Ahmet Tanpinar - A Mind at Peace

It was a long, cynical letter that mocked almost everything, full of the quiet torments suffered by the inner self. As Mümtaz read, he sensed that Suad had seized him at a profound level. He didn’t ascribe to any of his ideas. But he did share in his anguish. Mümtaz realized that Suad would no longer let him be himself, that he’d become part of the realities of his everyday life. Then he remembered what they’d discussed the day Mümtaz first saw Nuran, as Mümtaz accompanied Suad to the ferry that would take him to the sanatorium.

As usual, when they were parting, Suad teased him. “Don’t look at my face with such remorse as if I’m actually dead,” he’d said. “I have absolutely no intention of surrendering this world to you alone.”

Suad had indeed kept his word. However his jest had unsettled Mümtaz then, now that it had become a reality, albeit differently and more poignantly, it continued to gnaw at him.

The notion of Suad, like the notion of Nuran, like all the rest, wouldn’t let him be, and insomuch as Mümtaz would bear these notions for the duration of his days, he’d be rent asunder by countless maelstroms.

It was twenty past five by the time Mümtaz returned to Eminönü after taking leave of İclâl and Muazzez. He watched trolley-borne crowds rejecting each effort made to board. Short of another option, he could hail a taxi. But then he’d arrive at Beyazıt early. He’d run into Orhan that morning and had said, “Expect me at six o’clock at the Küllük coffeehouse!” There was time yet. He didn’t want to sit in the coffeehouse by himself before they arrived. He knew so many people. . For the first time in a fortnight he was to meet up with friends, and he worried that hangers-on would disturb their gathering. I’m a defenseless man!

His own thought stunned him; indeed, he was a defenseless man. At will others could impose themselves and their desires on him. And was that all? His thoughts perpetually orbitted Nuran. But he hadn’t been as battered and bruised as he’d feared. He trudged absently in the quiet reserve of one accustomed to the betrayals of fate. Beneath the archway of the Yeni Cami, so pleasing to him on a breezy summer day, he once again repeated, I’m a defenseless man… Anyone could just walk away with everything I have.

He stopped temporarily amid the throngs of Sultanhamam and looked around. This must certainly be the busiest place in the city: a seething array of people, automobiles, and trucks. A modern painter could represent this jumble framed by caravanserai windows without it being a facile statement! But the cacophony of it all.

Fine, but why am I not thinking about Nuran? Or rather, why can’t I? It was as if İclâl and Muazzez had absolved him of all of his troubles, the torment that rent his heart, and even the opulent love he’d shared with Nuran. I’m close to saying that I’m relieved this matter is finally over! He traced this change in himself with curiosity and trepidation. Not that he’d completely forgotten about Nuran; indeed, he was walking alongside a phantasy of her, as though they were separated by great distances, vast currents of water, or unknown obstacles. This must be an effect of death’s etiquette! The old saw about water under the bridge came to mind. It resembled that.

He slowly climbed the hill. Death gives rise to the human capacity for accepting the inevitable! Maybe this was a natural effect of such situations. War was imminent. He’d witnessed with his own eyes how the black market had come to life. But he wasn’t too distraught over that, either; at least he didn’t harbor any feelings of revolt. Seeing as it’s a forgone conclusion. Seeing as there’s no recourse! Why should he be so agitated? Through the lens of war he again looked around. Would the market be able to sustain this level of commerce in six months? Of course, the abundance in these shops wouldn’t last. He skeptically scrutinized the display windows full of fabrics, ladies’ apparel, faience earthenware, and everyday bric-a-brac. Automobiles plied the crowds, parting person from person and pushing them out of the way.

A street porter approached in slow motion, bearing a massive load on his back, his neck and torso weighted down under the burden. Walking toward Mümtaz from the crest of the hill, the porter’s two arms dangled at either side, and in a rather bold economy of line, his forehead and cheeks appeared to meld as his chin remained tucked away and out of sight. For Mümtaz, this anatomical geometry recalled Pierre Puget’s caryatids in Toulon. But he immediately doubted his own description. Did such an economy of line truly exist? The porter, more exactly, in order to see his way, trudged forward with his entire face exposed upright. It’s rather that his head isn’t situated upon his shoulders but appears to emerge from his torso. Voilà, this was a head that had been adjoined to the torso. But that wasn’t quite accurate either. We’re unable to see! We pay scant attention to detail! We simply speak from rote! Large beads of sweat poured from the man’s forehead; as he passed Mümtaz, he wiped his forehead with his hand so the droplets wouldn’t obscure his line of sight. Mümtaz intricately recalled the gesture of the thick, dark hand: It alone constituted a nightmare.

The measure of the porter’s entire corpus served to gauge his every step. He saw with his eyes, though he surveyed, weighed, and considered with each step. No, maybe he didn’t consider, but only surveyed. Mümtaz stopped again to look back. The porter was only seven or eight strides beyond him. Where the edge of the weighty wooden crate ended began the full, formless, patchwork drape of white muslin pantaloons. He doesn’t resemble Puget’s giants at all. They display an expression of taut muscle and might emanating from the entire body. Meanwhile, this poor man has been swallowed whole by the load on his back! In his mind’s eye, Mümtaz once again conjured the man’s face in all its vividness. It bore neither any expression of strength nor any trace of thought. The porter signified stride only, stride and one more stride. He lived diminished, fragmented by the steps of his own feet. Only his hands exhibited astounding fortitude.

Mümtaz shook his head, remembering the well-intentioned law that had gone into effect a few years ago prohibiting the transport of cargo on the backs of men. For a few days the heart of Istanbul had been a picture of utter confusion. Newly instituted handcarts and wagons had congested the roads and the business of transport had actually grown more laborious. Then, slowly, the law was forgotten and everything returned to the status quo; this porter and his like had been reunited with their work, and the natural order had returned. Just like the League of Nations, like peace conferences, like the desire for vast cooperative ventures, antiwar propaganda and protest art. The individuals of our age and the fate of this porter melded in Mümtaz’s thoughts, both were manifestations of lack and impossibility.

Who was he? How did he live and what did he think about? Was he married and did he have children? The wares he’d seen a few hours ago at the flea market, the multitude of those cheap overalls and faded dresses were meant for the likes of him. People whose lives he’d never be able to fully fathom. On occasion in newspapers, amid big, serious debates, photographs of stars mollycoddled like life’s rare flowers, and the faits accomplis of world events, a two- or three-line anecdote, report of a murder or an unexpected death might appear — momentarily illuminating the lives of such riffraff, who remained in shadow though living in plain sight — solely because the passing glint of a gun, a dagger, or a Bursa-forged knife shone above them or a collapsing building had crushed them — before they were forgotten yet again. Mümtaz thought of the poor living in houses of mud brick and tin below Taksim Square, on one side of the hill that descended down to Fındıklı, around Unkapanı. Streets in which dirty water and sewage flowed openly, where children of blind chance grew and matured till they transferred their primary haunts to dry fountain basins, sidewalks, or underpasses.