The Time Regulation Institute

by Ahmet Hamdi Tanpınar

  I shot a glance at his enormous hands, saddened to think that nothing of the sort had ever occurred.

  On the ferryboat returning from the funeral, Cemal had never once left my side. Practically every five minutes, as if to remind me just how tired I really was, he said, “Hayri Bey, you seem all puffed out! I’ll never forget all your help today. She was such a strange woman. More of a nut than that aunt of yours, but the same sort of person . . . Of course Selma never liked her. And she harbored no goodwill toward us either. But all the same, she was a relative. We were under obligation not to neglect this last responsibility of ours. What to do? That’s what I asked myself this morning. I asked Selma and she said, ‘Don’t worry. Once Hayri Bey reads about it in the paper, he’ll be over in no time.’ As it happens, all those extra details in the obituary were added just for you. But the truth is, you really have overextended yourself . . .”

  Yes, that was just how it happened. I had volunteered for the job.

  Cemal Bey couldn’t openly call me an idiot or an incurable moron. He could only repeat the story to me ten times over, to hammer home the fact that I was indeed a fool. “No, Selma never loved that woman. She’d been mistreated by her on many occasions. But still, she’s ever so grateful to you for all you’ve done.”

  Every time he opened his mouth I felt the ground shift beneath my feet. To think of how I’d gone to sit at the head of that grave without even having made my ablutions, to wail painful prayers for this relative they had never liked.

  And oh, the fantasies I played over in my mind. One took me forward to the day after the funeral, or perhaps a week later, when I’d run into Selma Hanım, who, after greeting me with her most charming smile, would say, “Oh, Hayri Bey, Cemal Bey told me all about your devotion to my aunt. I can’t tell you how touched I was. I am so grateful for your unfaltering friendship. But I knew, Hayri Bey, I always knew that you were my very best friend!” And she would carry on with similar flatteries, and I’d be so flustered that I’d begin to stammer until, finding nothing to say, I would throw myself down at her feet and, with a voice even sweeter than before, Selma Hanım would say, “No, no, I know everything . . . Don’t do this to a miserable woman imprisoned by her true feelings!”

  I had endured all the hardship as I kept imagining that scene straight out of a Turkish film—but of course Selma Hanım would never speak with that nasal voice our actors affected. But every five minutes Cemal Bey said something else, wrenching me from my sweet reverie.

  At some point I drifted back to listen to what Halit Ayarcı was saying.

  “It’s simply not possible to know Cemal, even superficially, and not want to kill the man. I thought about it on more than one occasion when we studied together at Galatasaray Lycée.”

  After that funeral I hadn’t uttered the name Büyükdere again. But rakı was another matter altogether. My bond with the drink was stronger, deeper. But even the drink reminded me of the man. In fact, I had experience of rakı with Cemal Beyefendi himself, an episode that cast him in an unfavorable light. One day I paid him a visit and found him just settling down to drink at the dinner table; he promptly sat me down and offered me a rakı. As he took his first sip, his face contorted into such a miserable wince that I lost all my appetite, but, just to show the man how to drink rakı, I threw back eight glasses, one after the other, and left the house swooning. Thinking back now on all my experiences with Cemal Bey, I wonder if I wasn’t actually right to feel the way I did about him. Clearly there was nothing, nothing at all, about the man I liked, save his wife . . .

  The second time I found myself without a job there was a period when I was drinking a considerable amount of rakı. I owed a few liras to every little drinking hole from Sehzadebası to Edirnekapı that reeked of bitter beans and burnt olive oil. And my tab at the corner shop grew with the number of forty-fives of rakı I begged the shopkeeper to give me every evening; he only allowed me such credit because he had his eyes on the derelict plot beside our old house. Sometimes I didn’t dare take the bottle home; I would knock it back then and there, right next to the counter, oblivious to the impertinence of the shop boys and Yusuf Efendi’s insinuations about the state of my home and all my debt, not caring a whit for what they might say behind my back; and then, doing my best not to look them in the eye, I would say, as I stared off into space, “Put this in a corner for me. I’ll come by tomorrow evening and pick up where I left off.”

  So I was familiar with both Büyükdere and rakı. Both evoked infinite memories. It was only natural for the two to come together. And of course there were those who drank rakı in Büyükdere. But how had I ended up in this scene? This was the strange part: me, rakı, and Büyükdere. No, that wasn’t it. Büyükdere, rakı, me—no matter how I imagined it, the combination was still something my mind of two hours ago would never have accepted. And even more incredible, the me in this scenario had been addressed four times as beyefendi.

  Hayri Bey, Hayri Efendi, Hayri my son, Hayri the Fortuneteller, Hayri l’Horloger, the orphan Hayri, the wizard Hayri, prodigal Hayri, Hayri the Tippler, the Addict, husband to Pakize Hayri, the brother-in-law to his wife’s sisters Hayri—and now Hayri Beyefendi.

  “Hayri Beyefendi, won’t you have a cigarette?”

  “Why, thank you, Beyefendi.”

  That was how people should speak. It was something I would have said six or seven years ago. It was one more thing I had forgotten. In a rush I felt fire spreading over my lips and gums; it had been a while since I’d had a cigarette. When I heard the fifth “beyefendi,” I nearly leapt up from my seat in joy.

  The car soared like an arrow cleaving the beautiful misty spring evening and pushing it to either side. In the fog over the hills of Çemberlikuyu, that evening unfurled like a ribbon whose colors ran from wine dark to golden, ever gaining in beauty, in a verdant lushness that stretched out as far as the eye could see and that was soft as fresh grass, timid and frail as wildflowers. It was as if we were at the end of that ribbon, rushing forward, collecting the many reflections around it.

  Rakı, Büyükdere, and I, and the “I” in this equation was a beyefendi. And the car was soaring at seventy kilometers. And I was as elated as if I were a child all over again, speeding off to a holiday fair!

  “You seem rather lost in thought, Hayri Beyefendi!”

  Praise God that Dr. Ramiz was there. I never felt I had to speak when addressed in his company. He answered for me.

  “Hayri Bey’s always like that!”

  Hayri Beyefendi, our Hayri, your Hayri, Hayri plunged in thought—there were so many different Hayris. Oh, if we could only drop a few of them off along the way. I could be just one person, just myself, like everyone else.

  The car sped down the coast, pulling the trees out of the earth and tossing them over our head as we passed. Everything was as soft as the hair of a young child. My first child who died of neglect six years ago had hair like that. What could be wrong about running this old fellow down? He’s more bedraggled than I—obviously not all quite there. Bravo, cabbie! You swept right by him without a scratch. Now he’ll know the dangers around him and take better care. Perhaps he’ll dream of it tonight. Perhaps he’ll be torn from his loved one as abruptly as if he’d been in a car accident after all. But why did I keep thinking of Selma Hanım and Cemal Bey? I suppose it was being in a car.

  “My dear Hayri Bey, could you come over and see us tonight? Selma’s expecting you. Yes, around six or seven . . .”

  On the phone Cemal Bey sounded like a child rocking back and forth, desperate to pee.

  “Right away, sir,” I replied.

  I felt disgusted just talking to him, so I hung up the phone, knowing all too well that my face was bright yellow with rage. He always wanted to hang up first.

  I waited until seven to knock, but I had been at the door since six thirty. The maid flashed me an oily smile when she opened it. She was drenched
in the most revolting perfume in the world, and there was a nasty flicker in her eyes. Despite the light in the foyer, it seemed like she was leering at me through a dingy darkness. Her hand clutched onto my jacket. But why get upset? Weren’t we both serving the same people, in just the same way? Shouldn’t there be some sense of common cause? No, I wasn’t angry. I was merely in a hurry.

  The blinds in Selma Hanım’s bedroom were drawn, and a single lamp gave off a piercing light that gave the room the aura of a cave by the sea. The bed was swollen in the dappled light—a gigantic seashell with Selma Hanım stretched out inside.

  Was she ill? My daughter, my little girl, was ill at the time. She’d been poorly for the last ten days. Dr. Ramiz had not managed to stop in to see us yesterday. But Selma Hanım’s illness was of a different nature altogether, relegating all else to the background: I suddenly forgot all about Ahmet’s chest problems, Zehra’s sinusitis, my wife’s thyroid gland, even her slight fever. Silk undergarments were strewn about over an armchair and a chaise longue. Cemal Bey had collapsed into an armchair and sat there waiting for me in his dressing gown.

  “I wish you the swiftest recovery, madam.” Blood throbs in my temples. I want to say more, but what? That morning my daughter’s temperature spiked to thirty-eight degrees and her face looked so terribly strange. But this is of no concern to Selma Hanım. I should be home right now. But I’m happy to be here.

  “My dear Hayri Bey, I’ve put you to so much trouble yet again. But there really is no one else we can count on to help us.”

  She’s so beautiful, so charming. Her face reminds me of the sweet shops of my childhood—or the window displays of the florists today, flashing with color and light.

  I hear Nuri Efendi’s voice echoing in my head: “Man’s only fortress is patience.”

  I listen to him inside my fortress. But in this particular room its defenses are thin.

  “We must have a gift delivered. And as you can see, I’m not well. I simply cannot get rid of this cold. Cemal Bey wanted to go, but he had a touch of fever this morning. I was worried that one of us might take a turn for the worse.”

  And there it was, the slap in the face. Nothing involving Cemal Bey could ever bring me happiness. But such were the workings of a woman’s mind. What could she do? Being beautiful was enough. She went on:

  “Besides, he’s already made other plans for the evening, so the task must fall on your shoulders. The woman’s a relative of ours . . . in the maternity ward . . . in Sisli. We were always close friends. And there is just no one else we can call but you!”

  Undoubtedly her malady makes her more beautiful. A simple sneeze and she’s more charming than ever. Ah, if only I could take her away from here and suspend her over the head of my bed like a chandelier. She fumbles for something in her bed: “Please, a tissue from over there . . .”

  “But, hanım, you could catch a cold . . .”

  “No . . . The room’s quite warm.”

  The room’s warm, but still, please cover up. Cover your arms, your neck, and your chest. Let your figure disappear beneath the covers. Cover yourself up so this dogged fidelity can survive. For if not, if not . . . Yes—oh, why must she hide herself from me? How lowly is the station from which I gaze up at her . . .

  “The gift is ready. It’s there on the chair. I have just one other request. Ayse will give you one of Cemal’s suits to wear. The complete suit. I’m sure you’ll understand—they’re wealthy people. The gift must be delivered by an old and faithful servant of the family. I’m sure you’ll look absolutely wonderful.”

  She laughs again. I want to take that with me too. But where would I hang it? It isn’t enough just to serve her? I also have to convince her friends and family that I was born in their home and lulled them to sleep as babies in their cradles. I have to look sharp and clean! And beyond that, I have to be seen wearing one of Cemal Bey’s suits! So that people will notice and say, “They’re looking after the man well enough, that’s for sure. Wasn’t Cemal Bey wearing that very suit just the other day? He’s got quite some girth! That’s true nobility, with the air of a well-mannered man.”

  “You won’t be angry with me, will you, Hayri Bey? Besides, I know how much you care for me. You’d never be angry with me, would you?”

  So she knows I love her. Oh joy! I am overwhelmed with joy. She buries her face in her pillow. Her hair is a mess. Like a beach of soft sand the bed takes the shape of a woman sleeping facedown under the covers. The covers softly undulate over the form of her body. If only I could just take the gift and flee . . . but she rolls over and flashes me the same capricious smile. Clearly I am the only one for her. But evidently she is preparing yet another impertinence:

  “Ayse will give you money. You’ll take a car!”

  Ayse has prepared the brown suit I had seen Cemal Bey wearing just three days ago. I undress in a narrow nook in the kitchen, with Ayse standing just outside the door. She opens the door, and there before my eyes are Emine, my children, Pakize, everyone. Why do they all insist on swarming around me at moments like this? Only Selma Hanım isn’t there. She’s curled up in her bed like a sly cat. If she appears too, if I can’t get her out of my mind, I won’t be able to go through with this. But shouldn’t I be the one catching Ayse unawares?

  Both of us feel knots in our throats, and then we swallow. Her arms are nothing like Selma’s. Nausea strong enough to turn all the stomachs in the world seizes me. No, I am not the kind of man to fancy someone like Ayse. But Selma Hanım only gives me tips, secondhand suits, and errands. I dangle in a void between the two of them. I need to grasp onto one side so as not to fall. But how to manage such a feat?

  A transformed Hayri steps out the front door with two packages tucked under his arms. I’ll leave one with the tobacconist; I can pick it up on the way back. But if I do go all the way to Sisli, how will ever I get back home? By tram, I suppose. There’s no other way. Ayse’s not like me; she works for money up front. But, then again, so do I: how many times have I had cash advances on my monthly wages—first from creditors, then from friends, and finally from any old stranger who happens to be around?

  I have to get the money out of her somehow. But why don’t I like her? Ayse, Pakize, Selma Hanım, Emine—I can’t even think of them anymore. I’m no longer worthy of them. I can’t rid myself of the nausea I feel when I think of her corpulence. How could I have stooped so low? To betray such a beautiful woman—and with her own maid! And both Selma Hanım and Cemal Bey making fun of my very thoughts . . . “Cemal Bey has a bit of a fever today.”

  The car came to an abrupt halt in front of the restaurant. The mullet in the display window glittered red and blue, reflecting the last remnants of our journey up the Bosphorus.

  “After you, Beyefendi.”

  “Oh no, please, sir, I insist . . .”

  The proprietor greeted us in the courtyard and took Halit Ayarcı by the hand. So this was the custom. I’d do the same if I had money. But not like that, no, I couldn’t. How could I ever be so confident? This was not just a greeting at the door of a restaurant—it was more along the lines of regal conquest. If shaking hands like this had been the custom in their day, then surely Alexander the Great would have done the same in Egypt, and Darius in Greece. The restaurant seemed to expand with our every step. Or perhaps not, for at the same time it was narrowing its focus, galloping toward us en masse. All eyes were fixed on us, except for those of a rather attractive woman in the corner who had buried her head in her plate. If only I could have seen her face just then. But I was just a little too late. I couldn’t tell if I knew her or not. But I understand why Halit turned his back to the sea—he didn’t want to disturb her. But who is she? He had me sit down opposite him. The woman lifted her head up from her plate, her face stripped of joy.

  Beyond us the sea and the night—a rich blue night that swims through a man like a fish from a dream whose silence has sett
led inside him.

  “Soon the moon will rise just over the opposite shore.”

  Halit Bey ordered like he was firing celebratory gunshots at a wedding.

  “Rakı—but not Kulüp. One of those . . . You know, the ones I brought the other night!”

  Another brand apart from Kulüp rakı! But why not? There are premium grades of everything. Weren’t women the same? First Selma Hanım, then Nevzat Hanım, Pakize, and last my older sister-in-law, even though she is Pakize’s sister—they were all different grades. And then so many more. The universe is like a huge head of cabbage, layer upon layer.

  The headwaiter gave us the menu.

  Halit Bey turned to me and said, “Do us the honor of selecting the meze!”

  I pulled myself together.

  “You are more familiar with this restaurant than I, Your Grace. I am only familiar with stuffed mussels. I once sold them in the Balıkpazarı . . .”

  I could have gone on: “I’m a poor man. If you hadn’t brought me here, I could have done no more than walk past this establishment’s front door. Perhaps they have dishes I wouldn’t even know. I am Hayri Irdal, the man whose youngest daughter was carried to her grave by the cemetery guard just five years ago. You must understand that I am a miserable wretch. And tomorrow I’ll give my eldest daughter to Ismail the Lame, the very scoundrel who had the impertinence to receive that thrashing before Your Excellency’s very eyes.”

  But what good would all that have done? Why ruin an evening that had started out so beautifully? That night fortune made me Hayri Beyefendi. Best to make the most of it.

  Crossing my legs, I looked about the place with studied nonchalance. Or at least I think I did. Perhaps my face seemed racked with confusion, because (as I am sure you are already aware) I am like any other wretched soul, trundling about this world with my mortal burden borne on the hump of my back.