Ahmet Tanpinar - The Time Regulation Institute

Oh dear! So I’d just been at a conference. I hadn’t fallen asleep in Nasit Bey’s office, staring at the eagle with faded feathers, after all. And this conference was nothing more than a family gathering. That seemed to make sense. You can’t just up and deliver a public speech at eleven o’clock at night. Suddenly my life seemed easier than I had thought. I really had no right to complain. A slight twitch of my shanks, a jerk on the reins, a flash of the whip, and I was on my way. Naturally there would be someone kind enough to tell me what my speech should cover. And if not — well, I’d come up with something all the same. But this was a little dangerous. Best was to stay patient. For now there was nothing to do but to look into Van Humbert’s eyes and smile and shake his hand, or rather wait for my fingers to be released from his vicelike grip. Oh, how I would have shown him if I only could have readjusted my fingers.

No sooner had my aunt finished, than my wife jumped back into the conversation:

“My dear Hayri, I hope you were met with wild applause? I’m so sorry I wasn’t there at your side, but I couldn’t leave our new dear friend behind. I couldn’t allow him to tire himself needlessly. What a delightful man! And such charming stories he told us…”

Turning to our guest, she added:

“My husband does better with his speeches when I am at his side.”

And with that impudent smile on her face and that strange gaze she saved for social occasions, she turned to the poor foreigner and waited for the compliment she felt she deserved. And his Turkish did not let him down: it was with genuine enthusiasm that he declared:

“But of course, madam, provided he is in the company of such a muse as yourself.”

Van Humbert must have been overjoyed to find occasion to show off his Turkish. He had probably found our word for “muse” in a dictionary. He seized my hand as quickly as he had seized upon the word, and again he crushed my fingers and the palm of my hand with his vicelike grip. “Mark my words — we’ll meet again. And then you’ll see just what I’ll make of your hand,” I told myself. Having been served her compliment, my wife turned to me, as obsequious as a lapdog delivering its master a handkerchief dropped to the floor by a lady guest.

“I hope I didn’t mix up the order of your notes.”

By this she meant “pull yourself together.” I was to play my part. With considerable effort, I managed to wrench my hand free of Van Humbert’s grip; holding on to a moist towel wrapped around the neck of a wine bottle, I tried to ease the pain.

“Oh no, dear, nothing of the sort. I simply forgot them at home… so I spoke from memory.”

Halit Ayarcı let loose the first guffaw. Then we all joined in chorus. Looking at my muse, Van Humbert said:

“It’s much better that way. The same thing has happened to me on several occasions. But, you know, you speak much more naturally that way.”

With this word of assurance, my wife’s anxiety subsided. She smiled sweetly at both Van Humbert and me.

“Where’s that chimpanzee of yours? Or I should say bulldog?” I asked.

Halit Ayarcı slightly furrowed his brow to show his distaste for my crude humor. I got the message straightaway and turning to my guest I asked:

“And how was your trip, sir?”

“But of course, sir, of course. The ticket you arranged afforded me the most luxurious cabin on the ship.”

So that meant that perhaps my own signature had authorized the invitation to this silly jackanapes. But the others were keeping quiet on the subject of my speech that night. So, what did I care? Seeing that I spoke from memory, I’ll just make something up. I’ll say I made changes!

Halit Ayarcı took the opportunity to ask Van Humbert his impressions of Istanbul. We were given all the right answers. The automobile we had provided was very comfortable, and he was quite pleased with the bathroom in his hotel. Though the man who was showing him about town knew no Dutch, his German was rather good.

“Yes, sir, the Grand Bazaar — the Bedesten — and the copper makers…”

But alas the old man didn’t linger for long in the covered bazaar and quickly moved on to the subject of Ahmet the Timely. He had obviously gone over my book with a fine-tooth comb, and I was soon bombarded by questions. What a difference compared with our critics! It was as if he lingered on every word for particular emphasis. Even Cemal Bey’s criticism amounted to nothing next to what this fellow came up with off the top of his head. At one point he pulled a large wad of paper out of his pocket: a list of questions he had prepared in advance! Such a thing was unbearable at that hour of night. Why in the world had Halit Ayarcı arranged all this without informing me? Why was he always thrusting such situations upon me by force majeure?

The first few questions were easily deflected. But as they progressed I became entangled in a strange act of mental gymnastics. “Not to worry,” I said to myself. “After ten minutes I’ll just pretend I’ve had too much to drink.” But how to get through those ten minutes?

Halit Ayarcı was the first to come to my rescue. Handing a freshly filled glass of champagne to our guest he said, “Your stomach must be feeling better now.”

Van Humbert looked first at his list of questions, and then at the champagne. Clearly there was a civil war raging inside his head. Was he to be a hero or a human being? But the world of illusion prevailed. Flashing one of her famous smiles, Pakize asked Van Humbert if he liked dancing, and by the middle of her next glass she’d expressed sorrow at not having yet been asked to dance. The old dog Humbert nearly leaped for joy. Halit Ayarcı threw his arm around my aunt’s waist, who toppled enough personal effects to fill a suitcase onto my lap before letting him sweep her away. Halit Bey had managed to smooth things over without giving me even half a chance to convey my anger.

I drained my glass of champagne and, with her shawl, fan, and operetta binoculars in my arms, went off to listen to my older sister-in-law sing, or rather bellow at the top of her lungs, in the second drawing room.

Ye Gods, what a display of steely self-confidence! What unearthly screeching! And how very pleased she was with the noise she made. The more she wailed, the more hysterical the crowd became. On catching sight of me, the histrionics rose to new heights. Prancing about the room in her purple gown, she seemed even fatter and uglier than ever, yet somehow oddly charming as she teetered over the audience in her high heels — no doubt a consequence of her corset’s grip on her great frame — snapping her fingers as she sang. Finishing the song, she left not a moment to relish the applause and launched directly into a semaiye , a solemn dance number she’d still not mastered despite many years of effort. Like a fine piece of Indian cloth in the hands of an ordinary tailor, the poor semaiye was filleted before my very eyes. This wanton display was applauded by her admirers with equal enthusiasm. And because I had handed over my aunt’s personal effects to Ekrem Bey, who happened to be standing beside me, I too could contribute to the applause. After the semaiye , she massacred one of Dede Efendi’s more beautiful compositions. An entire battalion couldn’t have done worse. But the applause continued unabated. Then she began a rather mournful maya . But this was no longer music! It was like listening to the ululations of a pack of hungry wolves. As a soldier on Satan’s Mountain, I’d listened to both — the maya songs of that region and the howling of its wolves. The maya folk songs gave the soldiers in my company a way to converse with the stars. As their manly voices were overwhelmed with grief, nature itself was rejuvenated. But when my sister-in-law sang the selfsame songs, they brought the grief back home. It was as if the party had become some kind of wake. This was probably why she quickly left the maya for a livelier dance number. She seemed to know no limits. Most of the dancers were now clustered around her. They were clapping. I stood there, open mouthed, watching my sister-in-law invigorate the crowd that was seething around her; forgetting Van Humbert and even myself, I let my mind wander back to that first encounter with Halit Ayarcı in Büyükdere. Toward the middle of the dance number, a young woman no longer able to hold herself back began belly dancing — except she didn’t know how. But what difference did that make? Everyone was happy. Soon she was joined by a middle-aged man who was no doubt her husband or lover and who couldn’t bear to leave her unattended.