Ahmet Tanpinar - The Time Regulation Institute

These were the two discoveries that allowed for our swift transfer to the headquarters where, in happier days, we were able to celebrate our “time” holidays with such success. My book was translated into several languages, and its critical reception abroad was as solemn and profound as it had been at home: this alone should prove that our dear friend Halit Ayarcı—may he rest in peace — was not at all mistaken when he divined our need for the illustrious Ahmet Zamanı to have existed, nor was he wrong when he assigned him to the century in question. The original idea was not my own, but when I think back on this book that bears my name, when I recall its translation into eighteen languages, and the reviews it received in foreign newspapers, and the great scholar Van Humbert, who traveled all the way from Holland to meet with me and visit the tomb of Ahmet Zamanı, I know I am remembering the most important events of my life.

This scholar, though, turned out to be rather irksome. Finding the tomb of a man who never existed in mortal form is more difficult than you might imagine, as is surviving vigorous debate with a foreign scholar, even with the aid of an interpreter. We were saved first by what the foreign papers called our “Sufi-like attitudes and detached — or, rather, indulgent — personalities,” and second by the fact that our forefathers had availed themselves of pseudonyms.

After wandering the graveyards of Edirnekapı and Eyüp for several days, and visiting the Karacaahmet Cemetery, we were bound to find an Ahmet Zamanı Efendi. And so we did. I am not unduly troubled by the minor alterations I made to the identity of the actual deceased. If nothing else, the poor man had his tomb repaired and his name made known: glory and calamity are both at God’s mercy. Photographs of the tomb were printed in the press, first in Holland and then in other countries around the world, but always on the condition that I would be there with one hand resting on the tombstone and the other holding my raincoat, my hat, or perhaps a newspaper.

There is only one thing that saddens me when I remember this man who wrote such lovely things about my book, who introduced me to the world and spent so many days with me searching for the tomb: never once did I allow him to pose for a photograph leaning against Zamanı’s resting place. No sooner did Van Humbert ask the question than I turned him down, saying, “But you are a Christian — it would be a torment for Zamanı’s soul!” and insisting that he stand off to my right. Thinking about it now, I can allow myself to imagine he forgave me. And considering the months of trouble the lout brought upon me, it serves him right! What business did he have swooping in like that and causing such aggravation? We are people who live in a world of our own making! Everything is just as we like it. But as you will see in due course, Van Humbert had his revenge.

So I never was one for reading or writing. But here I am this morning, struggling to write my memoirs in the oversized notebook before me. In fact I woke up at five o’clock — much earlier than usual — with this very task in mind. All the good-natured and industrious employees at Clock Villa were still asleep: not just our maids, but also our chef, Arif Efendi, whose only flaw is that he isn’t from the town of Bolu, though he does whip up truly delightful dishes just the same, and our Arab kalfa , Zeynep Hanım, for whom we searched far and wide, suffering a thousand hardships, just to give our home that taste of the old world — how strange that blacks are now as rare as imported goods while in my childhood there were so many of them in Istanbul. So for better or worse I was left to make my own morning coffee, after which I ensconced myself in my armchair and began trying to imagine my life, sifting through all the things I would soon record — things that needed to be changed or embellished or omitted altogether. In short, I have tried to arrange the events of my life into some semblance of order, bearing in mind the many strict rules of what we might call sincere writing: these are never as indispensable as when one is composing a memoir.

For above all else, I, Hayri Irdal, have always argued for absolute sincerity. Why write at all if you cannot say honestly what you mean? A sincerity of this order — disinterested and unconditional — by its nature requires close scrutiny and constant filtering. You must agree that it would be unthinkable to describe things as they are. If you are to avoid leaving a sentence arrested in midthought, you must plan ahead, choosing only those points that will resonate with the reader’s sentiments. For sincerity is not the work of one man alone.

But please don’t assume from this that I set too high a value on my life or that I deem it too important to be left unrecorded. I number myself among those who believe that the Lord, our Creator, granted us this life to be lived, for either good or evil, and not for us to write it down. Besides, it’s already there in written form. I am alluding here to our fate as set down in the periodicals of the Divine Presence.

No, when I say I am writing my memoirs I don’t mean to say I have set out to describe my life. I simply wish to record a series of events I happened to witness. And in so doing to remember — to honor — the saintly man we laid to rest three weeks ago.

I may be the most humble and absurd man in the world and, as my wife says, the most slovenly creature you may ever meet — that is, before the founding of our institute — but I did come to know a truly great man who possessed a natural genius for invention. I spent years at his side. I watched the way he worked. I witnessed how an idea would suddenly catch fire in his mind and take shape, like a tree sprouting shoots and branches, before coming into being. It was in this spirit that I witnessed the Time Regulation Institute — perhaps the greatest and most important organization of this century — evolve from a sudden spark in his eyes to the splendor it enjoys today, or did, rather, yesterday. Without fear of ridicule or affectation, I now can say that — despite my pitiful shortcomings, I, Hayri Irdal — was able to play a vital role in the foundation of this institute, if only thanks to coincidence and a run of good luck.

It seems to me that my greatest obligation to future generations is to record all I have seen and heard. For only one person could have written the history of our institute better than myself, and that man, Halit Ayarcı, is no longer with us. Last night at the dinner table I found his chair empty once again. I will never forget the way my wife fixed her gaze upon it throughout the meal. She seemed a stranger in her own home. In the end she could bear it no longer and, wiping her eyes with a napkin, rose from the table and shut herself in her room. I’m quite sure she cried all night. And she was right to do so; for if Halit Ayarcı was my benefactor, he was her best friend. Just considering the prospect of a memoir will have provoked in her, as in me, a grief that matches the occasion.

I lay in bed, thinking, for quite some time. “Hayri Irdal,” I said to myself, “you have seen so much of the world, and you have witnessed so much as well. Although just sixty years old, you have lived the lives of several men combined. You have en-dured all manner of suffering and the misery of being shunned. You have bounded up the steps to your future, light-footed and never faltering. You’ve tackled problems that no one given only strength or time could ever solve. All this is thanks to Halit Ayarcı. He’s the one who rescued you from the asylum. All the enemies in your life, all those who plagued your thoughts and peace of mind — he turned them into friends. Once you were a man who saw in the world around you only cruelty, poverty, and misery, but suddenly you found yourself amid the noblest of pleasures and a happiness that ought to be the province of all creatures on earth, and you came to understand the nobility of the human soul. You discovered the meaning of intimate love, for it was he who revealed to you the exquisite beauty in the face of your wife, Pakize. You assumed that the great Lord had sent you a rabble of pitiful creatures bent on making your life miserable, when suddenly he contrived for you the gift and joy of God’s children. Must you not do everything in your power for the memory of this good, pure, and — in every sense of the word — exalted friend? Can you even contemplate the possibility of him sinking into oblivion, his memory buried in a pile of slander and scorn? Think about it for a moment: What was your life before you met Halit Ayarcı? And what are you now? Think about your house in Edirnekapı and the creditors who turned up at your door day after day, even pouncing upon you in the street. Remember how you once had to struggle to get hold of even a single piece of bread. Then behold the comfort and happiness of your life today!