Ahmet Tanpinar - The Time Regulation Institute

There was a knock at the door; a warden opened it and suddenly the screams from down the hall were much louder.

“Salim Bey says we’re to open the body. Aren’t you coming?”

My entire body shuddered in fear. Vigorously shaking his cologne-soaked hand, Ramiz Bey replied:

“No, I’m busy here. Have them boil the intestines. I’ll come have a look later.”

Then he turned to me.

“There’s been a case of poisoning, or rather we suspect as much.”

Once again he picked up his briefcase. It was made of yellow leather, with a handsome and intricate interior, and there was a lock on the outside. It soon became apparent that my future friend never carried any of his personal effects on him, keeping them instead in this briefcase; and each time he replaced an item he had just used, he would close and lock the case with considerable haste. He took out a packet of cigarettes and offered me one. Then he took one for himself. I searched for my matchbox but couldn’t find it, so he lit both our cigarettes before ordering coffee from the warden, who was still standing at the door.

Dr. Ramiz was a young man, somewhere in his thirties, slightly taller than average, with a light-olive complexion and a physique bordering on plump. His large, vacant eyes were pitch black. But on first looking at him you didn’t notice his eyes or his rather ordinary face. You were nevertheless left feeling that there was something about it that wasn’t right. Then, as you came to know him, you began to see how badly put together it all was, with his overgrown forehead, his overly symmetrical bone structure, and, last but not least, his chin, which ended abruptly, like a fugitive struggling to break free of its unnatural contours. And it was the same with his voice: he would start off in a bizarre and articulated accent that trailed off into a kind of muttering, until finally it vanished into nothingness. For some reason it conjured up spirals made of uneven curves, and so, too, did his face.

Dr. Ramiz had just returned from his studies in Vienna. Later I heard from just about everyone that he was a respected doctor whose reputation rested on diplomas of distinction. His specialty was psychoanalysis, which he’d practiced at various institutions for several years.

Even that first day I could see that Dr. Ramiz was interested in psychoanalysis less as a means of treatment for individual patients than as a science that might remake the world in its image, a road to salvation that rivaled the established religions. To him, this new science was everything: crime, murder, disease, greed, poverty, misery, misfortune, congenital disabilities, and archrivals — these things didn’t exist. No living hell lay beyond the reason of man’s will. There was only psychoanalysis. Sooner or later everything came back to it. With this one humble key, he proposed to explain all life’s mysteries.

Returning to his homeland, he had been refused both the position and the funding he would need to cure the entire nation with his miraculous practice and, by the time we met, resentment had seeped into almost every aspect of his person.

Dr. Ramiz’s great passion for social issues served only to feed his anger. After speaking with him for several hours, or rather suffering his complaints, his analyses of social ills, and his assorted musings on the future, I could neither imagine nor indeed genuinely wish for a world in which all might attain happiness through work befitting their person or capacity.

And so it was on that first day that I realized Dr. Ramiz was the incarnation of discontent. Although possessed of a fine arsenal of bons mots — words and phrases like “adolescence,” “domestic issues,” “public education,” “production,” and, in particular, “activity,” were forever trickling out of his mouth — he was the kind of man who never could apply himself to a task for very long and who was only content when complaining or occupying himself with mandatory tasks, which is why, despite a fine position and a fixed place in society, he saw himself as a miserable and mistreated man with a dim future. Perhaps he took a liking to me and offered his protection because he saw in me another sorrowful outcast. Since his return from Vienna, he had, in his bitterness, swept his life empty of friends.

Still standing, we began to discuss the current state of the nation. More than ready to see the world through rose-colored glasses — provided, of course, I could first extract myself from the trouble that had befallen me — I nevertheless understood little of what the doctor said. But slowly I learned how to follow his line of thinking. He liked nothing at all about our country. The mind-set of its people was démodé. Young men like him (and me!) were denied the opportunity to advance ourselves. We had only to consider my own situation to see how bad things really were in this country of ours. Was this the kind of treatment a man of my caliber deserved? Since his return from Vienna two years ago, Dr. Ramiz had indeed been unable to practice psychoanalysis. Now, for the first time, he had a patient. As a “case” I was extremely important, and thank God for that. I was at least a goodly source of consolation. In Europe, however — in particular in Vienna and in Germany — the situation was quite different. There they had a respect for specialization; for them, psychoanalysis was as fundamental as their daily bread.

When our coffees arrived, Dr. Ramiz moved to the head of the table and had me sit directly opposite him. He then opened his briefcase once again and took out his cigarettes. After we each lit one, he placed the pack back in his briefcase and locked it.

“No, they don’t like me very much here,” he said. “They use such antiquated methods that… But anyway, it’s not really my place. I’m doing my mandatory service. But now they’ve assigned me to you. The director promised: ‘If a suitable case comes along…’”

How clear it was from that moment. Our fates were entwined for all eternity!

Following his explanation of the situation at hand, we briefly returned to the topic of Vienna and the Teutonic nations. Together we pined for their order and beneficence.

When we had finished our coffees, he stood up and pushed our cups aside.

“Now tell me what’s happened,” he said.

He allowed me to lead the discussion. I briefly explained the case to him. Then he asked me to explain my entire life story. He took notes on a piece of paper in front of him as I spoke. He paid special attention to my childhood and asked me to repeat almost everything I told him. He was particularly taken by the Blessed One, and asked endless questions about the old clock, always using the name my mother had given it.

“What was it like?” he asked.

“An enormous grandfather clock… of very high quality, old English workmanship, purchased during the reign of Sultan Abdülmecid. But broken. My wife has it up in the attic. But it’s still possible for you to see it, if you’d like. It produces the most wonderful sounds.”

And I gazed into his eyes, hopeful that he might wish to buy our clock. It wouldn’t have been the end of the world had he done so. When I was in the detention center, one of the guards told me about a well-heeled Jew in the adjacent cell who had sold to an Iranian from Benderbouchir a sunken ship salvaged in Lisbon; and the guard had even received his commission in advance. I might do the same myself. Finally, no longer able to resist, I cried out: “I’ll give it to you for a fine price. And if you like, we can go have a look at it right now!”

This was of course for my benefit. I was speaking directly from the heart and only could think, “Oh, if he shows enough interest, we’ll go back to my home where I’ll fill my eyes with the sight of Emine pumping water from the well in the courtyard, and I’ll wash my face with its waters and sing children’s songs with Zehra…”