Madonna in a Fur Coat

by Sabahattin Ali

Yet he was hardly an extraordinary man. In fact, he was rather ordinary, with no distinguishing features — no different from the hundreds of others we meet and fail to notice in the course of a normal day.

And what a pity that is: a dash of curiosity is all it takes to stumble upon treasures we never expected.

The more I needed my friends, the more I longed to run away.

When misfortune visits those who once walked alongside us, we do tend to feel relief, almost as if we believe we have ourselves been spared, and as we come to convince ourselves that they are suffering in our stead, we feel for these wretched creatures. We feel merciful.

He spoke to me as if I were a child, never considering that I might have something to say, indeed to argue, in response, and he did not shy away from making it clear that it was success that had given him his courage.

What choice did a man like this have, in the face of small-minded attacks, but to stand firm like a rock? Our longings, our disappointments, our fits of rage — we succumb to them when something unexpected happens to us, something that seems to make no sense. Is it even possible to shock a man who is ready for anything and who knows exactly what to expect from anyone?

Though it was Raif Efendi who bore the cost of all this, it made no difference to him if he was present or absent. Everyone in the family, from the oldest to the youngest, regarded him as irrelevant.

Only now did I begin to understand why it was not always through words that people sought each other out and came to understand each other, and why some poets went to such lengths to seek out companions who could, like them, contemplate the beauties of nature in silence.

So what did he want from life? Was it perhaps this emptiness inside — this lack of purpose — that sent him out to roam the streets by night?

For even the most wretched and simpleminded 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?

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?”

“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!”

look into the future, and all I see is a life of cruel torment.

There are things — so many things — that I need to say…but to whom?…Can there be another soul wandering this great globe who is as lonely as I? Who would hear me out? Where would I begin?

If only I could find the words…If only I had someone to confide in…But how would I find him? I wouldn’t know where to look. And even if did, I still wouldn’t.

But sometimes people need to unburden themselves…If only yesterday hadn’t happened…Oh, if only I had not stumbled upon the truth…I might have gone on living as before, with my small comforts…

I was walking down the street yesterday when I chanced upon two people. One of them I was meeting for the first time, the other was perhaps more distant from me than anyone else on this earth. Who could have imagined that these two would have the power to undo me?

For nothing terrified me more than the prospect of correcting a false impression.

Though I was often blamed for mistakes made by my classmates, I never dared to say a word in self-defense. I would simply go home to hide in a corner and cry.

My greatest pleasure was to sit alone beside the river, or in the far corner of the garden, and let my thoughts waft away.

Father hated my reading all the time, and sometimes he threw away my books.

I had yet to learn that nothing in this world can ever match the marvels that we conjure up in our own minds.

My father was by now writing less frequently, while I carried on living in Berlin without ever wondering what I was going to do next, or why I had come here in the first place.

Before long, it was akin to an addiction. Lying facedown on the bed, I would open my book and stay there for hours,

The books I was now reading spoke of people like me, of the world I saw and heard around me. They spoke of things I had witnessed but not really grasped.

When I saw how she was incapable of voicing her feelings, and how fear and envy contrived to suppress everything about her that was deep and strong and beautiful — I saw myself.

Suddenly, near the door to the main room, I stopped. Even now, after all these years, I cannot describe the torrent that swept through me in that moment. I only remember standing, transfixed, before a portrait of a woman wearing a fur coat.

But while that face was utterly new to me, I couldn’t help but feel that I had seen her many times before. Surely I knew this pale face, this dark brown hair, this dark brow, these dark eyes that spoke of eternal anguish and resolve. I had known that woman since I’d opened my first book at the age of seven — since I’d started, at the age of five, to dream. I saw in her echoes of Halit Ziya Uşaklıgil’s Nihal, Vecihi Bey’s Mehcure, and Cavalier Buridan’s beloved. I saw the Cleopatra I had come to know in history books, and Muhammad’s mother, Amine Hatun, of whom I had dreamed while listening to the Mevlit prayers. She was a swirling blend of all the women I had ever imagined.

This was the paper with the article about the exhibition I had read that morning in a café. I tore it open to see if there was anything in the article about the painting or the artist. It surprised me to be behaving so rashly because I was in fact a gentle, unemotional man.

For a man of no experience like me, it was nothing short of terrifying to think of coming face-to-face with a woman such as her.

Whenever I passed her on the street, my face would turn so red and my heart beat so fast that I’d soon be ducking for cover.

If ever I met a woman I found attractive, my first thought was to run away.

Drowning in shame, I became the most miserable person on earth.

Every afternoon, I would stroll in, pretending to stop to inspect each painting in the gallery, as my impatience grew. For all I wanted was to go straight to my Madonna.

I saw then that over the past fortnight, my life had begun to take on meaning. I saw, too, what it would mean to lose it.

Careful questions were met with careful answers, soothing the ears of those anxious to believe.

Why should someone like me, born of an affluent family, not find happiness?

But no matter how hard I tried, I could not pull myself back up.

But why had I come here and waited for her if I was just going to hide? Why had I come back to this place at all? And why was I now following her? Was it really her?

I scolded myself for failing to see people as they truly were. Although I was twenty-four years old, I had not yet freed myself of the naïveté of youth.

I recognized her immediately. The puzzle was solved — and my speculations shattered. Oh, how my heart ached! How sad it was to see her flashing those false smiles with such sad reluctance!

But nothing could have prepared me for seeing her like this. How miserable she looked! Where was the proud, strong, defiant Madonna of my dreams?

Nothing grieves me more than seeing someone who has given up on the world being forced to smile.

How was it that a person could bring such happiness to another without really doing anything at all?

“I understand…I am completely alone…But not just in Berlin…alone in all of the world…since I was a child…”

“So alone sometimes I feel like I can’t breathe…as lonely as a sick dog.”

“Were you the one who followed me all the way to the door?” “Yes. So you noticed?” “Of course…How could a woman not notice such a thing?”

I had the overwhelming urge to smile and say, “Just look how happy I am, you fools!” I wanted to salute every customer in the room, throw my arms around them all, even the musicians, and embrace them like long-lost friends.

“There’s one thing you must remember. This all ends the moment you want something from me. You can’t ask me for anything…Anything — do you hear?”

“Do you know why I hate you? You and every other man in the world? Because you ask so much of us, as if it were your natural right…Mark my words, for it can happen without a single word being uttered…It’s how men look at us and smile at us. It’s how they raise their hands.