Ahmet Tanpinar - A Mind at Peace

Adile made as many mistakes as the next person, but she was possessed of a virtue: When she understood her error, she didn’t hesitate to take appropriate action.

No, she wouldn’t be extending any invitations. Now she only desired one thing: to inform Sabih at the earliest convenience that she’d had a change of heart. It was nothing short of annoyance for a thought to remain in the good lady’s head without being expressed to Sabih, especially such a vital decision, without being conveyed in the most direct and concise manner. Not to mention that the gravity of this decision was on par with a death sentence. Mümtaz would later think that this verdict really had more to do with Nuran; Adile had a soft spot for men. They weren’t as devious as women; even the ugliest among them possessed such sweetness and tameness that…

He was convinced that Adile wouldn’t make a sacrifice of him, that she’d even invite him over this very week; yet, he was also certain that Nuran would only be allowed to pay a visit alone.

Next to Adile’s fixations, Sabih’s were much more elementary. He was overcome with great hopes upon seeing the attraction between Mümtaz and Nuran. Since the last fiasco, having to do with bath fixtures — a Polish friend of his had circumvented that — Adile had taken out all her sorrows on her husband’s treatment for uritis. For months now he’d been eating boiled carrots and buttered vegetables. Especially after Nuri’s wedding, his diet had become exceptionally strict. For weeks he hadn’t seen a drop of rakı. Would that an unexpected guest stop in for a visit! As fortune would have it, not a soul stepped foot into their neighborhood. If these two fools managed this matter well enough, tomorrow evening even… No, tomorrow night Sabih saw himself with a plate of boiled carrots and fresh zucchini before him again, as on the previous night and the night before. He sighed. People were cruel indeed. Life was unbearable; what difference was there between eating carrots and eating one of your own legs like a hungry spider? Eating one of its own legs… He’d read about it in the French newspaper spread before him that morning.

From where she sat, Adile resembled one such spider, and her thoughts — with an appetite of that voracity — were consuming her. Directly, she noticed Fatma growing increasingly more impatient at the other end of the table. The girl was rather pretty, but this beauty was undercut by an astounding brattiness. Apparently she was jealous of her mother’s attentions. A glint of hope sparkled within Adile, her heart opened up like a Japanese paper flower unfolding in water, and she was overcome by eternal compassion and affection. An entire horizon opened before her. As she looked at the girl, she realized that this budding dalliance would never come to pass. The poor little thing. . Adile immediately began to fawn over her. With affection that would make daemons of torment weep, she asked the girl how she was. Fatma, realizing she was being pitied, furrowed her brows, and Nuran, stunned in the anticipation of the imminent downpour, glanced at her as if to say, “Please don’t.” Without returning the glance, Adile pranced down a path of compassion and consideration: “Tell me then, do you still dance as well as you used to? Like on the night you came and played at our house, you remember… Whatever happened to your train set?” How her voice glided like velvet. How it knew to slip deep into one’s inner recesses. The train set and dancing had been a part of the previous New Year’s Eve celebration that they’d all spent together, her papa included. Adile’s sympathy had selected this memory carefully… as if picking a dagger from an attic full of forgotten objects.

This alone provoked the most poignant reaction from Fatma, catapulting her out of the introversion she’d sunken into, out of the anguish of having been forgotten. That day Mümtaz learned the precise degree to which the mind of a jealous child could be an intrument of mischief. During the entire ferry crossing, Fatma didn’t allow Nuran a free moment. The young mother had been all but subdued by an afreet. Only with her smile was Nuran present among them. By the beacon of this remote smile, Mümtaz listened to Sabih’s insights into the present state of world affairs. Due to the deprivations he was forced to suffer, the Great Carrotivore was exacting his revenge from mankind. As though indicating, “Here’s my evidence,” the palm of one hand pressed down on the French newspapers before him, he denounced one and all.

Had Mümtaz not been able to see Nuran’s countenance in the arcane depths where it had withdrawn in faraway conversation with Adile, had he not been able to see her graceful smile illuminating her face, he’d have been forced to conclude that the end of the world was upon them — presently a rather welcome eventuality — and that this procession of fools known as mankind deserved such a fate as Armageddon. Nuran’s smile, however, her sandy hair gathered atop her head like a season complete, convinced him that life had its horizons, aside from and surpassing politics and causes, more beautiful and more apt to transport one to realms of tranquility; her presence convinced him that contentment came within an arm’s length at times, and that mortal existence was configured more soundly than he’d assumed. As the ferry approached the island, this optimism within Mümtaz met with strains of agony. Once there, he’d have to separate from Nuran and her daughter.

Mümtaz regretted hurrying away as soon as he’d left them. He shouldn’t have abandoned Nuran like that. Perhaps I can catch sight of her, he thought, and waited at some remove from the ferry landing. The crowd flowed ceaselessly. As the passengers and those who’d come to greet them thinned, he first noticed Sabih and Adile — Adile could walk only a short distance on the street without leaning on her husband. For her, in all probability, one of the sound ways of fully exploiting the resource known as a husband was to have him carry her, if only partially, while they were out and about; presently they were locked arm in arm. Sabih, as if wanting to create a ballast of world affairs to counter Adile’s heft, which dragged down his starboard side, carried a roll of newspapers in the opposite arm, his forehead furrowed in aggravation; doubtless, he forged ahead with a litany of ideas and comparisons about the ordered regulations of ferry docking and departure in the countries of the West.

Mümtaz shielded himself behind another group to avoid being drawn into further conversation with the couple. Soon Nuran and her daughter appeared. Evidently, so she could walk with greater ease, Nuran had chosen to remain onboard until the very last. With her face lowered toward her daughter, wearing a sweet and simple grin, she walked on, explaining something or another.

But neither the smile nor talk lasted long. As soon as they exited the station building, Fatma shouted, “Papa! Mother, Papa’s coming,” and bolted forward. What Mümtaz witnessed then, he’d scarcely ever forget. Nuran’s face turned ashen white. Mümtaz looked about; twenty or twenty-five paces before him approached a blond woman, thick-boned and full-breasted, if not stunningly beautiful — when he thought of this scene later, he decided, At least beautiful for some men — accompanied by a swarthy man of about thirty-five with black hair, whose arms and face were bronzed by the sun and whose bearing gave the impression that he enjoyed water sports. Nuran’s entire body trembled. As the thick-boned woman passed, Mümtaz heard her whisper softly, half in Turkish, half in French: “But c’est scandaleux! Fâhir, for God’s sake, shut her up!” Fâhir and his mistress finally neared Nuran. In a flurry of “God bless” and “Oh, what a pretty child,” Emma took Fatma into her arms. Fâhir, meanwhile, stood as if he were made of ice. He’d only managed to bring himself to caress the girl’s cheek. A strange, awkward exchange ensued. From where she stood, Nuran continued to tremble; Emma, stressing each syllable she uttered to the breaking point, fawned, “Oh, what a beautiful girl!” and Fatma, distraught by this stranger’s affections, and especially by her father’s cool distance, clung to her mother’s skirts and wept. An onlooker might have concluded that the episode had been orchestrated by Nuran, or that Fâhir hadn’t missed his chance at a snub of indifference toward his ex-wife in front of Emma. Nuran put an end to the bitter episode, which could have lasted hours, with a gesture that revealed much of her character: Taking her daughter into her arms, she walked between the two of them and a short distance ahead boarded a phaeton-for-hire. As they passed, Mümtaz noticed that Fatma was convulsing in tears. He felt a twinge of distress. At the head of the road, his friends were awaiting him. He approached them: