Ahmet Tanpinar - The Time Regulation Institute

But my dear friend reassured me.

“No,” he said. “You have nothing to fear as long as I’m here by your side! And besides, I was the one who cured you.”

Before I could thank my friend, I was again surrounded by my aunt’s guests. A woman adorned in nearly as many evil eyes, bells, chains, and rings as a pack mule (and nearly as old as the Blessed One itself) asked me if our ancestors were descended from Ahmet the Timely or the Blessed One. I turned to the interpreter and said, “Please tell the madam that the Blessed One is our grandfather!” Another woman asked me if the Blessed One often changed places, visiting each family home in turn. I told her that visits of this sort were naturally quite rare and possible only with the doctor’s permission. So they asked me who the doctor was.

“Well, of course a man of his ripe old age has more than one doctor, but our current doctor is Dr. Ramiz,” whereupon I pointed to my dear friend.

I was quite sure that the doctor would be more than pleased to carry on from there, and as the crowd descended upon him I wiggled out to the entrance hall.

How strange it all was. We were all puppets, with Halit Ayarcı pulling the strings. He brought us to just the place he wanted us to be, and then we acted our parts from memory. I had such mixed feelings for the man: my anger and even my rage were tempered with admiration.

Seated on a large sofa to the left of the entrance was Zehra, holding court amid the billowing skirts of her new dress, swinging a glass in the air as she conversed with the young gentlemen gathered around her in a language she didn’t know — or perhaps in the one language they all knew only too well. The granddaughter of Ahmet Efendi the Some Timer was truly beautiful that evening, and those around her looked awestruck. As I watched her little hands darting here and there, I admired her finely etched chin; she looked genuinely happy. She was the image of her mother. One of the young gentlemen handed her a plate of food; holding it on her lap, she began to pick at it daintily. It cheered me to see that our changed circumstances had caused her to forget one particular family tradition. As recently as two years ago, that was just how we’d eaten our dried bread.

Then Pakize came over to see me. She too was finely dressed. I hadn’t the foggiest idea when she’d had all these dresses made, but I seemed to recognize the fabric. As I cast my eyes over her brightly colored scarf and her little handbag and that smug smile on her face, I couldn’t help but wonder which movie star she thought she was that night. Still beaming, she took my arm and said:

“Ah, Hayri, if you only knew how happy I am! I only expected so much when I chose you as my husband.”

“How nice of you to say — though I do believe I was the one that chose you, or have the customs changed?”

“The moment he sees me, he reverts to his old ways. In any case, I’m happy now. And when I saw the Blessed One here — oh, I cannot begin to tell you how very pleased I was! You know how much I love him. I’d always go to kiss his hand every holiday”

“So you’re enjoying all this, are you?”

“How could I not? This is just what I’ve always wanted. And you wanted to postpone it!”

Standing behind my wife, I noticed a brute, the spitting image of a bulldog, holding two drinks and making no secret of his eagerness to take my place the moment I moved away.

“Who in God’s name is that insolent creature there?” I asked. “Couldn’t you find anyone better?”

“He’s a member of my fan club. He keeps asking after you. It seems he’s a journalist!”

Then she whispered:

“This evening’s a resounding success…”

Then she noticed that I was studying the fabric of her gown and she said:

“You recognize it, don’t you? You remember, we never could sell it because no one would give us anything for it. It’s the outer lining of your father’s fur coat, dear! I had the moth-eaten sections repaired. Oh, but it was frightfully expensive.”

So those golden stars glistening on that green fabric were once moth-eaten pieces of fur.

As the bulldog interjected—“May God make it so!”—I left my wife in his charge, thinking, “Well, one thing’s for sure, at least. He can’t devour her whole.” Just near the front door I heard someone say hello, and I turned to see my younger sister-in-law. Dressed in an unbecoming scarlet gown, she was teasing the men around her, like a dagger nearly drawn. She wore heavy steel earrings thick as horseshoes, and for a moment I regretted all the broken ones we’d thrown away in the army. What a fortune we could have made, pandering to today’s fashions! She abandoned her admirers to come to my side, leaning up against me with all her weight to say:

“You are the most handsome man here tonight, my dear brother-in-law!”

Pakize’s sister had recently developed a penchant for excessive flattery. It was most likely a by-product of the treatment she was receiving from Dr. Ramiz.

Slowly detaching myself, I said, “Enough of all that. Run off and have fun! But next time try another perfume!”

Without taking the slightest offense, she brought her little kerchief to her nose, and after naming the perfume — I couldn’t say what it was and I doubt I could have done so even if my life depended on it — burst into laughter.

My other sister-in-law was sure to make an appearance any time now. Her performance at the club finished around eleven. And the moment she arrived she would no doubt feel obliged to sing a few of the songs that had made her a star. I went back into the living room and then stepped into the back room, where it was relatively quiet. Seher Hanım, Sabriye Hanım, Nermin Hanım, and a coterie of gentlemen had gathered around a handsome wood-burning stove of the type you used to see in old houses, and — just as Dr. Ramiz had taught them, as if they were participating in some kind of Bektasi ceremony — they toasted one another and sipped their rakı, covering half of the glass with one hand. They shoved a glass into my hand. I told them I didn’t drink rakı; I only drank whiskey, and the Blessed One didn’t allow for it to be any other way. A young man almost Ahmet’s age staggered to his feet, swaying to the left and to the right, and handed me a flask he’d managed to retrieve from his back pocket. I couldn’t help but think of my son. “The poor fool,” I muttered under my breath. “Who knows how much the poor child is suffering, fighting for his integrity under a dim light at school. If only such integrity were possible! If only he could learn to accept that we all must make concessions! But was this ever possible?” I returned the bottle to the young man. It smelled like carbolic acid. With a barely audible “But where are you going?” uttered from behind an old crone who had collapsed into his lap, Dr. Ramiz sent me on my way.

Meanwhile servants were busy shuttling back and forth with enormous platters laden with a meat pilaf and wooden spoons. Scrambling in the wake of these great platters was a horde of men and women bearing smaller plates of pudding. A courteous Frenchman smiled at me and uttered a few words, perhaps assuming that we must understand each other, being more or less the same age. And indeed it wasn’t too difficult to make out what he had said: “Attack the pilaf!” I looked aghast at this miserable creature who seemed so ignorant of modern times. But he misread my surprise; pointing instead to the bar where they were serving champagne. Arm in arm, we walked across the room. “Perhaps this will help,” I said. Sooner or later someone in this crowd will do me some good, and after that I’ll have no trouble blending in. I had no choice but to adapt to my surroundings. I could bear life in no other way.