Ahmet Tanpinar - The Time Regulation Institute

I can say with authority that the likes of Cemal Bey are rarely seen in a spiritualist association. Such societies exist for those who prefer to find themselves in pleasant circumstances while engaged in the deception of their fellow man. But Cemal Bey took no pleasure in collective lying. For him, a falsehood was a weapon, a means by which to embellish his life or his own person. He had no time for inventions already in circulation. As much as he liked to think of himself as a man of broad and compassionate understanding, he wouldn’t tolerate the slightest sign of weakness, and he was quick to unmask anyone so foolish as to lie to his face. He was a spoilsport, pure and simple; this alone can explain why his political life was so short-lived.

Yet he was a frequent attendee of our meetings and séances, and whenever he lectured us, it was always with the same condescending smile. There was no doubt that his interest in certain spiritualist issues was genuine, as was the pleasure he took in discussing them. And of course he was a little bit in love with one of our members, Nevzat Hanım.

No matter how ardent his visits to the association, Cemal Bey failed to attract Nevzat Hanım’s eye. After the passing of her husband, this beautiful woman seemed to have closed her heart to love. She lived with her mother-in-law, in an apartment in Sisli, passing her days reading books on spiritualism and contacting spirits. It was a way of life that had adversely affected her health: she often complained of headaches and insomnia.

She herself was partly responsible for the insomnia, for her séances lasted long into the night, and then there was Murat. Murat was a spirit and a regular at Nevzat Hanım’s séances. He had all but set up camp in the house; when silence descended, he’d creep out to clean the windows and shake out the carpets, rearrange the furniture and put books back in their place. He could go so far as to tear up tomes Nevzat Hanım had yet to read, sometimes even arranging for their complete disappearance. It was widely known that Murat had once destroyed a rather racy novel Cemal Bey had given Nevzat Hanım the same day. And he would perform such deeds with raucous theatricality.

Another quirk of Murat’s character was his unwillingness to speak about his private life. When pressed at the séance table, he would sometimes claim to be a mathematics teacher from Adana, dead for ten years, or a soldier who had died a martyr in the Crimean War; on other occasions, he was an engineer, a man Nevzat Hanım’s late husband, Sezai Bey, had known as a reserve officer. But his name was always the same. And whatever mortal form he adopted, this ever loyal and resourceful spirit exuded an independence of mind, a commanding air, and the promise of moral constancy; confronted, as he often was, by a question he found irritating, he had but one livid reply: “Drive such thoughts from your mind!”

Everyone knew Murat was the man of the house now that Nevzat Hanım no longer had a maid; sometimes he even opened the door for the poor woman before she found her keys in her purse. And rumor had it that he did the same for visitors. This may explain my terror each time I stood at her door, a compass in my hands, or whatever other trifle of a gift Cemal Bey had sent me over to offer her on his behalf. But for Nevzat Hanım it was quite the reverse: she was content with this strange state of affairs, and she sang the spirit’s praises. So certain was she of his constancy that she sometimes left the house without her keys. This despite the fact that she had, she once admitted to me, returned home late from a ball and found herself locked out. “What right does he have to be so jealous?” she complained on that occasion. “How can he presume to infringe upon the freedom of a woman my age?”

Some of our friends claimed to have spoken with Murat on the telephone. In the wake of this alarming news, it was perhaps inevitable that other details should come to light — and that these would vary wildly, depending on which adventurous soul happened to be telling the tale.

“The voice was quite muffled. It sounded as if it was coming from far away, through miles of dense fog, but I could still just make out the words, or rather they were inside me. It was a very sad voice. No one in the land of the living could sound so belligerent and aggrieved.”

So said a young poet held in high regard by our coffeehouse coterie.

“As I listened to that voice, my thoughts gained the clarity of crystal,” he recalled. “When I asked if Nevzat Hanım was at home, he said, ‘Yes, but it would be best for you to stay away, as she’s not feeling at all well.’”

A rich merchant named Suayp Bey gave an altogether different account:

“Once the line went through, I heard for the very first time in my life what you might call pure silence. This wasn’t silence as you or I have come to know it; it was something else. Then someone intoned: ‘Who’s there?’ I gave my name and said, ‘I was wondering if I might ask you about a book Nevzat Hanım was going to give me…?’ Until he cried, ‘Forget about the book. Go home at once. Your wife’s had an accident. Run! And don’t stop!’ I asked him who he was and he said, ‘I am Murat,’ before hanging up on me. It was as if the voice was chastising me.”

Suayp Bey then told us that when he returned home he found his wife crumpled in a heap at the bottom of the stairs.

Three weeks later the lawyer Nail Bey gave us yet another glimpse of this Murat who involved himself so intimately in our worldly affairs, who returned from the world beyond to issue reprimands and warnings and wise counsel:

“It was truly bizarre. First I heard this unholy din; there were whistles and bells — you might have thought the world was coming to an end. Then I heard a voice: ‘Wrong number!’ So I hung up and dialed again. But the same thing happened again. On my third try, the same voice said, ‘I don’t think you understand, the hanımefendi cannot come to the phone right now. She’s busy.’ I interjected, ‘Fine, but I need to speak to her about the apartment. It’s an extremely important matter,’ only to have him reproach me: ‘Have you no understanding of her character whatsoever? She cannot come to the phone now; she’s working, consulting with the spirits. Please do not insist!’ Then I asked, ‘Who is this?’ And he answered, ‘You still don’t know who I am? I am Murat!’ In the background I could still hear cymbals and bells and foghorns. But the oddest thing was the wooden mockery in his voice.”

Cemal Bey and I were the only ones who had never spoken to Murat on the telephone, and neither had we met him at the apartment in Sisli. But to tell you the truth, this didn’t put me out in the least.

Had I never met Cemal Bey, my time at the Spiritualist Society would have been a pure delight; nothing in this world could have taken me away from it. Who doesn’t relish that sweet shiver running down the spine when communing with the world beyond?

But, sadly, I did meet Cemal Bey, and, sadly, I was putty in his hands. In any event, I was in no position to pass up the chance to make a little extra money, even if it was only now and then. One day Cemal Bey cornered me. I should say that he was initially taken aback by my attire, and that he found my personality preposterous. He made no attempt to hide his surprise: “So, such people do actually exist!” he declared, before sending me off on a personal errand. It went on like this until the very end. No sooner had he seen me at the association than he sent me off on some urgent errand. He would begin, “Hayri, my dear lamb, could you possibly…?” But the honey in his voice would never last long. I rarely saw him speak to me without his feet pointing disrespectfully at my nose. And the words themselves were pure horror. What might have been a mere repetition turned quickly into an insult: