Ahmet Tanpinar - A Mind at Peace

Doubtless, her visit to the tenant was never made in vain; she’d at least get a portion of the rent, regardless. Her temerity astonished both Mümtaz and İhsan, though, all things considered, it wasn’t that surprising.

Though İhsan’s mother cherished Arife, she couldn’t stand her chatter. As Arife the gossip’s visit to the house dragged on, Sabire’s rage, which Arife had known since childhood, mounted. When it finally peaked, a taxi was summoned, and they would set out together, Arife not in the least bit wise to where she was being taken; first the elderly, faithful maidservant would be dropped off at the Üsküdar-bound ferry landing with a “Farewell, my dear Arife, I’ll have them call for you again, won’t that do?” before İhsan’s mother would head straightaway to the shop.

As might be expected, snubbing the landlady when she appeared in such a state of mind constituted something of a challenge. The pitiful man had attempted to do so a few times by complaining of stomach pains and whatnot. On the instance of the first occasion, Sabire suggested he brew mint leaves, and on the second, she advised him to try a more complex remedy, but on the third visit, when she again was met with complaints of ill health, she asked, “Have you taken my cures?” In response to his negative reply, she snapped, “In that case, don’t ever mention such ailments to me again, is that clear?” During this third visit the shopkeeper realized he couldn’t evade the old matron whose temperament fluctuated between fury and guilt. On her arrival he ordered her a customary coffee, feigned one or two calculations at his desk, and as soon as she’d finished her demitasse, he shuffled her off while stuffing an envelope into her obliging hands. Afterward she roamed from shop to shop, a taxi to sport her about, hunting for gifts appropriate for all, only to return home after spending every last penny. İhsan and Mümtaz considered this store, its rent, and the tenant, along with Arife, who might even be considered part of the old manse herself, the lady’s sole amusement and diversion, the single greatest entertainment with which she filled her spare time; and because she was heartened by it all, they did nothing but indulge her.

On the Island of İhsan, whatever one did was tolerated; each phantasy, each curiosity was met, if not with a chuckle then with a smirk. The lord of the island wanted it so; he believed if things were this way, everyone would be content. Brick by brick, he’d built this happiness over long years. Now, however, fate was testing him a second time. İhsan was infirm. Today’s the eighth day, thought Mümtaz. They’d come to believe that even-numbered days would pass quietly.

Shrugging off the daze brought on by poor sleep, Mümtaz plodded downstairs. Little Sabiha had put on his slippers and was sitting resentfully in the open hall.

Mümtaz couldn’t bear the way the wild sylph sat silently so. Granted, Ahmet was reserved too. But he was this way by nature. He felt forever blameworthy. Especially since he’d learned the heartrending circumstances of his birth — from whom? How? A mystery. Perhaps one of the neighbors had told him — he was always in a corner and always felt awkward at home. Were he indulged overly much, he’d assume they were patronizing him and tears would well in his eyes. Misfortune of this sort was rife. Some were condemned from birth — the reed stalk snapped off on its own. Not Sabiha, who was their enchanted fairy tale. She wandered about, spun yarns, and sang songs. Her jubilation, the riot and ruckus she made, often reverberated over the Island of İhsan.

She’d hardly slept at all for three days. Feigning sleep on the broad divan in the oriel window, she’d watched over her father with the others.

With delight, Mümtaz regarded the nymph’s wan countenance and sunken eyes as much as he possibly could. Her hair had been missing its bow now for days.

“I won’t wear the red ribbon now. When father gets better, I’ll dress up!” she’d said three days ago with her usual coquetry and through the grin and charm that appeared when she wanted to be friendly. When Mümtaz showed her some affection, however, she began to weep. Sabiha wept in two ways. The first was a childish cry, the forced cry of one playing the brat: Her face contorted, her voice hit an odd pitch, and she kicked and stomped; all told, like every child swathed in selfishness, she became a petite afreet.

Then there was the way she cried when confronted by genuine sorrow, to the extent that her young mind was able to grasp, a suppressed and halting cry. At least she’d withhold her tears for a while. Her expression changed, her lips trembled, and she averted her wet eyes. She wouldn’t square her shoulders as with the other, but virtually let them droop. These were tears she shed when she felt ignored, belittled, or treated unfairly. When she did shut off the rest of the family from her child’s âlem, a world she so wanted to make decent and cordial, an eternally vibrant realm embellished with coral branches and mother-of-pearl flowers, Mümtaz sensed that even her red velvet ribbon had lost its luster.

Sabiha had chanced upon the bow herself a few months after her second birthday. She’d simply handed her mother a dark red ribbon that she’d found on the ground and demanded, “Tie it in my hair.” Thereafter she wouldn’t stand to have it removed. Over the years, the ribbon had grown from a fashion accessory into a signature item. A red ribbon marked everything of Sabiha’s, and she handed them out like a queen bestowing knighthood. Kittens, dolls, objects of which she was fond — particularly her new bedstead — everyone and everything that was the object of her affections received one. Not to mention that the honor might even be revoked by special proclamation. On one occasion, the cook had scolded her for acting spoiled and, not satisfied with that, complained to her mother, sending Sabiha into a tantrum; later the girl politely requested that the cook remove the bow she’d given her. The truth of the matter was that Sabiha’s dainty girlhood warranted such rewards and punishments. At any rate, she was the one who had established the sole sultanate of the house before the onset of the disease. Even Ahmet found his little sister’s dominion, which had begun to take root in everyone’s heart, natural. For Sabiha had arrived after a tragedy that had shaken the house to its foundations. Certainly, Macide was still unstable when she’d given birth to her. And Macide’s return to life and sanity coincided with Sabiha’s birth. Macide’s affliction hadn’t passed completely. She suffered small episodes: concocting stories as before, giving her voice the cadence of a sweet little girl’s, or for hours on end waiting at the window — or wherever she happened to be — for the return of Zeynep, the oldest daughter about whom she never spoke.

The accident was a misfortune of epic proportions. İhsan and the doctors had done everything within their power to keep news of the tragedy from Macide, but no one could conceal the distress and anguish from this woman yet writhing through her first contractions. In the end Macide learned of what had befallen her daughter from the nurses. From where she lay, she dragged herself with difficulty to the body, saw the corpse laid out, and stood petrified before it. After that she wasn’t herself again.