Ahmet Tanpinar - A Mind at Peace

Things withdrew farther into the nether reaches, to an inner realm from where they sparkled like the scattered traces of ancient lives or legacies removed from anything personal, isolated and atomized. Just like the fiery glimmer of jewels in the old Topkapı Palace that he’d visited in Nuran’s company, with their own particular astral shine in protective glass encasements, displayed without any recollection of the luminaries who’d once borne and worn them — numerous white hands and slender, straight fingers — without any recollection of chests and necks that were the matron and mirror of all desire. The ferry passed before each, as if wanting to acknowledge them one by one; and Mümtaz, from the corner into which he cringed, watched the deserted streets twisting and winding down beneath street lamps until reaching the Bosphorus and the ferry dock, whose boards yet glistened, and the small public squares and humble coffeehouses recalling the solitude congregating under oil lanterns in Anatolian train stations, coffeehouses living sequestered lives behind misty panes of glass in a state of introspection; each its own presence, they were satisfied to conjure this autumnal night at a complete remove from all other things. Mümtaz frequently murmured to himself, “As if they’re part of another world,” astounded that the life he’d lived up until yesterday had exiled him overnight; and he wanted to be beside Nuran so he could simply ask, “This isn’t really true, is it? I’m mistaken, aren’t I? Do tell me I’m mistaken. Tell me that everything is just as it was, that everything is actually the way it’s supposed to be…”

Stepping through the garden door, İhsan exclaimed, “I saw the pair of them, they’re on their way!” Then, in genuine elation, he quickly approached Tevfik, who was resting in one of the wicker armchairs beneath the large chestnut tree, his legs extended, feet resting on another chair: “The pleasure of your company, my dear sir…” His jacket and hat were in hand, his breathing labored.

The old salt said, “You’re getting old, İhsan!” Tossing away the small throw that he’d placed over his knees, Tevfik gathered his legs and invited Macide, “my fair lady,” to his side. Macide, tossing her sandy hair so it shone in the sun, kissed the elderly man’s hand. He smiled silently at Mümtaz and Nuran as if to say, “You’re a fine couple!” İhsan seated himself before Tevfik.

Mümtaz observed İhsan. He had worn the signs of age for some time. His hair had grayed and a slight paunch drew his torso to the fore. Large circles marked his eyes. But his arms were still sprightly and his body athletic. An expression of inner strength radiated from his face.

“Exquisite weather. Allah sizden razı olsun! May Allah be pleased with you lovebirds.” He closed his eyes tightly against the penetrating autumnal light, turning his face squarely toward the sunshine.

“What’s Sümbül prepared for us, Mümtaz?”

Mümtaz, smiling: “Today Sümbül is but the sous chef. Today’s offerings have been prepared by Nuran herself.”

“Under my supervision,” Tevfik quipped in his sonorous voice. The childlike defiance of a gentleman of refined habit flowed from his face. He was pleased to see İhsan. In fact this invitation of Nuran’s had consumed him. When Nuran announced that she and Mümtaz would be inviting İhsan, he said, “In that case, I’ll prepare the food!” He’d made the list of offerings and selected the ingredients himself.

İhsan uttered effusively, “Oh…!” He hadn’t partaken of Tevfik’s fare for some time. “But is it only your fare? How long has it been since I’ve had the pleasure of your song?”

Tevfik raised his eyes to the firmament before gazing at the garden, the crimson-leaved trees, the tree trunks and branches turning purple in the distance, and the last of the grasses. His eyes traced the path of a bee to the garden gate. A peculiar and chilling warmth passed through his aging body. “D’you suppose anything remains of that voice, İhsan?”

His thoughts turned to bygone seasons, to a time when he’d been given the nickname “Honey-Toned Tevfik.”

“Certainly. It’s no secret that you bear a treasury.” The honor of the moniker had been made by Tevfik’s first mentor, Hüseyin Dede.

Through this recollection, the elderly man grew mournful and said slowly, “May Allah rest his soul. And besides, today you’ll be hearing quite a lot! Mümtaz also invited Emin along with Artist Cemil,” and in a soft voice he added, “I haven’t yet had the honor of meeting this Cemil.”

İhsan, overjoyed: “This Mümtaz is a true anomaly! He’s expanding his entourage to be sure. But how did you get the idea for this?”

“In three days’ time I’ll be moving to Istanbul. Before Nuran goes, she thought we should all gather again.”

“Where did you come across Emin?”

“I ran into him on the street. And he’s promised to play the Ferahfezâ suite.”

Tevfik leaned toward İhsan. “How many years have we turned back the clock, d’you suppose?”

“We exist in a region of timelessness, that is to say, forever in the same place.”

“Yes, always in the same place.” He felt like an aged, massive chinar that reigned over its surroundings. It’d be of no consequence should death catch him in this state. Hopefully he’d pass quickly through that portal, surrounded by everything he loved. He coughed slowly, and made as if to test the cadence of his voice: “I wonder if I can still keep pace with Emin Dede’s ney .” Dying and succumbing to death are two separate things… He’d witnessed the demise of acquaintances from a few generations one after another. The forests around him had thinned so this old chinar might stand out fully. The experience was so unsettling that for a time he’d thought, Maybe I won’t die at all! Maybe death has forgotten me, and such a thought was becoming of his self-confidence, his bodily strength, and the sybaritic selfishness nourished by them; but for a year now… Thus, he wanted to go up against Emin’s ney . Fifteen years ago such a contest wouldn’t have entered his thoughts. With an “Ah!” emanating from the depths of his being, he’d have made the parlor chandeliers where he was being feted chime, or with a single resounding high C, he’d have shattered the glass before him.

Communing with Emin Dede might demonstrate that everything hadn’t yet come to an end. The old man had even brought his kudüm drums along.

For a year now Tevfik had been curiously preparing for death. And he did so with the noble composure he’d displayed throughout life. He knew how to assume responsibility for his actions. And now he was attempting to confront fate. Not that he wasn’t afraid. He harbored a great affection for life. As he approached frailty and senescence, he’d come to appreciate the tastes and indulgences of this fluke phantasy, a chance composed of the material. He’d ceded all his visions and his existence became what it was; that is, a body riddled by all manner of disease. And this body wanted to reaffirm its existence.

İhsan: “Suad shall grace us with his presence as well.” Mümtaz’s face fell.

Macide, who’d witnessed this, exclaimed innocently, “Don’t do that, he’s the only person who’s flattered me in my life.”

İhsan, wearing his always saintly grin, said thoughtfully, “I knew it wouldn’t please you. But he does have an unusual appeal and strain of intelligence, though he’s the type who doesn’t know where or how to apply it… And maybe that’s why he’s disturbed. It seems to me that he’s always banging his head against some wall or other. Apparently he caught sight of you the other day in Beyoǧlu, but you pretended not to see him!”