Ahmet Tanpinar - The Time Regulation Institute

“I must confess that I never thought of it that way. I assumed the only solution was a natural disaster or an epidemic that would wipe out the entire household. I was just biding my time.”

“A mistake, a miscalculation… Don’t you expect something from these miserable people at home, from yourself? Now, from what you’ve said, these are ambitious individuals, obsessed with getting the most out of life. This means they already have success inside them and suffer for lack of an outlet. They’re not the kind of people to settle for a humdrum existence.”

“No, certainly not. My wife thinks she’s in Hollywood, and her elder sister is convinced she’s a renowned singer. And the younger one…”

“But of course. Of course this is what they think! And they are all a little angry with you because you don’t understand them.”

I lowered my head. I thought he would at least try to see it from my point of view. I had spent the last six hours with this man, I was captivated by his every move, but clearly he was insane. He didn’t have to suddenly throw his hands around my throat or remove all his attire and cartwheel in the open air to make this clear. He continued:

“Yes, why wouldn’t these people be a little frustrated with you for not understanding them? What could be more natural? But don’t begrudge them, for you have had no experience with life and humankind. You are like an army convinced of its defeat before entering the war. Instead of stepping onto the bridge of the ship, you’ve taken cover down in the hull.”

This diagnosis of my illness, or rather this identification of my discontent, left me nothing to do but drink. And thank God there was plenty of rakı. I could celebrate this happy event as much as my heart desired.

But still he carried on:

“Especially your attitude toward your eldest baldız —a true artist. The way you deny her…”

I put down my glass. Once again I was determined to interject — in the name of logic, in the name of reason — come what may. After I did so, I’d be content to hold my tongue.

“But please, Beyefendi,” I implored. “An artist? A true artist? In my modest opinion, her voice is wretched. She simply has no talent. And then, of course, she knows nothing at all about music. She has no understanding of Turkish makams : she can’t tell the difference between a Mahur and an Isfahan, a Rast from an Acemasiran. No, impossible. Perhaps she possesses other merits. Perhaps she’s pretty — what do I know? Well, actually, no, she’s not, but perhaps I just haven’t noticed. But to enjoy music rendered by such a voice! Out of the question. She has no ear, sir, none at all. She’s entirely tone deaf. She can’t distinguish one pitch from the other.”

Halit Bey offered me a cigarette. Then he took one for himself and looked out over the moonlight, still shimmering over the sea in all its glory. After a moment, when it seemed as if he was listening to an argument at the opposite table, he shrugged his shoulders, turned to me, and said:

“Well, we’ve determined, then, that she isn’t beautiful, for you would know, as you have the eye of an aesthete. I have learned your life story. And I know that you understand beauty in a woman. But you don’t understand art, at least not the art of our times. First of all, it is a question of the masses. What do they love and what do they reject? No one really knows. This question also touches on the desperation of the masses. You know very well that this exalted ideal known as good taste comes with many counterparts that range from our deepest desires to whatever comes to us most easily. It is when we lose hope in the notion of taste that we surrender to these counterparts. It’s all rather confusing, so we lose hope in taste. When we speak of music, people first inquire as to the genre; once such a question is posed, the matter of taste or style is eliminated. Then there is the matter of the public’s untrained ear. We live in the age of radio, and we listen to music all the time. The radio has become the natural companion to rheumatism, the common cold, penury, the possibility of war, and the trials of just getting through the day. And if you add the masses to all this… No, I am quite sure that this hanımefendi of whom you speak will conquer Istanbul within just a few days, in a startling rise to fame. But look at it this way: the task would certainly be far more difficult if your sister-in-law had taken a passionate interest in Western classical music, as such music requires years of rigorous training indeed.”

He looked at me for a moment. I was truly flabbergasted.

“No one ever really takes these things seriously anyway… without realizing it of course. Can’t you see this side of the picture?”

“Not seriously. What do you mean? Then they’re simply out of their minds…”

“Of course. They only want to lend a little emotional color to their lives with a few exceptional moments. Everyone seeks to fill the void inside them with a little sentimentality, to dress up their lives as they please, but as they understand absolutely nothing about music they can only really enjoy songs for their lyrics alone. My poor Hayri Bey, you are an unusual man indeed. Your criteria are the stuff of the past. They are, as you said earlier, like letters passed down from one master to the next. We’re no longer confined by that traditional mode. Today who would ever think of trying to distinguish the Isfahan from the Acemasiran. So tell me, which singer does she aspire to be?”

“Almost all the famous singers. But always with the same voice, the same makam , and interpreted in exactly the same way.”

“That means she is a true original! It’s solved. Unique and new. Pay attention here! I mean new, new in capital letters! For when it’s a matter of the new, there’s no need for any other talent. Now we need only choose which direction to take: folk music or classical Turkish music, or folk music with a hint of alafranga , or perhaps alafranga with a hint of folk? But of course we can’t really decide on such things here at the dinner table. Yet it seems to me that, according to all you have said about her talents and skills”—here Halit Ayarcı screwed up his face and made a crinkling gesture with his fingers as if he were testing poor-quality fabric—“she would be more successful with certain local folk songs with a hint of the alafranga… Yes, that’s my guess. But why doesn’t she try a Turkish tango! Or there are some songs…”

He looked absently into my eyes.

“Yes, that’s the problem. You lack entrepreneurial spirit. You’re an idealist. And you fail to comprehend the reality around you. In short, you’re old-fashioned. A shame, what a terrible shame! If only you had a shred of realism in you, just only so much, a wee bit. Oh, then everything would change.”

This time he’d gone too far.

“I’m not a realist? Would I have told you all I have in the manner that I did if I weren’t a realist? Have I spoken to you about my sister-in-law with any inkling of hope? Have I changed anything about her for you? Have I dressed up any aspect of her? It seems to me that I am the only one who sees things for what they truly are. Indeed I am too much of a realist, I’ll have you know — so much that it pains me.”

Halit Ayarcı smiled. He’d been gesturing the whole time to the people at the next table. He took a sip of rakı and turned to face me.

“Let’s end this conversation and join the other table. It seems this evening might not turn out too bad after all. I might even say promising… Look now, Hayri Bey, I have already decided on it. From now on we shall work together. This is why we must agree on certain things. Being a realist does not mean seeing the truth for what it is. It is a question of determining our relationship with the truth in the way that is most beneficial for us. What do you achieve by accepting reality as it is? What will that offer apart from a slew of petty decisions that are neither meaningful nor valuable on their own? You can’t do anything but draw up endless lists of what you need and do not have. What difference does that make? If anything, it only leads you away from your true path. You become permanently settled in pessimism and eventually you are crushed beneath it. To see the truth as it is… is to admit defeat. Yes, it is the very definition of defeatism, for it is its very genesis. You, Hayri Bey, are a man poisoned by words, which is why I said you were old-fashioned. But the realism of today’s man is something else. What can I make with the material at hand, with this very object and all it has to offer? That’s the question to ask. For example, in this instance your greatest error is in your misperception of your dear sister-in-law’s problem — in your starting with the abstract concept of music. If you were to tackle the problem from your sister-in-law’s point of view, the matter would be altogether different. If Newton had considered the apple that dropped onto his head as nothing but an apple, he might have deemed it rotten and tossed it aside. But he didn’t. Instead he asked himself, just what can I do with this apple? He asked just what its maximum benefit might be. And you should do the very same! My baldız wants nothing but to be a successful musician. So I have two factors: my baldız and music. As the first factor cannot be changed, I have no choice but to change the second. Just what kind of music does my baldız like, then? This is what you must consider. Or will you stay forever in your cul-de-sac? Why of course not.”