The Time Regulation Institute

by Ahmet Hamdi Tanpınar

  When I woke up, it was nearing sunrise but the party was still in full swing. Opening my eyes, I saw Halit Ayarcı standing above me.

  “So what do you think?” he said. “Extraordinary, isn’t it? I’ve been looking all over for you. How can you leave a night this wonderful in midswing?”

  His relaxed and soothing voice rendered me speechless.

  “Your aunt was magnificent. Well, isn’t she always . . . And you didn’t behave too badly yourself! So get up, then, and come meet a friend who has traveled all the way here to meet you. Van Humbert, a first-rate intellectual!”

  As I stretched in the chair, I asked, “Isn’t the party over, Halit Bey? They’re still going? Won’t it ever end?”

  “No, my dear friend, we’ve only just begun. We are as newborn babes.”

  “That’s fine, but exactly where is this game going to lead us? Just tell me that . . . Everything was going along according to plan. Do we really need all this nonsense?”

  Halit Bey sat down at Nasit Bey’s desk.

  “Everything’s working just right. But we’re alone. We’re all alone in this world, and there is nothing I loathe more than loneliness. Do you understand me? Such a magnificent and invaluable institute should have counterparts all the world over. That’s what I want. And I am sure you want it too.”

  X1

  Our conversation continued no further, for Dr. Ramiz had burst into the room. My dear friend was in fine form: his hair was in a state, his shirt collar was hanging to one side, and his necktie was flung back over his shoulder. With both hands, he pushed aside the enormous woman who had nearly crushed him at the aforementioned Bektasi ceremony around the old-style stove. It was truly surprising to see what a close resemblance this poor woman bore to the doctor’s late wife, who had given her fortune to further his scientific career—and all the wonders of her 130-kilo body for his private enjoyment. Though she left the former to the doctor, she had taken the latter with her to the other side, to find refuge in that better world untainted by the strains of married life and where lovemaking was never subjected to psychoanalysis. Seeing us, the doctor threw his arm around his new lover’s midsection, as dashing as a film star of the first order, and, wresting his chin from its resting place on his right shoulder, he made as if to speak. But Halit Bey brought his finger to his lips and signaled for quiet, gesturing toward the woman who had passed out on the sofa:

  “Do come in, Doctor, but please try to keep quiet,” he said. “This dear child’s feeling somewhat unwell.”

  Then he pointed to the armchair I’d just been sleeping in.

  “It’s quite a comfortable chair, and we’re just leaving, so make yourself at home!”

  I was captivated as ever by his cynical smile. A man who achieves a cynicism of such perfection can accept the world as it is until the end of time, for to be this cynical is to deny all humanity. There is nothing a man with perfect cynicism cannot do, providing he hasn’t been poisoned by loneliness that just might settle inside him.

  Taking me by the arm, he pulled me out of the room.

  “See how the doctor manages to enjoy himself?” he said. “He’s not like you! You’ve no sooner arrived than you’ve started hunting for something to disapprove of, something that might cause you pain or suffering—and then you wander about the room as if someone were holding a bunch of nettles under your nose and you’re trying to get rid of them.”

  Hoping to change the subject, I interrupted him:

  “Judging by your appearance, it seems you haven’t had too much to drink!”

  “I had just a few,” he said. “I wanted to have my wits about me this evening. But now I’ll drink. That is to say, I shall allow myself to drink. There’s still more champagne! Your aunt is the perfect hostess. Her generosity knows no bounds. I know this may not please you, but now that you are no longer a man in need, I don’t mind telling you. She has clearly no intention of leaving this world behind until she has spent every penny of her fortune!”

  People were still dancing feverishly in both the main living room and the entrance hall. The air had turned into a thick paste of powder, essence of lavender, perspiration, bare shoulders, sweaty armpits, lipstick. At one point my younger sister-in-law caught sight of me and tried to wend her way toward me; thank God her young chaperone, built like a racehorse, didn’t give her the chance.

  The Blessed One’s room was somewhat calmer. But it was now home to the champagne table. And the crowd swarming around it called to mind an anthill. Halit Ayarcı took me by the hand and led me to Van Humbert, who was conversing with my aunt and my wife. The amiable scholar was drinking a fruit juice spritzer, while my wife and aunt had made the more humane choice: they both were sipping champagne. When I saw my aunt, I could not help but think, “Will her fortune last till the end of her days?” I shrugged my shoulders. “No need to worry, we have money now,” I thought. “In fact, her former maid has stopped working altogether. And why shouldn’t my aunt just do the same. It would be a little hard but we would manage. With an aunt like her, you can tolerate anything.” Indeed it was hard not to love her. She exuded life as abundantly as a field of grain.

  Van Humbert seemed a robust man of around sixty-five years; he was of medium height, composed, with the body of a young man and the face of a child. Indeed he had such a young air about him that his bushy beard looked like a disguise. Before Halit Bey had finished introducing me, he asked:

  “How was it, then? Were you pleased with the conference? I so wish I’d been here to see it. But the lady and her gentleman friend here refused to let me in.”

  Before I had time to express my confusion, my wife leaped into the conversation to sing our guest’s praises.

  “What beautiful Turkish he speaks, don’t you think?”

  Brushing aside Van Humbert’s polite estagfurullah, my aunt explained:

  “Yes, the evening wasn’t without a few minor problems, and I’m truly saddened you were unable to attend. Yet what else were we to do? My nephew had already promised to speak at this family gathering.”

  Oh dear! So I’d just been at a conference. I hadn’t fallen asleep in Nasit Bey’s office, staring at the eagle with faded feathers, after all. And this conference was nothing more than a family gathering. That seemed to make sense. You can’t just up and deliver a public speech at eleven o’clock at night. Suddenly my life seemed easier than I had thought. I really had no right to complain. A slight twitch of my shanks, a jerk on the reins, a flash of the whip, and I was on my way. Naturally there would be someone kind enough to tell me what my speech should cover. And if not—well, I’d come up with something all the same. But this was a little dangerous. Best was to stay patient. For now there was nothing to do but to look into Van Humbert’s eyes and smile and shake his hand, or rather wait for my fingers to be released from his vicelike grip. Oh, how I would have shown him if I only could have readjusted my fingers.

  No sooner had my aunt finished, than my wife jumped back into the conversation:

  “My dear Hayri, I hope you were met with wild applause? I’m so sorry I wasn’t there at your side, but I couldn’t leave our new dear friend behind. I couldn’t allow him to tire himself needlessly. What a delightful man! And such charming stories he told us . . .”

  Turning to our guest, she added:

  “My husband does better with his speeches when I am at his side.”

  And with that impudent smile on her face and that strange gaze she saved for social occasions, she turned to the poor foreigner and waited for the compliment she felt she deserved. And his Turkish did not let him down: it was with genuine enthusiasm that he declared:

  “But of course, madam, provided he is in the company of such a muse as yourself.”

  Van Humbert must have been overjoyed to find occasion to show off his Turkish. He had probably found our word for “muse” in a dictionary. He seized my hand as
quickly as he had seized upon the word, and again he crushed my fingers and the palm of my hand with his vicelike grip. “Mark my words—we’ll meet again. And then you’ll see just what I’ll make of your hand,” I told myself. Having been served her compliment, my wife turned to me, as obsequious as a lapdog delivering its master a handkerchief dropped to the floor by a lady guest.

  “I hope I didn’t mix up the order of your notes.”

  By this she meant “pull yourself together.” I was to play my part. With considerable effort, I managed to wrench my hand free of Van Humbert’s grip; holding on to a moist towel wrapped around the neck of a wine bottle, I tried to ease the pain.

  “Oh no, dear, nothing of the sort. I simply forgot them at home . . . so I spoke from memory.”

  Halit Ayarcı let loose the first guffaw. Then we all joined in chorus. Looking at my muse, Van Humbert said:

  “It’s much better that way. The same thing has happened to me on several occasions. But, you know, you speak much more naturally that way.”

  With this word of assurance, my wife’s anxiety subsided. She smiled sweetly at both Van Humbert and me.

  “Where’s that chimpanzee of yours? Or I should say bulldog?” I asked.

  Halit Ayarcı slightly furrowed his brow to show his distaste for my crude humor. I got the message straightaway and turning to my guest I asked:

  “And how was your trip, sir?”

  “But of course, sir, of course. The ticket you arranged afforded me the most luxurious cabin on the ship.”

  So that meant that perhaps my own signature had authorized the invitation to this silly jackanapes. But the others were keeping quiet on the subject of my speech that night. So, what did I care? Seeing that I spoke from memory, I’ll just make something up. I’ll say I made changes!

  Halit Ayarcı took the opportunity to ask Van Humbert his impressions of Istanbul. We were given all the right answers. The automobile we had provided was very comfortable, and he was quite pleased with the bathroom in his hotel. Though the man who was showing him about town knew no Dutch, his German was rather good.

  “Yes, sir, the Grand Bazaar—the Bedesten—and the copper makers . . .”

  But alas the old man didn’t linger for long in the covered bazaar and quickly moved on to the subject of Ahmet the Timely. He had obviously gone over my book with a fine-tooth comb, and I was soon bombarded by questions. What a difference compared with our critics! It was as if he lingered on every word for particular emphasis. Even Cemal Bey’s criticism amounted to nothing next to what this fellow came up with off the top of his head. At one point he pulled a large wad of paper out of his pocket: a list of questions he had prepared in advance! Such a thing was unbearable at that hour of night. Why in the world had Halit Ayarcı arranged all this without informing me? Why was he always thrusting such situations upon me by force majeure?

  The first few questions were easily deflected. But as they progressed I became entangled in a strange act of mental gymnastics. “Not to worry,” I said to myself. “After ten minutes I’ll just pretend I’ve had too much to drink.” But how to get through those ten minutes?

  Halit Ayarcı was the first to come to my rescue. Handing a freshly filled glass of champagne to our guest he said, “Your stomach must be feeling better now.”

  Van Humbert looked first at his list of questions, and then at the champagne. Clearly there was a civil war raging inside his head. Was he to be a hero or a human being? But the world of illusion prevailed. Flashing one of her famous smiles, Pakize asked Van Humbert if he liked dancing, and by the middle of her next glass she’d expressed sorrow at not having yet been asked to dance. The old dog Humbert nearly leaped for joy. Halit Ayarcı threw his arm around my aunt’s waist, who toppled enough personal effects to fill a suitcase onto my lap before letting him sweep her away. Halit Bey had managed to smooth things over without giving me even half a chance to convey my anger.

  I drained my glass of champagne and, with her shawl, fan, and operetta binoculars in my arms, went off to listen to my older sister-in-law sing, or rather bellow at the top of her lungs, in the second drawing room.

  Ye Gods, what a display of steely self-confidence! What unearthly screeching! And how very pleased she was with the noise she made. The more she wailed, the more hysterical the crowd became. On catching sight of me, the histrionics rose to new heights. Prancing about the room in her purple gown, she seemed even fatter and uglier than ever, yet somehow oddly charming as she teetered over the audience in her high heels—no doubt a consequence of her corset’s grip on her great frame—snapping her fingers as she sang. Finishing the song, she left not a moment to relish the applause and launched directly into a semaiye, a solemn dance number she’d still not mastered despite many years of effort. Like a fine piece of Indian cloth in the hands of an ordinary tailor, the poor semaiye was filleted before my very eyes. This wanton display was applauded by her admirers with equal enthusiasm. And because I had handed over my aunt’s personal effects to Ekrem Bey, who happened to be standing beside me, I too could contribute to the applause. After the semaiye, she massacred one of Dede Efendi’s more beautiful compositions. An entire battalion couldn’t have done worse. But the applause continued unabated. Then she began a rather mournful maya. But this was no longer music! It was like listening to the ululations of a pack of hungry wolves. As a soldier on Satan’s Mountain, I’d listened to both—the maya songs of that region and the howling of its wolves. The maya folk songs gave the soldiers in my company a way to converse with the stars. As their manly voices were overwhelmed with grief, nature itself was rejuvenated. But when my sister-in-law sang the selfsame songs, they brought the grief back home. It was as if the party had become some kind of wake. This was probably why she quickly left the maya for a livelier dance number. She seemed to know no limits. Most of the dancers were now clustered around her. They were clapping. I stood there, open mouthed, watching my sister-in-law invigorate the crowd that was seething around her; forgetting Van Humbert and even myself, I let my mind wander back to that first encounter with Halit Ayarcı in Büyükdere. Toward the middle of the dance number, a young woman no longer able to hold herself back began belly dancing—except she didn’t know how. But what difference did that make? Everyone was happy. Soon she was joined by a middle-aged man who was no doubt her husband or lover and who couldn’t bear to leave her unattended.

  Slowly I pushed my way through the crowd. I left with the intention of finding my wife and our dear guest. But to my surprise, I discovered a new scene unfolding around the jazz group in the other room. And once again our family had taken the lead. In the middle of the room I saw my younger sister-in-law dancing frantically with a young American. Better put, the torture and cruelty they were inflicting on each other in the name of dance knew no limits. She’d taken off her shoes and socks—didn’t she think she was short enough already?—and with one hand in her partner’s and the other holding up her skirt, she was bouncing up and down furiously on the varnished floor (the carpets had been pushed aside). And now she had collapsed on the floor, but before I could race to her rescue, she bounced back up to her feet, threw her arms around her chaperone, thrust her belly about in the most bizarre manner, and thrashed an invisible enemy with her head before throwing herself to the floor again.

  Oh, my oh my. What heedlessness on my part! And I thought I knew my wife’s family. Oh, these miserable creatures were nearly bursting with their imprisoned talents! And how little I knew my wife! I might as well have been blind. The poor woman was foolish and absentminded because she’d lived such a constrained life. Wasn’t it just the same for everyone? The city’s most renowned jazz group struggled to keep pace with my younger sister-in-law. It seemed like the drummer had nine hands, but no matter how frenzied his handwork he still lagged behind. In the other room, my older sister-in-law had half the city gathered around her and was leading a wild hora dance from the Black Sea. Su
ddenly my wife had become the world’s most gracious hostess: I’d had no idea she could converse with a man with such aplomb.

  My aunt gestured to me from across the room, and with tremendous difficulty I made my way over to her through the crowd. In her old ghostlike voice, she said:

  “You silly man, you’ve seen your sister-in-law? Now that’s what I call a human being! And your wife! Shame on you indeed!”

  “Yes, you’re right, Auntie. How could I have married anyone better?”

  “Come now, you weasel. Just admit that you have good luck. If you’d had a real choice in the matter, who knows what kind of miserable creature you might have married.”

  “My wife, well, yes, all right, then. But what about my daughter? How do you find her?”

  She stared at me.

  “If God doesn’t grant me the opportunity to spend all my money before I croak, I swear I’ll leave what’s left to her! You understand?”

  Halit Ayarcı came over to us and said: