Even so, Nermin Hanım was nothing like me. Her manner of speaking could not have been more different. She leapt from one thought to the other like a sparrow prancing from one branch to the next; by the time she reached her third sentence, she had left her original point far behind to dive into a subject that had nothing to do with it. Her life was governed by her tongue and her two lips. No sooner had she begun discussing the travails of being pent up at home with her mother-in-law than she was expounding on her first husband with some fury, and then, before you knew it, she was delving into her childhood in a family kiosk somewhere near Küçükmustafapasa, only to stop in midflow to ask if you thought the hat she had recently purchased truly became her.
All this was amplified by digressions both major and minor. Each began the same way: “Maybe you know . . .” She could have been referring to at least twenty different people, and if I told her that I didn’t know the person in question, she would seem temporarily undone, but then she’d rally, supplying me with such descriptions as to make the individual worthy of my notice; but then, in the middle of her description, the man’s daughter or wife would be mentioned, and it was back to the beginning.
One encounter was enough for Nermin Hanım to adopt a new friend, and to each new friend she related her life story, in installments. The man who put in our linoleum floors, the electrician, the upholsterer, the porters, the public notaries who came to sign our accounts—each had at one time or another listened to some saga from her life. But she was beginning to suspect that perhaps this job wouldn’t last for much longer. Eventually her idle talk, previously content to flutter from one branch to the next, came to hover around one central point.
Soon our office assistant, Dervis Efendi, was also infected by our concerns. The poor man had truly warmed to the new office, even though there weren’t many visitors, and not much in the way of tips. But he was comfortable, and no one bothered him. He wasn’t made to wait beside the door or anything like that. He sat in a chair next to Nermin Hanım’s desk, listening to her stories and praising her hats—there was a new one every day and each one deserving of a masallah! If he ever bored of her conversation, he could always leave with the good intention of making Turkish coffee.
Surely this job was the easiest he could ever find. Thirty-five years working as an office assistant, and suddenly he’d found himself in an office managed the way an office should have always been managed. But he too wasn’t sure what work we were meant to be doing; he was more than a little surprised that an entire company had been formed just so he could watch me tinker with watches until nightfall and listen to Nermin Hanım’s life story as she knit sweater after sweater. He never tired of us, or told us to do anything else; he was content enough, but it simply did not make sense. One day he came to me and said rather sheepishly:
“Sir, I too am a little confused by this job. I’m beginning to feel a little suspicious about the whole thing. Sometimes I even wonder if I’ve died and gone to heaven.”
Until then, it had never once occurred to me that these creatures called office assistants might conceive of a paradise designed to fit their lifestyle. But why couldn’t our ideas about happiness comply with our standards of living?
Our fragile peace was disrupted toward the end of the third month by a great upsurge of activity. One morning Halit Ayarcı arrived at the office with the mayor of Istanbul and one of his assistants. Nermin Hanım was engrossed in knitting Halit Ayarcı’s third sweater, and I was busy regaling everyone with tales of Seyit Lutfullah’s romantic adventures with his beloved Aselban. Needless to say, we were thrown into a great confusion by this unexpected visit, and we sprang to our feet at once. Before I could begin to think of how to welcome a man of the mayor’s stature, Halit Ayarcı was already introducing me:
“My most valuable assistant, Hayri Irdal Bey. We are so fortunate to have him working on the project with us.”
Then he added:
“Do you know, Beyefendi, that for the sake of the institute Hayri Irdal is working here more or less as an honorary member?”
The mayor grasped my hand as if to say, I shall never let go of this—our only chance to bring success to our institute.
“His remuneration is truly shameful. Something to be ashamed of indeed . . .”
My dear benefactor spoke as if he might weep over the injustice I had to endure. The strange thing was that even the mayor seemed truly concerned; he lowered his head and stared at his shoes.
“There’s no other way this will work, Halit Bey.”
And then he shook my hand more firmly than before, as if to thank me from the bottom of his heart for all my sacrifices.
“Of course the current situation is temporary. When, thanks to his efforts, we finish organizing everything, Hayri Bey will be appointed our assistant manager.”
This bit of good news seemed to revive the mayor. He lifted his head from his shoes to look joyfully into my eyes. And for the first time in my life I beheld a man who was happy for the happiness of another man.
“Nermin Hanım is our head secretary. She’s a top-flight intellectual. Hers is a different sacrifice altogether, as she left her blessed home to be with us.”
Nermin Hanım blushed bright red, like a young schoolgirl who was wearing for the first time a dress she had brought with her on holiday. When asked if she was holding up well, she flashed a sweet smile, as if she were sucking on a candy.
“So we’ve stolen our dear friend right from her home . . .”
To show how much he was tickled by this idea, Halit Ayarcı said:
“Yes, very much indeed. Stolen right from her own home.”
Looking rather pleased with his line, the mayor made an even brighter observation, in a way never before expressed:
“But oh, we’ve triumphed in the name of life! What do you say to that, Hayri Bey?”
And with my approval, this little foray into social niceties came to a close.
Halit Ayarcı:
“If you please, shall we take a little tour?”
What was there to see? From our room you went right into Halit Bey’s. But experienced men see these things differently. The mayor knew how to turn the few steps to the next room into a journey lasting a full half an hour. He took the time to examine each empty entity in turn: over and over he inspected the filing cabinet, the receipt cabinet, the typewriters still in their cases, the large black leather-bound ledgers that had sat unopened on their desks since the day of their arrival, the still bulbless desk lamps that promised long and uninterrupted nights of labor, and then of course the drapes. After which, with his hand resting on the doorknob and already facing the next room, he made a U-turn, to inspect the same room all over again! I saw how very mistaken I had been. For visits and inspections of this nature, you didn’t need much space at all, and neither did you need too many objects for inspection. The important thing was to make the decision to inspect something and then to do so. The mayor would linger a few moments before a most mundane object, indicating to us that he was thinking of something, but he said nothing, and just when he seemed to be opening his mouth to speak he stopped and, swaying back and forth, rested his hand on Halit Ayarcı’s arm.
Casting his eye once more over our room from the doorway into Halit Ayarcı’s office, he said:
“Those curtains really are quite nice.”
He gave the same attention and care to Halit Ayarcı’s office. In fact he even drew open the tulle curtains and looked for some time out over the street he’d known for so many years. Then he inspected the furniture once again. No, he wasn’t entirely pleased with the furniture:
“Well as for your friends, I suppose it will do, but yours is rather sub par. And in such an important institute . . .”
Smiling, Halit Ayarcı responded:
“For now, let’s focus on the conditions of our colleagues hard at work. In any case, we shall
have to move to new quarters soon. We’ll never fit here! We can upgrade the furnishings when we move.”
The mayor had his assistant make a note of this. And so the first step toward finding a new building was taken. Just before he left the room, the mayor noticed the diagram Halit Ayarcı had had us hang on his wall the evening before. He stared at it for some time:
“So that’s it, then, eh!”
“Yes, sir, it gives particular attention to the regulation of time in cinemas and during lunch hours. Of course the chart is incomplete. Hayri Bey is delving into the matter more deeply. Regulation varies dramatically by occupation.”
“A textbook study of social behavior . . .”
“Is that not our very aim?”
I hadn’t the slightest notion of time regulation by occupation, and not once had I considered the possibility that we might be conducting a study in social behavior. All the same I was delighted to be the author of one.
We went back into our room and once again the mayor spent a little time looking over the empty files, the typewriters asleep in their cases, and the large black ledgers on the desks. Then he read the slogans on the wall:
“‘Regulation is chasing down the seconds.’ An important saying indeed, Halit Bey!”
“Indeed, sir.”
Halit Bey showed no modesty, though he did tell the mayor, without once mentioning Nuri Efendi’s name, that the watch and clock repairmen of the past composed this sort of meaningful adage and that men such as they were well versed in the social questions and work ethics of their day, and that one of our institute’s aims was to introduce such paragons to the public.
“That task will fall to our publishing department.”
The mayor cast a sideways glance at his assistant, and the man quickly jotted down in his notebook the need for a publishing department and the important task that would be its responsibility. Then the mayor noticed the desk lamps. Turning to Halit Ayarcı, he offered his solemn congratulations.
“So then, you’ll be working nights too! A tremendous sacrifice, an enormous success . . . Thank you, I am very pleased. Allow me to extend to you my thanks and congratulations.”
With a magnanimous and fully endearing flourish of the hand, Halit Ayarcı motioned to discount his involvement in the project. And thus were accorded to him all the unknown future successes of our files, typewriters, cabinets, and lamps; of our new curtains, though they accentuated the office’s dirt and unpainted walls; and having been granted recognition, even for feats that Nermin Hanim and I had yet to achieve, Halit Ayarci promptly returned it all to the mayor:
“Oh, but please, sir, the success is all yours. For it’s you who has made all of this possible.”
Oh, how much he resembled Yusuf Kamil Pasha just then! When Sultan Abdülaziz visited the pasha’s home for the first time, he was given not only the deeds to newly constructed kiosks but also the most beautiful manuscripts to hand and a great heap of precious jewels atop a golden platter and all of his wife’s fortune!
“The success is yours alone. Please take it for your own. For myself and all of us here are in your service . . .”
But apparently the mayor was no less courteous than Sultan Abdülaziz himself.
For the sultan first accepted the platter, which is to say all of Zeynep Hanım’s wealth, and then chose the one thing that was most fitting—a manuscript of the Holy Koran—before exercising great humility in returning everything else to its rightful owner. It was in much the same manner that the mayor accepted his success with a carefree and courteous smile that said, “Oh, but that was just what I was expecting!” before saying, “Oh no, we’ve only done our part. The real success is due to you”—thereby returning the success to Halit Ayarcı, and a little to us too, for he shot us a sideways glance as we stood watching through the crack in the door. Indeed Nermin Hanım looked very much like Zeynep Hanım, who had no doubt stood in the same way, in her headscarf, patiently waiting for the final decree from the great ruler.
But Halit Ayarcı wasn’t listening. He was convinced that the success of the operation depended entirely on its success being attributed to the mayor. But it was simply hopeless; his interlocutor was equally insistent.
“Yes, precisely what I was saying—it is our duty to provide support to those working on the project, but the true success is all yours. I have only laid the groundwork, using all the possibilities afforded to me.” And the platter came right back to us.
So this was how it was done. First it is determined that this thing called success has been achieved, and then the author of this success is sought out and duly congratulated, after which the author claims that the success belongs to the man who just congratulated him and promptly returns it; and he, after setting his share of the success aside, returns the rest to the original author while uttering a few meaningful platitudes. After witnessing a prolonged routine of official transfers and returns, who could ever doubt our future? The success of our institute was thus confirmed. When this official routine had come to a close, I could at last relax.
Following the consensus our joint success and a rigorous analysis of the status of both parties involved, the mayor flopped unceremoniously into Nermin Hanım’s chair.
Halit Ayarcı sat down in the chair next to hers, while the mayor’s assistant found a perch on the table in the middle of the room; we found other chairs for ourselves, thus completing the ring. Once we were all settled, we began discussing the matter of personnel for the Time Regulation Institute.
Halit Bey pulled a little notebook from his pocket, flipped it open, and, referring to his notes, explained his ideas. The institute had been established to study social behavior using avant-garde methods, he explained, and so it was only natural for an institute of this scope to require fixed personnel, among other things.
“We have a director and an assistant director. Additionally, we’ll require a publishing division, an administrative head, an office supplies manager, and a head of office operations. For now, these positions will make up our Absolute Staff.”
The Absolute Staff was to be supported by a technical team structured to reflect the workings of a clock; it would regulate itself in much the same way clocks regulated our everyday lives: the Minute Hand, Pin, and Spring Departments would complete the first division, while the second division would include Social Coordination and Labor Statistics.
“All of these teams will be led by highly qualified specialists. Hayri Bey will be in charge of Labor Statistics. And I will be managing the Social Coordination group myself. In fact this is where we believe our main revenues will come from. In this way we can ensure that the director’s and assistant director’s salaries will not exceed the salary scale as set by law. Naturally an institute of this scale would never fit into this building. It would be best if we had a new building that was purpose-built.”
“We’ve already made a note of that, Halit Bey. But don’t you think we have one department head too many? I mean, along with the staff you’ve mentioned—as you say, the Absolute Staff.”
“That’s right, sir. Each department will have its own team working under it. A kind of organizational or organic skeleton.”
“I had no idea. How clever of you to come up with this idea of a permanent staff. It’s just that an administrative head seems unnecessary. In fact even a head of office operations seems a bit much.”
For some time Halit Ayarcı insisted on these two positions, explaining that the work would be too taxing otherwise. But finally he sacrificed the administrative head, and once he had made this concession, the principle of an Absolute Staff was officially accepted.
It was impossible to be unmoved by the mayor’s sensitivity to all the issues. There was not a single sacrifice he wouldn’t make for the smooth operation of our institute, while he was clearly doing his best to slim down the budget. At one point he asked for my opinion on a matter. Halit
Ayarcı jumped in on my behalf.
“Hayri Bey is always ready to sacrifice himself for the nation and for public service.”
By now I had a grasp on how all this worked and so I finished his thought:
“In other words I am ready to tackle the job.”
My enthusiasm was met with effusive thanks from the mayor. Whereupon Halit Ayarcı added:
“Ah, but if not for you, never in the world would I have charged myself with such a lofty endeavor.”
And so, after being forged in a man’s imagination piece by piece, I had become the axis around which this great organization revolved. Surely this was what our forebears knew as valor and esteem—such words allowed for matters to be seen in the most favorable light. Ah, I thought, if only it were possible, if only I could read the entire history of the world.
When it became clear that we were all more or less agreed, the mayor expressed his final reservations.
“Where will you find so many specialists?”
“That’s the easy part. Hayri Bey and I will see to that. As a matter of fact, Hayri Bey has an extremely effective plan for this. We shall train our own personnel. In this Hayri Bey is absolutely right. In making this effort, we shall ensure that they are much more reliable in their work.”
But now I knew what to say: I’d had plenty of time to practice thinking like Halit Bey when hunting flies in the office.
“Perhaps foreign specialists could be engaged?”
Halit Ayarcı rejected this idea outright.
“This enterprise on which we have embarked is most delicate. Our dirty laundry will be exposed for all to see. Oh no, we can’t have foreigners here. They’d ruin the whole exercise—make a mess of it. They simply wouldn’t understand.”
The mayor seemed both pleased and taken aback.
“Frankly, I don’t want foreigners either. One, it’s difficult just to make yourself understood; and, two, their finding everything so strange is simply unbearable. They simply cannot adapt, not even to the most natural situations.”
The Time Regulation Institute Page 30