Ahmet Tanpinar - The Time Regulation Institute

The car sped down the coast, pulling the trees out of the earth and tossing them over our head as we passed. Everything was as soft as the hair of a young child. My first child who died of neglect six years ago had hair like that. What could be wrong about running this old fellow down? He’s more bedraggled than I — obviously not all quite there. Bravo, cabbie! You swept right by him without a scratch. Now he’ll know the dangers around him and take better care. Perhaps he’ll dream of it tonight. Perhaps he’ll be torn from his loved one as abruptly as if he’d been in a car accident after all. But why did I keep thinking of Selma Hanım and Cemal Bey? I suppose it was being in a car.

“My dear Hayri Bey, could you come over and see us tonight? Selma’s expecting you. Yes, around six or seven…”

On the phone Cemal Bey sounded like a child rocking back and forth, desperate to pee.

“Right away, sir,” I replied.

I felt disgusted just talking to him, so I hung up the phone, knowing all too well that my face was bright yellow with rage. He always wanted to hang up first.

I waited until seven to knock, but I had been at the door since six thirty. The maid flashed me an oily smile when she opened it. She was drenched in the most revolting perfume in the world, and there was a nasty flicker in her eyes. Despite the light in the foyer, it seemed like she was leering at me through a dingy darkness. Her hand clutched onto my jacket. But why get upset? Weren’t we both serving the same people, in just the same way? Shouldn’t there be some sense of common cause? No, I wasn’t angry. I was merely in a hurry.

The blinds in Selma Hanım’s bedroom were drawn, and a single lamp gave off a piercing light that gave the room the aura of a cave by the sea. The bed was swollen in the dappled light — a gigantic seashell with Selma Hanım stretched out inside.

Was she ill? My daughter, my little girl, was ill at the time. She’d been poorly for the last ten days. Dr. Ramiz had not managed to stop in to see us yesterday. But Selma Hanım’s illness was of a different nature altogether, relegating all else to the background: I suddenly forgot all about Ahmet’s chest problems, Zehra’s sinusitis, my wife’s thyroid gland, even her slight fever. Silk undergarments were strewn about over an armchair and a chaise longue. Cemal Bey had collapsed into an armchair and sat there waiting for me in his dressing gown.

“I wish you the swiftest recovery, madam.” Blood throbs in my temples. I want to say more, but what? That morning my daughter’s temperature spiked to thirty-eight degrees and her face looked so terribly strange. But this is of no concern to Selma Hanım. I should be home right now. But I’m happy to be here.

“My dear Hayri Bey, I’ve put you to so much trouble yet again. But there really is no one else we can count on to help us.”

She’s so beautiful, so charming. Her face reminds me of the sweet shops of my childhood — or the window displays of the florists today, flashing with color and light.

I hear Nuri Efendi’s voice echoing in my head: “Man’s only fortress is patience.”

I listen to him inside my fortress. But in this particular room its defenses are thin.

“We must have a gift delivered. And as you can see, I’m not well. I simply cannot get rid of this cold. Cemal Bey wanted to go, but he had a touch of fever this morning. I was worried that one of us might take a turn for the worse.”

And there it was, the slap in the face. Nothing involving Cemal Bey could ever bring me happiness. But such were the workings of a woman’s mind. What could she do? Being beautiful was enough. She went on:

“Besides, he’s already made other plans for the evening, so the task must fall on your shoulders. The woman’s a relative of ours… in the maternity ward… in Sisli. We were always close friends. And there is just no one else we can call but you!”

Undoubtedly her malady makes her more beautiful. A simple sneeze and she’s more charming than ever. Ah, if only I could take her away from here and suspend her over the head of my bed like a chandelier. She fumbles for something in her bed: “Please, a tissue from over there…”

“But, hanım, you could catch a cold…”

“No… The room’s quite warm.”

The room’s warm, but still, please cover up. Cover your arms, your neck, and your chest. Let your figure disappear beneath the covers. Cover yourself up so this dogged fidelity can survive. For if not, if not… Yes — oh, why must she hide herself from me? How lowly is the station from which I gaze up at her…

“The gift is ready. It’s there on the chair. I have just one other request. Ayse will give you one of Cemal’s suits to wear. The complete suit. I’m sure you’ll understand — they’re wealthy people. The gift must be delivered by an old and faithful servant of the family. I’m sure you’ll look absolutely wonderful.”

She laughs again. I want to take that with me too. But where would I hang it? It isn’t enough just to serve her? I also have to convince her friends and family that I was born in their home and lulled them to sleep as babies in their cradles. I have to look sharp and clean! And beyond that, I have to be seen wearing one of Cemal Bey’s suits! So that people will notice and say, “They’re looking after the man well enough, that’s for sure. Wasn’t Cemal Bey wearing that very suit just the other day? He’s got quite some girth! That’s true nobility, with the air of a well-mannered man.”

“You won’t be angry with me, will you, Hayri Bey? Besides, I know how much you care for me. You’d never be angry with me, would you?”

So she knows I love her. Oh joy! I am overwhelmed with joy. She buries her face in her pillow. Her hair is a mess. Like a beach of soft sand the bed takes the shape of a woman sleeping facedown under the covers. The covers softly undulate over the form of her body. If only I could just take the gift and flee… but she rolls over and flashes me the same capricious smile. Clearly I am the only one for her. But evidently she is preparing yet another impertinence:

“Ayse will give you money. You’ll take a car!”

Ayse has prepared the brown suit I had seen Cemal Bey wearing just three days ago. I undress in a narrow nook in the kitchen, with Ayse standing just outside the door. She opens the door, and there before my eyes are Emine, my children, Pakize, everyone. Why do they all insist on swarming around me at moments like this? Only Selma Hanım isn’t there. She’s curled up in her bed like a sly cat. If she appears too, if I can’t get her out of my mind, I won’t be able to go through with this. But shouldn’t I be the one catching Ayse unawares?

Both of us feel knots in our throats, and then we swallow. Her arms are nothing like Selma’s. Nausea strong enough to turn all the stomachs in the world seizes me. No, I am not the kind of man to fancy someone like Ayse. But Selma Hanım only gives me tips, secondhand suits, and errands. I dangle in a void between the two of them. I need to grasp onto one side so as not to fall. But how to manage such a feat?

A transformed Hayri steps out the front door with two packages tucked under his arms. I’ll leave one with the tobacconist; I can pick it up on the way back. But if I do go all the way to Sisli, how will ever I get back home? By tram, I suppose. There’s no other way. Ayse’s not like me; she works for money up front. But, then again, so do I: how many times have I had cash advances on my monthly wages — first from creditors, then from friends, and finally from any old stranger who happens to be around?

I have to get the money out of her somehow. But why don’t I like her? Ayse, Pakize, Selma Hanım, Emine — I can’t even think of them anymore. I’m no longer worthy of them. I can’t rid myself of the nausea I feel when I think of her corpulence. How could I have stooped so low? To betray such a beautiful woman — and with her own maid! And both Selma Hanım and Cemal Bey making fun of my very thoughts… “Cemal Bey has a bit of a fever today.”