Ahmet Tanpinar - The Time Regulation Institute

“No, the diamond was part of the treasure of the emperor Andronikos!”

My answer didn’t please them one bit: they put it down as an attempt to appear mentally unfit.

My aunt’s husband, Nasit Bey, was one of the creditors. He kept an attentive eye on me, assuming the air of a close relative. He was extremely conscientious in answering questions. But he didn’t know me; he didn’t know me at all. No, Abdüsselam Bey had never spoken to him of such a diamond. He had once promised him that he would repay him “when things got better.” And the old man had once told him, “I am richer than you might imagine.” They had known each other for a long time. And indeed Abdüsselam Bey was a rich man. As for the diamond, Nasit Bey went on to say that such an heirloom might exist in an old family of this repute: “A dynasty stretching back a hundred fifty years…” And they seemed satisfied that my own intentions in the matter were good. At least that is what they said. My aunt herself had said as much during the trial. My father, she said, had paid little attention to my upbringing. He’d always had his eye on making money; he’d thought of little else. He had even tried to stop my aunt from marrying Nasit Bey, asking Seyit Lutfullah to work his magic on them. So my aunt had said to Nasit Bey, “Yes, let’s get married. I absolutely must save Hayri from the grip of his money-grubbing father!” But my aunt had thoroughly despised me from the moment my father, taking advantage of her temporary loss of consciousness, had tried to bury her, using me as an accomplice.

“The truth is the whole family is a little greedy. My wife is the only generous one — she at least is endowed with a humane touch,” Nasit Bey said at one point during the trial.

Of course we also heard about the mosque whose construction had been handed down to us by Ahmet Efendi the Some Timer, but the story was horribly mangled in the telling: According to this version, my father had squandered all the money his grandfather had put aside for the mosque.

Nasit Bey paused repeatedly to pull his handkerchief from his pocket and clean the lenses of his spectacles or mop the sweat from his brow. He kept calm, speaking at a slow and steady pace and offering prompt answers, but only when addressed. Even so, he spoke in such a way as to leave a certain ambiguity in the air, as if to invite further interrogation about other family concerns that had yet to be addressed, even as he swore it had never been his intention to bring any of these matters into question in the first place. It was by following this strategy that he was at last able to bring up the temporary death of my aunt. It was like watching a man dispatch a polished object across a smooth table with only the slightest flick of his finger.

Why was Nasit Bey treating me with such hostility? What did he want from me? Why was he so bent on ruining me, and why and where had he mustered such ambition? It was beyond comprehension. His speech sent me spinning. But even before he so much as opened his mouth, I could feel my blood coursing through my body, robbing me of all peace. I had, I suppose, been undone by his cold and clever calculations, his ironclad determination.

Then something snapped. I felt instantly lighter, as if relieved of an immense burden, as if layer upon layer of worry had suddenly evaporated. From the very beginning of this bizarre and absurd trial, I had been expecting — and dreading — a change of heart along just these lines. This lightness in my soul — this impertinent indifference — signaled the opening of a door that had remained tightly shut since my marriage to Emine.

It was as if Nasit Bey had deliberately set out to pull Emine away from the door she had been guarding with such angelic vigilance. So the moment he finished speaking, I called out in the loudest voice I could possibly muster:

“No, no! My aunt actually died. And she was about to be buried when she came back to life — and now she lives among us as a ghost! She came back from the dead because she couldn’t part with her money. If you don’t believe me, then ask for a picture and see for yourselves. It’s the latest fashion these days, getting your picture taken. Take a good look at these pictures, or summon her here and see her in the flesh. Have a word with her! Then you’ll see that what I say is true!”

Everyone was shocked. But what did I care? I couldn’t have felt more comfortable. I was calm, and there was a lightness in my soul. The others were all clinging to their own particular version of the truth, bending time to suit their purposes; I saw no reason not to follow suit.

I continued:

“As for my aunt’s humane disposition — well, she said she never again wanted to see my face, never mind allow me to pay her a visit. She never lets anyone visit her. And she’s never loved anyone. She’s a mean and ill-tempered woman, a slave to her whims and desires. So afraid that someone might rob her, she slept in the coal cellar, with the money she hid there. There was just one man she could bear: this swindler, this profiteer who got fat on the war… She even tolerated his beanpole of a daughter.”

And then I added:

“His original plan was to foist her on me. But I refused: I couldn’t bear the sight of her. Back then, Nasit Bey was poorer than I was. But now that he’s rich, he’s suddenly become my enemy. Probably because he knows that when my aunt dies, her entire fortune will go to me.”

I still blush when I think back on all this. Nasit Bey had turned me into a man I didn’t recognize. At that moment I gladly would have been turned into a snake, just so I could lash out and bite him. Though such metamorphosis was denied me, I could at least stab my finger at him as I cried:

“War profiteer! Soap and sugar smuggler! What do you want from me?”

Another rumble of dissent from the crowd. The hearing went to a recess. Nasit Bey flashed me a saccharine smile before leaving the hall. I had given him everything he wanted, in fact even more.

Fifteen minutes later they announced that I was to be sent to the Department of Justice Medical Facility.

This is where I came to meet Dr. Ramiz. When they took me into the office, he was waiting for me with the director of the facility. He gave my story the utmost attention, declaring an interest in my case and accepting me as a patient. After leaving the director, we went straight to the doctor’s office. At the time the medical institute was in one of the annexes of the Dolmabahçe Palace. Dr. Ramiz’s office was in the basement. It was a narrow and depressing little room whose only window looked at the garden wall. Against one wall of the office was a sink with a leaking faucet. Upon entering the room, Dr. Ramiz went straight to the sink and washed his hands, while I stood in the corner, contemplating my fate.

On my way over to Dolmabahçe I’d caught a glimpse of the sea, and for just a moment I was pulled away from the fate to which I had become accustomed, losing myself in those deep-blue waters, awash in the glow of the autumn sun.

My thoughts were in disarray. My wife, my children, and my home seemed a million miles away, lost to me forever.

Once again I was seized by the fear that had haunted me throughout the proceedings. What if they involved my wife? It was strange that the judge had kept her out of the trial. This gave me hope. I took it to mean that he didn’t take the accusations against me seriously. But if that was the case, then why had he sent me here? No, he was just buying time. Soon enough they would entangle Emine in this infernal web. Though ten days had passed since my detention, I was able to visit with my wife in the courtyard before I was taken away — her arms tightly wrapped around my neck, her eyes drawn, her cheeks hollow, her voice hoarse, her hands burning with fever. I thought of her as I stood before the window, studying the last flowers of the season, dusty and forlorn, at the base of the garden wall, struggling to stay alive but surrounded by misery. A bee buzzed lazily over my head and landed on the window screen, a few inches from my nose. Cries of pain and anguish echoed through the building: Never before had I heard such sounds. Ramiz Bey had finished washing his hands and was now busy dousing them with the lemon cologne he had taken out of his bag.