Ahmet Tanpinar - The Time Regulation Institute

“Because Abdüsselam Bey is now dead. But with the death of your father you should have achieved a certain freedom or maturity. The question now is how to free yourself of the consequences of this complex. Yet as the complex exists in the subconscious mind it’s insignificant, as long as it remains the same — insignificant and in fact entirely natural, especially in today’s society. For in today’s world almost all of us suffer from this condition. Just look around: we all complain about the past; everyone is preoccupied with it. This is why we seek to change it. What does this mean? A father complex, no? Don’t we all, both young and old, wrestle with this very condition? Observe our obsession with the Hittites and Phrygians and God knows what other ancient tribes. Is this anything but a deep father complex?”

I stood up again. I wanted to flee, but our coffees had just arrived and so I sat down.

“Isn’t this enough for today?” I begged.

“No, sit down and listen. You know well enough that psychoanalysis…”

I lowered my head and opened my arms.

“But Doctor, whatever could I possibly know about it? I’m an uneducated man. You’ve heard my life story ten times over. I never really went to school. My father never demanded anything of me. He never forced me to go to school.”

I suddenly stopped. I was giving myself away again. I was yet again speaking unfavorably of my father. I tried to change the topic.

“All I know is a bit of this and that about watches and clocks, nothing more!”

Of course once I mentioned clocks, the Blessed One and my supposed second father, the late Nuri Efendi, came to mind, and I went quiet. This father complex was a terrible thing. It could stop you from speaking at all.

Thank God, Dr. Ramiz wasn’t listening. He never really did.

“Yes, I know all this… I’m aware. But you mustn’t worry. Do you think anything would be different if you had completed your studies? If you do not understand psychoanalysis, then everything is…”

He thought for a moment, opened his briefcase, and took out his cigarettes. He offered me one and then lit his own before locking the pack back in his briefcase.

Why doesn’t he keep them in his pocket? I thought angrily. Then I felt angry with myself. I had contracted the most ridiculous disease in the world, and here I was worrying about other people.

Dr. Ramiz looked at me with something akin to compassion.

“Best would be to start from the beginning. I will teach you the basics. Psychoanalysis—”

“Have mercy, gracious no! Fire! Anything but psychoanalysis…”

My first lesson continued until nightfall. Before he left he gave me one of his conference papers published in German. That night, as I lay on my bedroll, I began mulling over everything that had befallen me. It was nearing the end of the second week, and still there was no sign of a report. And even worse, I’d seemingly just enrolled in a course on psychoanalysis. I picked up the publication; it was written in that horrible language, German. But had it been composed in my dear native tongue, what would I have understood? I tucked it under my pillow, thinking the subject matter might be revealed to me in a dream.

The following day I was informed I had a visitor. It was Emine. Her face was even paler than before, and her cheeks were drawn. She looked at me hopefully, but she could hardly hold back her tears. I tried to seem cheerful so as to offer some consolation.

“Haven’t you been released yet?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “We’ve just begun. I had my first lesson yesterday.”

“Lesson? Have you lost your mind?”

“Just a lesson really. I’m studying psychoanalysis!”

I gave her a brief account of what had happened. It was heartbreaking to see the shadow of a smile pass over her face beneath her teary eyes. She understood the absurdity of the situation but didn’t have the heart to laugh.

“Are these people mad?” she asked. “This is all we need at a time like this.”

Then in consolation she said, “There’s no such condition. Don’t pay any attention to them! Just say, ‘yes, of course, sir,’ and get them to write the report! Beg them, pretend you’re sane, or you’re insane, whatever you have to do. Just get yourself out of here!”

That day Ramiz Bey said nothing about my report. He did however continue his lecture on psychoanalysis. Only, this time he began to explain the science using everyday analogies. And so everything went a little haywire: on the one hand, I knew I really didn’t understanding anything, yet I supposed there were a few things I did comprehend. At one point he brought up the conference paper he’d left with me the night before.

“Did you have a look at it?” he asked.

“But how could I? I don’t know a word of German. And even if I did, this is advanced science.”

“Ah, of course,” he mumbled. “I forgot about that. Not to worry. I’ll just explain it all to you.”

Thank God this time the memory of a German girl he had met at the conference waylaid his lecture, and from the girl we moved on to her friend who was a nurse. Throughout his musings he never stopped opening and closing his briefcase. He would take out his cigarettes and then promptly lock them up. A little later he would do the same with his English pocketknife: he would open the briefcase all over again, rummage through it, pull out the knife, and begin cleaning under his fingernails. Later it was the cologne, which of course needed to be extracted from the briefcase before he could douse his hands with its lemony vapors. Meanwhile all the young girls he’d ever known were paraded before our eyes: one connected to the next like the cars on a funicular moving up and down a mountainside. At close to two in the afternoon he told me he had important business to attend to and left.

The next day we occupied ourselves entirely with my dreams. This time the doctor behaved as if he’d never known a single woman in Germany. Quite unlike the day before, he was irritable and tired. There were bulging purple bags under his eyes; maybe he hadn’t slept much the night before. And perhaps, aggravated and tired, he wasn’t pleased with any of the dreams I recounted. He accused me of not having the kinds of dreams that someone like me — who didn’t like his father and who replaced him with anyone suitable who came along — should have.

“How can this be? It’s inconceivable that an individual like you hasn’t had a single dream that befits your condition. You might at least try a little harder.”

And with this last pronouncement, he began a new stage in my treatment. That day he was silent until evening, angrily pacing the room, virtually ignoring me before coming to a sudden stop in front of me and intoning, in the most imperious voice he could muster:

“I want you to have dreams that are more in line with your illness. Do you understand me? Use everything in your power to try and have the right kind of dreams. First you must free yourself of symbols. Once you see your father’s true face in your dreams, everything will change, and from there everything will fall into place.”

“I always see the true face of my father in my dreams. Besides, if it’s not his face, then naturally it’s not my father but someone else.”

“It’s not that simple. Such things occur without you commanding them. This is why you need to rally your willpower and do your best to free your father of the symbolic associations he has taken on. When these symbols are removed, it will be that much easier for you to free yourself from him — which is to say, from this inferiority complex you have inherited from him. I shall write you a list of the dreams you shall have this week.”

And a few minutes later he handed me a piece of paper.