, he grimaced and left the house.

  Slowly I approached the sickroom door. I peered inside. Mihriye Hanım and Necla were standing over Raif Efendi, watching him with apprehension. He had his eyes closed. When the young girl caught sight of me, she beckoned me over. What both she and her mother wanted, it seemed, was to see how I responded when I saw my friend. Seeing that, I did everything in my power to keep myself under control. I nodded affably, as if I were fine with what I saw. Then I turned to my left. There they were, huddled together. I forced a smile. ‘There’s nothing to fear, most probably. With God’s help, he’ll pull through.’

  My friend opened his eyes a crack. For a moment he looked at me, but without recognition. Then, with great effort, he turned to his wife and daughter. He whispered a few words that made no sense to me. Screwing up his face, he tried to point at something.

  Necla went over to him. ‘Do you need something, dear father?’

  ‘Go on, now. Go on outside for a while.’ His voice was weak and hoarse.

  Mihriye Hanım gestured for me to leave with her and the girl. But when the patient saw her doing this, he reached and grabbed my wrist, and said: ‘You stay here!’

  His wife and daughter seemed surprised. ‘Be careful, dear father! Keep your arms under the covers!’

  Raif Efendi nodded hastily, as if to say, ‘I know! I know!’ Then once again, he gestured for them to leave.

  Then he pointed at the package that I was still holding, even though I’d forgotten all about it. ‘Did you bring everything?’

  At first I just looked at him. I didn’t understand what he meant. Was I perhaps wondering why he was making so much of these things? My friend was still staring at me, his eyes bright with anxiety.

  Only then did I remember the famous black notebook. I hadn’t even bothered to open it up, or wonder about its contents. It had never occurred to me that Raif Efendi might own such a thing.

  Tearing open the package, I left the towel and the other bits on a chair behind the door. Picking up the notebook, I took it over to Raif Efendi. ‘Is this what you wanted?’

  He nodded.

  Slowly I leafed through it, as curiosity overtook me. The large and disordered scrawl across its ruled pages spoke of a great haste. I glanced at the first page. There was no title. On the right there was a date: 20 June 1933. Just below it was this line: ‘Something strange happened to me yesterday, and it swept me back to that time I thought I’d left behind for ever …’

  I did not read what followed. Raif Efendi had again taken his arm out from under the blankets to take my hand. ‘Don’t read it!’ he said. Nodding towards the other side of the room, he whispered: ‘Throw it in there!’

  I turned to look. Behind a sheet of mica I saw the glowing red eyes of a stove.

  ‘You want me to burn it?’

  ‘Yes!’

  I was more curious than ever. I could not, would not, let my hands destroy Raif Efendi’s notebook.

  ‘What good would that do, Raif Bey?’ I said instead. ‘Wouldn’t it be a shame? What would be the point of destroying a notebook that served as your friend and companion over many long years?’

  ‘It no longer serves any purpose!’ he said, and again he nodded towards the stove. ‘It’s no longer of any use!’

  I could see then that there was no talking him out of it. He had, I imagined, poured the soul he’d hidden from us all into these pages, and now he wanted to take it with him.

  I looked at this man who wished to leave nothing of himself behind, who, even as he moved towards death, wished to take his loneliness with him. And I wished him everlasting mercy. My own bond with him would last just as long.

  ‘I understand, Raif Bey!’ I said. ‘I understand only too well. You are right to hold back everything that’s yours. You’re also right to want to destroy this notebook … but can’t you wait just one more day?’

  With his eyes, he asked me why.

  To press my case one last time, I moved closer. I looked into his eyes, hoping that my own would express the love and affection I felt for him.

  ‘Could you not leave this notebook with me for a single night? We’ve been friends for a long time now, and you’ve never told me a single thing about yourself … Do you really find it strange that I might wish to know more? Do you still feel the need to hide so much from me? To me, you are the most precious person in the world … But even so, you want to see me the same way you see everyone else – as a nobody – and abandon me?’

  My eyes were filled with tears. My chest was heaving, but still I went on. It was as if all the resentments that had accumulated over many months had to come out all at once: ‘You may be right to have no confidence in others. But can’t there be exceptions? Can’t there? Don’t forget, you’re human, too … You’re being selfish, and for nothing!’

  There I stopped, thinking this was no way to talk to a man who was gravely ill. He, too, was silent. So I made one last attempt: ‘Raif Bey, please try and understand me! I am just embarking on the journey that you are close to finishing. I want to understand people. Most of all I want to understand what people did to you.’

  With a violent shake of the head, he cut me short. He was whispering something. I leaned forward, close enough to feel his breath on my face.

  ‘No! No!’ he said. ‘No one did anything to me … not a thing. Not a single thing … It was me … always me …’

  Suddenly he stopped. His chin dropped to his chest. He was breathing more rapidly now. Clearly, this scene had exhausted him. For a moment I considered throwing the notebook into the stove and leaving.

  Once again, the patient opened his eyes. ‘It’s nobody’s fault! Not even mine!’ He could say no more. For now he was coughing. Finally, he indicated the notebook with his eyes. ‘Read it! You’ll see!’

  I slipped the black notebook into my pocket, as fast as if I’d been expecting this all along.

  ‘I’ll bring it back tomorrow, and burn it in front of your eyes,’ I said. With a carelessness that belied his previous scruples, Raif Efendi shrugged his shoulders, as if to say: ‘You can do what you like!’

  And I knew then that he was so far gone that he had even severed his connection with this notebook, in which the most important events of his life were recorded. I kissed his hand, to take my leave. When I tried to stand up, he pulled me back, to kiss me first on the forehead and then on the cheeks. When I lifted my he
ad, I saw tears streaming down his face. Unable to hide them or wipe them away, Raif Efendi stared at me unblinking. And I could no longer hold myself back. I, too, was crying – soundlessly, wordlessly, in the face of deep and uncommon sorrow. I had known it would be hard to leave his side. But I’d not known it would bring me such terrible pain.

  Once again, Raif Efendi’s lips trembled. In a very faint voice, he said: ‘In all the time we knew each other, you and I have never spoken for this long … What a shame!’ With that, he closed his eyes.

  And now, it seemed, we had said our farewells. To keep those waiting outside from seeing the state of my face, I rushed through the hall as fast as I could and made for the door. A cold wind dried my eyes as I walked away, muttering, ‘What a shame! What a shame!’

  Back at the hotel, I found my roommate asleep. Slipping into bed, I turned on the lamp on my bedside table, and began at once to read what Raif Efendi had recorded between the black covers of his notebook.

  20 June 1933

  Something strange happened to me yesterday, and it sent me reeling back to that time I thought I’d left behind for ever. Now I know these memories will never leave me … One chance encounter, and I am cruelly awake, wrenched from the numb lethargy that has kept me going these last ten years. I would be lying if I said this could drive me mad, or be the death of me. People somehow manage to accustom themselves to what they first think insufferable. I, too, shall endure … But how? I look into the future, and all I see is a life of cruel torment. Somehow, I shall find a way to bear it … just as I have done until now …