Ahmet Tanpinar - The Time Regulation Institute

That night Halit Ayarcı heard the complete story of my life. I told him all about Nuri Efendi, Seyit Lutfullah, Abdüsselam Bey, Ferhat Bey, Aristidi Efendi, Nasit Bey, and the treasure of the emperor Andronikos, although I lingered perhaps a bit too long on the topic of turning mercury into gold, explaining that the preferred method was a combination of numerology and consultation with spirits via a medium. I could still feel the weight of the politician’s hand on my shoulder turning the wheel of my fate; perhaps I was calling on all my oratory skills with the hope that I might plant in this esteemed and wealthy individual’s mind the passion to pursue the treasure so he might then acquire the secret powers of the universe. Indeed I even disclosed certain details to him that I had never told anyone.

“All the treasure — silver and gold inlaid with jewels and pearls — is under a tent raised by twenty-seven golden poles. And chest after chest overflows with gems and jewels, gold and silver bowls, ladies’ ornamental jewelry, rings, chains, evil-eye talismans…”

Halit Ayarcı laughed and said, “Impossible. The Byzantines didn’t have evil-eye talismans. Those are particular to the Turks.”

I had to think that over for a moment. What was the infidel’s equivalent? The word masallah was definitely ours, most certainly.

“Yes, but surely they wore some sort of evil eye for good luck and to ward off evil spirits. Seyit Lutfullah told me that such tokens were normal gifts in the Christian states, which were then passed on to us and became true talismans with magical properties. That was what I was referring to.”

But Halit Ayarcı wasn’t interested in Seyit Lutfullah. He was far more interested in Nuri Efendi. He had little curiosity about the calendars and the astronomical tables my late master had intermittently published, nor was he interested in the chemical formulae he had unearthed in old manuscripts. He was concerned only with his horological works.

So there was nothing to do but move the conversation in that direction. I conveyed to him all the adages of my late master that were still fresh in my memory. Halit Bey rejoiced after nearly every sentence:

“Unbelievable. We need such a man among us. Mon chér , this man is a true philosophe, and just the kind we need — a philosopher of time. Do you understand? A philosopher of time is a philosopher of work, and you too, Hayri Bey, are a philosopher, indeed a true philosopher!”

But I wasn’t listening to him. I was standing up, pointing at the politician’s table.

“Do you see what’s happening there? The plates, everything is moving. Dear God!”

The plates on his table seemed to be rattling as if they were being buffeted by a strong southern wind. But the remarkable thing was that no one at the table seemed frightened, no one was whispering prayers, and not one of them was darting away from the ruckus; rather, they were all holding on to their sides in uproarious laughter. It was as if they were all possessed by evil djinn. And the terrible thing was that after my declaration their laughter intensified, and the plates on the table rattled with even greater vigor. They were all looking at me and laughing.

Halit Bey said reassuringly, “Don’t mind them. That’s just our friend Faik. He always does magic tricks at these places. He loves entertaining the crowd with such parlor games.”

“No, no,” I said. “You’re pulling my leg. I’m drunk. Just a moment ago I could have sworn I was looking at the treasure of the emperor Andronikos at the bottom of the sea. There’s something wrong with me. Please, I need to go home.”

By then I really did want to go home. I had tired of this life that really wasn’t mine; all this fun had worn me out. I wanted to go home; I longed to be surrounded by the things of my life: my own troubles, my own poverty.

“But no, let’s all go together. As for your being drunk, you can very well see for yourself that you are not — far from it in fact. And even if you were, you’d come round soon enough. How could you think of abandoning the evening so abruptly? Now, please do sit down and explain to me this idea of a letter written from one master to the other. But before that, let’s drink.”

And Dr. Ramiz echoed him: “Yes, let’s drink.”

We drank more. I felt ill at ease. Yet still I did the best I could to satisfy Halit Ayarcı’s curiosity.

“Old watches were crafted by hand. Those who made them were masters of metallurgy. That is, they were jewelers in the highest sense of the word. As they were the great artists of their field, the watches they created were adorned with sublime details, with engravings and flourishes and so on. Oftentimes the most beautiful, indeed the most important, of these were engraved inside the inner cover — that is to say, on the inside of the back lid — a place that is only ever seen by another watchmaker. This was why the late Nuri Efendi called them letters from one master to another. Take, for example, the engraving on the inside of the cover of your watch. You know, the woman with the helmet and that fantastic goliath of a man with his hand on her shoulder. I once saw a watch resembling this one while working with Nuri Efendi.

Halit Ayarcı identified the scene: “Why, you mean Hercules and Athena!”

Then returning to the topic he said, “But you’re absolutely right. Only a watchmaker would see them.”

And Halit Bey raised his glass once again. “A toast,” he exclaimed. “To you in particular, Hayri Bey, but not if you continue to wear that glum face. That you are unemployed and entangled in all sorts of trouble must not stop us from having a good time.”

“If only I had your point of view…”

“One day you will. But first tell us about your present situation. Let’s just review the various positions you’ve held.”

So I told him about my life at home: about my wife and her sisters and about Ahmet and Zehra. He listened to everything I had to say, with Dr. Ramiz interjecting now and then to elaborate a particular point. Then he looked me straight in the eye and said:

“The most common predicament in the world: First, you have no money. Then, you find yourself living with three young women who need to be married off. And, finally, everyone at home is suffering from poor health. It all boils down to the same fundamental problem. Simply said: it’s a matter of money.”

It all seemed so easy if you took each word at face value: money, three weddings, and plenty of food and drink. I expected him to carry on and suggest that we enact a few new laws to allow for the swift and easy settlement of my affairs.

“But how could I ever give my daughter to Ismail the Lame?” I moaned.

“Naturally you’ll do nothing of the sort. According to what you’ve just told me, you have a daughter who is both charming and good-looking. Of course you won’t give such a girl to that man.”

But it was the same old cul-de-sac.

“Well then, whatever will I do if I don’t?”

“You will find the right match. He will come to you without any intervention on your part.”

“And the others? My sisters-in-law — especially the older one, the fanatic musicienne —who would ever marry her?”

Halit Ayarcı thought for a moment.

“From what you have told us, she isn’t quite the type to be snatched up. But you never know. For example, first a little fame on the radio, and then perhaps she becomes a famous singer in a club, or maybe a professional vocalist… And presto! You see there’s a solution to any problem. Just a few minor adjustments to your life balance, a little entrepreneurialism, some elbow grease, an ever so modest change in perspective — and voilà! Everything has been changed.