Ahmet Tanpinar - The Time Regulation Institute

“And Sabriye too?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “She wanted to use you. That much is clear, but still, you can never be sure.”

On our way out, he told me how frustrating it was to play Ping-Pong with Ekrem these days:

“I have always avoided love. I’ve never loved anyone. Perhaps it’s a shortcoming. But I don’t lose any sleep over it. The problem with love is that, in the end, its pleasures come at a cost: one way or another you end up having to pay. That aside, there’s nothing more gruesome than a needless entanglement…”

And true enough, I had started to pay. Poor Selma was now a hopeless wreck. She couldn’t stop thinking about Cemal Bey and Nevzat Hanım. She’d wake up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night.

But who could ever forget such a thing? I had no pity whatsoever for Cemal Bey. Had he not come to such a violent end, I would have rejoiced just to be free of the man. But still there was something gnawing away at me, and I couldn’t pretend things were as they had been. Try as I might, I could not chase away the image of Nevzat Hanım’s head leaning back in search of a pillow, nor could I forget the words we had exchanged that night.

Just as we arrived at the door of my aunt’s office, Halit Ayarcı grabbed my arm.

“And we’ve found a job for the musician as well. Macit Bey, isn’t it? The one who always dreamed of conducting? Oh yes, and a hall that fits a hundred — all the young girls poised at their typewriters, and towering above them on a pedestal with his baton in the air will be their maestro! They’ll all work under his baton, pounding out their A s and B s and C s in perfect time! My dear, things seem to be shaping up after all. Just think, a moment ago you were bemoaning the fact that you had chosen Asaf Bey. But consider the sheer originality of this idea — consider it a gesture of consolation. Yes, all our secretaries will work together in one tremendous hall, save of course our personal secretaries. Modern work for modern times!”

When we arrived at the house we found the foyer and both salons bustling with people. I had never seen such a crowd before in my life. Milling alongside our friends and acquaintances were foreigners from all four corners of the globe — from north and south, the Far and Middle East. For the first half hour, it was either Halit Ayarcı or my aunt with a tight grip on my hand, whisking me from here to there to introduce me to our international guests. And before long nearly everyone knew who I was. At one point I managed to sneak off to a corner. That was when I realized every wall in the house had been decorated with slogans and charts pertaining to our work at the institute. Toward eight o’clock the lights went off and a short film was shown. The official opening of our very first regulation station was officially announced! And so everyone there had the chance to watch yours truly, Hayri Irdal, standing before a ribbon, a pile of papers in his hand, first to deliver a speech before a great and distinguished audience, and then to shake a lovely young lady’s hand. Oh Lord, what a sweet smile she had! Why hadn’t I ever noticed? After the inauguration of the institute, there was a second film. But this time I was in Halit Ayarcı’s shadow. Had anyone of import neglected to attend? No — everyone who was anyone was there. How to explain, then, why Halit Ayarcı outshone them all that evening? No sooner had the lights come on than our guests began dashing between Halit Ayarcı and myself. Unbeknownst to me, Halit Bey had arranged the evening so that everyone of consequence was there to meet me. All the most important presences in my life — the Serbetçibası Diamond, Seyit Lutfullah, Ahmet the Timely, the Blessed One, and Nuri Efendi — rained down on me like confetti. With every glass of champagne, they showed more curiosity and enthusiasm for our work.

That night I spoke more than I had in perhaps my entire life. I told almost everyone in attendance almost everything I knew, and whenever I found myself with someone who spoke a foreign language, I found a translator muttering mysteriously just behind me. Halit Ayarcı had thought of everything. At one point I signed almost one hundred fifty good-sized photographs of grandfather clocks. A little later I realized why. In the other room I found my aunt introducing guests to a grandfather clock; it was rather larger than our old clock, and, although replete with rococo flourishes, it had at some later date been bordered on all four sides with ivory panels adorned with Arabic script. The odd thing was that everyone seemed to be marveling at the clock as if they knew it. Hundreds of eyes were upon it, bespectacled and otherwise, as if in anticipation of an official introduction. This was one of the rare grandfather clocks made in Germany at the beginning of the eighteenth century, the golden age of mechanics and automatism; a tall, finely crafted, stately clock, which — if it were properly set and maintained by an experienced master — would reveal its full range of capabilities. But the crowd was so vast, and the ceremony so bizarre, that the clock itself was hardly visible.

My aunt looked more outrageous than ever, with lace rippling over the front of her low-cut black gown and a black shawl thrown over her shoulder; her hair was dyed, and her face heavily made up, and she shimmered with diamonds and pearls; brandishing her cane in one hand, she used the other to introduce the imposter to guests passing by, first giving the name of each newcomer before grandiloquently announcing, “And this is the Blessed One, our family clock,” and then adding something to the effect of, “He’s staying with us for the time being.”

At one point the clock began to chime. I think it must have been the quarter hour. Though it was a sound far more beautiful than that of the actual Blessed One, there was such a commotion in its wake that I could hardly hear it: The door on the front of the clock swung open, and an old Sufi dressed in dervish attire, a character right out of one of Osman Hamdi’s paintings, leaped out of the clock and cried, “Welcome!” before disappearing back inside; and without batting an eyelid, my aunt introduced him to the crowd:

“Sheikh Ahmet Efendi the Timely!” she declared.

And the room fairly roared with applause and cries of surprise and admiration. The strangest and indeed most ludicrous thing to behold was the puzzled look on Dr. Ramiz’s face as he marveled at how much the Blessed One had changed, for of course the doctor knew the clock all too well, having spent whole days in its company, and he was only too aware that I had sold it. Unable to bear his agitation any longer, he pulled me into a corner to whisper:

“My good man, the Blessed One seems very much changed. How can I put it… He seems far too done up!”

I handed him my glass of whiskey.

“You’re right!” I cried. “Money, prosperity, the drive to earn more and more — it’s changed us all.”

“But there seems to be more to it than that!” he said. “He was much more beautiful, and pure. Couldn’t you have a word with your aunt and get her to stop?”

“There’s simply no way. There’s nothing we can do now, and we shouldn’t… I’ve tried giving my advice on the matter, but she won’t listen.”

“But we must find a solution. If nothing else, we should convince her to have that medal removed from his chest!”

“You can try if you like. She says Sultan Abdülaziz gave it to her, and that’s all she’ll say. Haven’t you seen my aunt? Are those the kind of clothes a woman her age should wear? That’s our family for you — the older we get, the more depraved we become. But, then again, he is part of the family. To tell you the truth, I don’t have all my wits about me.”