The Time Regulation Institute

by Ahmet Hamdi Tanpınar

  To meet such a man, to look him directly in the eye—this was without doubt an auspicious event and a great source of happiness. And naturally it promised an abundance of good fortune (as indeed it did). My life’s orbit and its very meaning changed the next day; in fact it started to change that very night.

  It began when the aforementioned weight on my shoulders was lifted and I first felt the new lightness of being to which I have already alluded. Then slowly but surely my patterns of thought began to shift. Indeed my very perception of the world began to alter, as did the manner in which I perceived objects and understood humankind. Of course all this did not occur in just one day; it happened incrementally, and not without some growing pains. Indeed on many occasions the transformation negated the man I had previously been. But, yes, in the end it all happened.

  That night Halit Ayarcı heard the complete story of my life. I told him all about Nuri Efendi, Seyit Lutfullah, Abdüsselam Bey, Ferhat Bey, Aristidi Efendi, Nasit Bey, and the treasure of the emperor Andronikos, although I lingered perhaps a bit too long on the topic of turning mercury into gold, explaining that the preferred method was a combination of numerology and consultation with spirits via a medium. I could still feel the weight of the politician’s hand on my shoulder turning the wheel of my fate; perhaps I was calling on all my oratory skills with the hope that I might plant in this esteemed and wealthy individual’s mind the passion to pursue the treasure so he might then acquire the secret powers of the universe. Indeed I even disclosed certain details to him that I had never told anyone.

  “All the treasure—silver and gold inlaid with jewels and pearls—is under a tent raised by twenty-seven golden poles. And chest after chest overflows with gems and jewels, gold and silver bowls, ladies’ ornamental jewelry, rings, chains, evil-eye talismans . . .”

  Halit Ayarcı laughed and said, “Impossible. The Byzantines didn’t have evil-eye talismans. Those are particular to the Turks.”

  I had to think that over for a moment. What was the infidel’s equivalent? The word masallah was definitely ours, most certainly.

  “Yes, but surely they wore some sort of evil eye for good luck and to ward off evil spirits. Seyit Lutfullah told me that such tokens were normal gifts in the Christian states, which were then passed on to us and became true talismans with magical properties. That was what I was referring to.”

  But Halit Ayarcı wasn’t interested in Seyit Lutfullah. He was far more interested in Nuri Efendi. He had little curiosity about the calendars and the astronomical tables my late master had intermittently published, nor was he interested in the chemical formulae he had unearthed in old manuscripts. He was concerned only with his horological works.

  So there was nothing to do but move the conversation in that direction. I conveyed to him all the adages of my late master that were still fresh in my memory. Halit Bey rejoiced after nearly every sentence:

  “Unbelievable. We need such a man among us. Mon chér, this man is a true philosophe, and just the kind we need—a philosopher of time. Do you understand? A philosopher of time is a philosopher of work, and you too, Hayri Bey, are a philosopher, indeed a true philosopher!”

  But I wasn’t listening to him. I was standing up, pointing at the politician’s table.

  “Do you see what’s happening there? The plates, everything is moving. Dear God!”

  The plates on his table seemed to be rattling as if they were being buffeted by a strong southern wind. But the remarkable thing was that no one at the table seemed frightened, no one was whispering prayers, and not one of them was darting away from the ruckus; rather, they were all holding on to their sides in uproarious laughter. It was as if they were all possessed by evil djinn. And the terrible thing was that after my declaration their laughter intensified, and the plates on the table rattled with even greater vigor. They were all looking at me and laughing.

  Halit Bey said reassuringly, “Don’t mind them. That’s just our friend Faik. He always does magic tricks at these places. He loves entertaining the crowd with such parlor games.”

  “No, no,” I said. “You’re pulling my leg. I’m drunk. Just a moment ago I could have sworn I was looking at the treasure of the emperor Andronikos at the bottom of the sea. There’s something wrong with me. Please, I need to go home.”

  By then I really did want to go home. I had tired of this life that really wasn’t mine; all this fun had worn me out. I wanted to go home; I longed to be surrounded by the things of my life: my own troubles, my own poverty.

  “But no, let’s all go together. As for your being drunk, you can very well see for yourself that you are not—far from it in fact. And even if you were, you’d come round soon enough. How could you think of abandoning the evening so abruptly? Now, please do sit down and explain to me this idea of a letter written from one master to the other. But before that, let’s drink.”

  And Dr. Ramiz echoed him: “Yes, let’s drink.”

  We drank more. I felt ill at ease. Yet still I did the best I could to satisfy Halit Ayarcı’s curiosity.

  “Old watches were crafted by hand. Those who made them were masters of metallurgy. That is, they were jewelers in the highest sense of the word. As they were the great artists of their field, the watches they created were adorned with sublime details, with engravings and flourishes and so on. Oftentimes the most beautiful, indeed the most important, of these were engraved inside the inner cover—that is to say, on the inside of the back lid—a place that is only ever seen by another watchmaker. This was why the late Nuri Efendi called them letters from one master to another. Take, for example, the engraving on the inside of the cover of your watch. You know, the woman with the helmet and that fantastic goliath of a man with his hand on her shoulder. I once saw a watch resembling this one while working with Nuri Efendi.

  Halit Ayarcı identified the scene: “Why, you mean Hercules and Athena!”

  Then returning to the topic he said, “But you’re absolutely right. Only a watchmaker would see them.”

  And Halit Bey raised his glass once again. “A toast,” he exclaimed. “To you in particular, Hayri Bey, but not if you continue to wear that glum face. That you are unemployed and entangled in all sorts of trouble must not stop us from having a good time.”

  “If only I had your point of view . . .”

  “One day you will. But first tell us about your present situation. Let’s just review the various positions you’ve held.”

  So I told him about my life at home: about my wife and her sisters and about Ahmet and Zehra. He listened to everything I had to say, with Dr. Ramiz interjecting now and then to elaborate a particular point. Then he looked me straight in the eye and said:

  “The most common predicament in the world: First, you have no money. Then, you find yourself living with three young women who need to be married off. And, finally, everyone at home is suffering from poor health. It all boils down to the same fundamental problem. Simply said: it’s a matter of money.”

  It all seemed so easy if you took each word at face value: money, three weddings, and plenty of food and drink. I expected him to carry on and suggest that we enact a few new laws to allow for the swift and easy settlement of my affairs.

  “But how could I ever give my daughter to Ismail the Lame?” I moaned.

  “Naturally you’ll do nothing of the sort. According to what you’ve just told me, you have a daughter who is both charming and good-looking. Of course you won’t give such a girl to that man.”

  But it was the same old cul-de-sac.

  “Well then, whatever will I do if I don’t?”

  “You will find the right match. He will come to you without any intervention on your part.”

  “And the others? My sisters-in-law—especially the older one, the fanatic musicienne—who would ever marry her?”

  Halit Ayarcı thought for a moment.

  “From what
you have told us, she isn’t quite the type to be snatched up. But you never know. For example, first a little fame on the radio, and then perhaps she becomes a famous singer in a club, or maybe a professional vocalist . . . And presto! You see there’s a solution to any problem. Just a few minor adjustments to your life balance, a little entrepreneurialism, some elbow grease, an ever so modest change in perspective—and voilà! Everything has been changed.

  “I must confess that I never thought of it that way. I assumed the only solution was a natural disaster or an epidemic that would wipe out the entire household. I was just biding my time.”

  “A mistake, a miscalculation . . . Don’t you expect something from these miserable people at home, from yourself? Now, from what you’ve said, these are ambitious individuals, obsessed with getting the most out of life. This means they already have success inside them and suffer for lack of an outlet. They’re not the kind of people to settle for a humdrum existence.”

  “No, certainly not. My wife thinks she’s in Hollywood, and her elder sister is convinced she’s a renowned singer. And the younger one . . .”

  “But of course. Of course this is what they think! And they are all a little angry with you because you don’t understand them.”

  I lowered my head. I thought he would at least try to see it from my point of view. I had spent the last six hours with this man, I was captivated by his every move, but clearly he was insane. He didn’t have to suddenly throw his hands around my throat or remove all his attire and cartwheel in the open air to make this clear. He continued:

  “Yes, why wouldn’t these people be a little frustrated with you for not understanding them? What could be more natural? But don’t begrudge them, for you have had no experience with life and humankind. You are like an army convinced of its defeat before entering the war. Instead of stepping onto the bridge of the ship, you’ve taken cover down in the hull.”

  This diagnosis of my illness, or rather this identification of my discontent, left me nothing to do but drink. And thank God there was plenty of rakı. I could celebrate this happy event as much as my heart desired.

  But still he carried on:

  “Especially your attitude toward your eldest baldız—a true artist. The way you deny her . . .”

  I put down my glass. Once again I was determined to interject—in the name of logic, in the name of reason—come what may. After I did so, I’d be content to hold my tongue.

  “But please, Beyefendi,” I implored. “An artist? A true artist? In my modest opinion, her voice is wretched. She simply has no talent. And then, of course, she knows nothing at all about music. She has no understanding of Turkish makams: she can’t tell the difference between a Mahur and an Isfahan, a Rast from an Acemasiran. No, impossible. Perhaps she possesses other merits. Perhaps she’s pretty—what do I know? Well, actually, no, she’s not, but perhaps I just haven’t noticed. But to enjoy music rendered by such a voice! Out of the question. She has no ear, sir, none at all. She’s entirely tone deaf. She can’t distinguish one pitch from the other.”

  Halit Bey offered me a cigarette. Then he took one for himself and looked out over the moonlight, still shimmering over the sea in all its glory. After a moment, when it seemed as if he was listening to an argument at the opposite table, he shrugged his shoulders, turned to me, and said:

  “Well, we’ve determined, then, that she isn’t beautiful, for you would know, as you have the eye of an aesthete. I have learned your life story. And I know that you understand beauty in a woman. But you don’t understand art, at least not the art of our times. First of all, it is a question of the masses. What do they love and what do they reject? No one really knows. This question also touches on the desperation of the masses. You know very well that this exalted ideal known as good taste comes with many counterparts that range from our deepest desires to whatever comes to us most easily. It is when we lose hope in the notion of taste that we surrender to these counterparts. It’s all rather confusing, so we lose hope in taste. When we speak of music, people first inquire as to the genre; once such a question is posed, the matter of taste or style is eliminated. Then there is the matter of the public’s untrained ear. We live in the age of radio, and we listen to music all the time. The radio has become the natural companion to rheumatism, the common cold, penury, the possibility of war, and the trials of just getting through the day. And if you add the masses to all this . . . No, I am quite sure that this hanımefendi of whom you speak will conquer Istanbul within just a few days, in a startling rise to fame. But look at it this way: the task would certainly be far more difficult if your sister-in-law had taken a passionate interest in Western classical music, as such music requires years of rigorous training indeed.”

  He looked at me for a moment. I was truly flabbergasted.

  “No one ever really takes these things seriously anyway . . . without realizing it of course. Can’t you see this side of the picture?”

  “Not seriously. What do you mean? Then they’re simply out of their minds . . .”

  “Of course. They only want to lend a little emotional color to their lives with a few exceptional moments. Everyone seeks to fill the void inside them with a little sentimentality, to dress up their lives as they please, but as they understand absolutely nothing about music they can only really enjoy songs for their lyrics alone. My poor Hayri Bey, you are an unusual man indeed. Your criteria are the stuff of the past. They are, as you said earlier, like letters passed down from one master to the next. We’re no longer confined by that traditional mode. Today who would ever think of trying to distinguish the Isfahan from the Acemasiran. So tell me, which singer does she aspire to be?”

  “Almost all the famous singers. But always with the same voice, the same makam, and interpreted in exactly the same way.”

  “That means she is a true original! It’s solved. Unique and new. Pay attention here! I mean new, new in capital letters! For when it’s a matter of the new, there’s no need for any other talent. Now we need only choose which direction to take: folk music or classical Turkish music, or folk music with a hint of alafranga, or perhaps alafranga with a hint of folk? But of course we can’t really decide on such things here at the dinner table. Yet it seems to me that, according to all you have said about her talents and skills”—here Halit Ayarcı screwed up his face and made a crinkling gesture with his fingers as if he were testing poor-quality fabric—“she would be more successful with certain local folk songs with a hint of the alafranga . . . Yes, that’s my guess. But why doesn’t she try a Turkish tango! Or there are some songs . . .”

  He looked absently into my eyes.

  “Yes, that’s the problem. You lack entrepreneurial spirit. You’re an idealist. And you fail to comprehend the reality around you. In short, you’re old-fashioned. A shame, what a terrible shame! If only you had a shred of realism in you, just only so much, a wee bit. Oh, then everything would change.”

  This time he’d gone too far.

  “I’m not a realist? Would I have told you all I have in the manner that I did if I weren’t a realist? Have I spoken to you about my sister-in-law with any inkling of hope? Have I changed anything about her for you? Have I dressed up any aspect of her? It seems to me that I am the only one who sees things for what they truly are. Indeed I am too much of a realist, I’ll have you know—so much that it pains me.”

  Halit Ayarcı smiled. He’d been gesturing the whole time to the people at the next table. He took a sip of rakı and turned to face me.

  “Let’s end this conversation and join the other table. It seems this evening might not turn out too bad after all. I might even say promising . . . Look now, Hayri Bey, I have already decided on it. From now on we shall work together. This is why we must agree on certain things. Being a realist does not mean seeing the truth for what it is. It is a question of determining our relationship with the truth in the way that is most beneficial for us. Wh
at do you achieve by accepting reality as it is? What will that offer apart from a slew of petty decisions that are neither meaningful nor valuable on their own? You can’t do anything but draw up endless lists of what you need and do not have. What difference does that make? If anything, it only leads you away from your true path. You become permanently settled in pessimism and eventually you are crushed beneath it. To see the truth as it is . . . is to admit defeat. Yes, it is the very definition of defeatism, for it is its very genesis. You, Hayri Bey, are a man poisoned by words, which is why I said you were old-fashioned. But the realism of today’s man is something else. What can I make with the material at hand, with this very object and all it has to offer? That’s the question to ask. For example, in this instance your greatest error is in your misperception of your dear sister-in-law’s problem—in your starting with the abstract concept of music. If you were to tackle the problem from your sister-in-law’s point of view, the matter would be altogether different. If Newton had considered the apple that dropped onto his head as nothing but an apple, he might have deemed it rotten and tossed it aside. But he didn’t. Instead he asked himself, just what can I do with this apple? He asked just what its maximum benefit might be. And you should do the very same! My baldız wants nothing but to be a successful musician. So I have two factors: my baldız and music. As the first factor cannot be changed, I have no choice but to change the second. Just what kind of music does my baldız like, then? This is what you must consider. Or will you stay forever in your cul-de-sac? Why of course not.”