Ahmet Tanpinar - A Mind at Peace

İclâl spoke quite sparingly in comparison with Muazzez. She was drawn to minutia, cataloging the information gathered by Muazzez, dramatizing aspects and turning them into human interest stories.

All manner of interpretation, light, and coloring sprang from her. This was why Muazzez, even if among a hundred people, would gaze at her and conclude any statement by saying, “I don’t know, what would you say, İclâl?”

Mümtaz’s greatest pleasure was to watch the pair leave the university each evening, head to head, arm in arm. He’d nicknamed them “the two shrews of Zeynep’s boardinghouse,” and he’d rib them by saying, “The president of the university doesn’t know what these two know,” or, “Ask Muazzez. If she’s had no news of such and such, it never happened. If İclâl has no recollection of so-and-so, it’s of no importance, don’t worry about it.” But there was a distinction between İclâl and Muazzez: The former learned only by happenstance while the latter actively investigated an event with great curiosity. Since İclâl was well aware of her friend’s disposition, she’d restrained herself from introducing Muazzez — whom she’d known since high school, loved dearly, and considered a close confidante — into her own family circle.

İclâl’s relatives, from Muazzez’s point of view, were simply companions, frequently mentioned yet forever absent.

That morning as well Muazzez revealed a cache of information to Mümtaz. She reported on the Bosphorus residence in Yeniköy that belonged to an old Ottoman Greek family and was sold off for next to nothing; on the neighboring house that had been painted crimson, causing the bridegroom scarcely wed into the family to bolt upon seeing it, exclaiming that he couldn’t live in such a tasteless home — obviously a pretense for separation; on the tiff between two women of ill repute four days prior in one of the drinking holes of Arnavutköy; on Çakır, the fisherman in Bebek, who’d made purchase of a new rowboat; and on the announcements of three engagements and two weddings. Since İclâl wasn’t present, however, none of the accounts could be analyzed or interpreted to its fullest dramatic potential. That is to say, İclâl’s observations truly contained an important element of synthesis.

“So, have you finished your dissertation?”

“Last night,” Mümtaz said, complementing his puerile embarrassment with childish glee: “Last night I drew a long line across the bottom of the last page. Beneath that, I drew another, thicker than the first, then another, and at the very bottom I wrote May 4, 11:05 P.M. I signed my name. Next I rose and went out on the balcony. I took three or four restorative breaths in the Swedish fashion. And now I’m heading to Büyükada.” If it hadn’t embarrassed him, he would have continued by saying, “I’m twenty-six, I live in a comfortable house on a hilltop in Emirgân, I’m not much for dancing, I have no luck with fishing because I’m impatient, but I’m an avid sailor — at least I have a flair for surviving seaborne accidents — for your sake, I could eat two plates of yogurt-and-watercress salad a day, and even limit the cigarettes I smoke to just a single pack.”

This delirium resulted somewhat from the completion of his dissertation. His pleasure mounted as he mused, because from now on he was free, he could wander and roam about at will, and he could read whatever struck his fancy. Finishing on May 4 meant earning the summer. For the first time in four years, that spectacular winged gryphon known as summer was his. For four months, Istanbul, the abode of felicity, was his. Of course, there were exams to minister, but what of it? He could always find a way out.

Wearing her mute smile, Nuran continued to listen, maintaining a peculiar attention to detail, as if she effectively existed in her eyes. The sheen of these eyes ruled her person the way the movements of the sun dictated what we knew as the day. As Mümtaz regarded her, he had to give İclâl credence: Nuran was beautiful indeed. She had a certain je ne sais quoi.

“İclâl spoke of you frequently this past winter. She’d mentioned that you lived by yourself in a house on the Bosphorus…”

“Yes, through an unforeseen turn of events. A few summers ago, my cousin İhsan found a wonderful house. That winter he and his family moved out and I stayed behind.”

“Didn’t you suffer from boredom there?”

“Not really. I’d come down to the city frequently besides. Not to mention it’s a place that I’ve known since my childhood. Not that it wasn’t difficult at first. But when spring erupted…”

Both of them together by separate routes meandered back to a month ago, recollecting the ruby blossoms of the Judas trees and the way they extended their poised branches over every yard. Nuran wanted to think that Mümtaz, like herself, didn’t conjure these beauties through a matrix of pain and agony. But she knew that within a span of a few weeks, not to mention when he was just eleven — as İclâl had related — Mümtaz had lost his mother and father. Life could poison one at any age. Waiting in line on the way onto the ferry, she’d overheard two boys talking about the difficulties of making ends meet. Were these topics to be discussing at such an age?

“… the old man, he has no money… If he did, it’d be a different story. If it were within his power, he’d sacrifice his life for us. I realized there was no end in sight, so I insisted I didn’t want to go to school. Teachers aren’t aware of such things anyway; they just complain, ‘This one will never amount to anything!’ So I put in as an apprentice. A pittance of a lira fifty a week, spend it as you like… In any case, I was spared paying for fees and the ferryboat. They give me lunch as well. But I can’t take the smell of grease. My stomach turns. I’m like my mother was with her morning sickness…”

“Wasn’t there any other work?”

“Yeah, but the pay wasn’t enough. Because it was a craft trade, they didn’t pay anything to start. Never mind, at the kitchen with tips and all we make up to ten lira. Once my father gets well, I’m going to work as a cobbler’s apprentice… That is, if he does get well.”

Nuran turned around to discover that he was an adolescent of twelve or thirteen, skinny and olive-eyed. As he walked, he leaned on a freshly cut branch that he used as a crutch. In his bearing mingled remorse, sarcasm, and inborn grace.

Sabih asked Mümtaz, “Did you find the seventy-eights?”

“I did. They’re a bit scuffed. But they contain songs and pieces we’ve never heard before! İhsan, who’s a savant in these matters, says in that case we don’t know one percent of what’s really out there. If only somebody would come around and promote these songs, have sheet music published, make recordings; that is, if we could just save ourselves a little from today’s popular music! Just think for a minute, you’re a country that’s given rise to a musician like İsmail Dede Efendi; composers like Seyid Nuh, Ebubekir Aǧa, and Hafız Post have come along and composed extraordinary works. Part of our identity has been formed by their artistry. We’re not even aware that we’re living in a state of spiritual hunger… This is the catastrophe: Assume that today’s generation vanished. These works, many of which are only known by heart, will simply vanish. Just think about what Münir Nurettin Selçuk alone knows.”

Sabih turned to Nuran. “Did you know that Mümtaz cultivated such interest in our traditional music?”

Nuran cast him a cordial glance. With a grin that made her face resemble ripened fruit, she said, “No, İclâl must have kept that detail to herself…”

Adile’s voice twitched with the trepidation of having been abandoned, and like a cat arching its back and padding out of the cupboard where it had been napping, she said, “Honestly, I get annoyed at such types. As if they can see into others…”