After tearing to pieces The Life and Works of Ahmet the Timely, they went on to attack all our other studies. For days on end, we would open the papers to find reproductions of our book covers under preposterous headlines that implied the works were somehow subversive or only worthy of derision: The Effect of the North Wind upon the Regulation of Cosmic Time, penned with such painstaking attention to detail by the head of our Millisecond Branch (also husband to our family’s youngest sister-in-law); or Time and Psychoanalysis and The Irdal Method of Time Characterology, both by my dear friend Dr. Ramiz; or Halit Ayarcı’s Social Monism and Time and The Second and Society.
As if that was not enough, they went on to accuse us outright of being frauds and charlatans, homing in on our accumulative fining system, with its proportional reductions and the bonus discounts that had once so amused and entertained our fellow citizens while also allowing the institute to pursue its varied social and scientific activities. But how warmly these same people had once applauded this system of fines, which I myself invented, just to pass the time, while watching my wife, Pakize, and Halit Ayarcı play endless games of backgammon for petty cash during their gambling soirees.
One of our esteemed financiers publicly declared this system of fines a most remarkable innovation in the history of accounting and took every opportunity to remind me that he would never hesitate to put me in the same company as the illustrious financiers Doctor Turgot, Necker, and Schacht.
And he was right. For in matters of finance—whereby money turns people into good taxpayers—unhappiness has forever been the rule. And in the matter of fines in particular, people inevitably feel a certain discomfort. But our system was not at all like that. When an inspector notified a citizen of his fine, the offender would initially express surprise, but upon apprehending the firm logic behind the system, a smile would spread across his face until, at last understanding this was a serious matter, he would succumb to uproarious laughter. I cannot count the number of people—especially in the early days—who would extend a business card to our inspectors, saying, “Oh please, you absolutely must come over to our house sometime. My wife really must see this. Here’s my address,” and offer to cover the inspector’s taxi fare.
Our system of fines specified the collection of five kurus for every clock or watch not synchronized with any other clock in view, particularly those public clocks belonging to the municipality. However, the offender’s fine would be doubled if his timepiece differed from that of any other in the vicinity. Thus the fine might rise proportionally when there were several timepieces nearby. Since the perfect regulation of time is impossible—because of the personal freedom afforded by watches and clocks, something I was naturally in no position at the time to explain—a single inspection, especially in one of the busier parts of town, made it possible to collect a not insignificant sum.
The last calculation required by this confusing system concerned the difference between watches or clocks that were either fast or slow. Everyone knows that a watch or clock is either fast or slow. For timepieces, there is no third state. It is an accepted axiom very much akin to the impossibility of exact regulation; that is, of course, assuming the watch or clock has not stopped altogether. But here matters become more personal. My own view is this: since man was created ruler of the universe, objects can be expected to reflect the tenor of his rule. For example, during my childhood, under the reign of Abdülhamid II, our entire society was moribund. Our dissatisfaction stemmed from the sultan’s long face, but it radiated out and infected even physical objects. Everyone my age will recall the mournful cries of the ferryboats of that era, with their piercing foghorns. But with the favorable unfolding of events thereafter, we find our days so full of delight that we now hear joy in a ferryboat’s horn and in the clang of a trolley’s bell.
The same can be said for watches and clocks. They inevitably fall in step with an owner’s natural disposition, be it ponderous or ebullient, and in the same way they reflect his conjugal patterns and political persuasions. Certainly in a society like ours that has been swept along by one revolution after another in its relentless march toward progress, leaving behind diverse communities and entire generations, it is all too understandable that our political persuasions would find expression in this way. Political creeds remain secret for one reason or another. With so many sanctions hanging over us, no one is about to stand up in a public place and proclaim, “Now, this is what I think!” or even to say such a thing aloud, for that matter. Thus it is our watches and clocks that hold our secrets, as well as the beliefs and habits that set us apart from others.
Just as a watch can become a man’s dearest friend, ticking with the pulse in his wrist, sharing the passions in his chest, and growing heated with the same fervor, until they are as one, so too may a clock sit on a table throughout the span of time we call a day and assume the essence of its owner, thinking and living as he does. Without going into too much detail, I can say that we find this same tendency—to assimilate and adapt—in all our personal belongings, even if our relationships with them may never be as profound as the ones we have with our watches and clocks. Do not our old hats and shoes and clothes become more and more a part of us with the passage of time? Isn’t that why we are constantly trying to replace them? A man who dons a new suit leaves his old self behind. How different it looks, as it recedes in to the past! What bliss to exclaim, “I am at last a new man!”
I can assure you that the late Halit Ayarcı—who harbored the fear that many would come forward to discredit our institute—strongly recommended that I avoid making these types of declarations; but since I am no longer thus constrained, I can claim comfortably that it is indeed possible to see in an old hat or a pair of shoes all the whims of its owner—his foibles and particularities, even his many pains and sorrows. This may help explain the conventional wisdom that new servants coming to work in our homes should be given some of our clothes—at the very least a couple old shirts, a tie, or a pair of old shoes. Thus the servant—someone with whom we are newly acquainted—will, after putting on a shirt and tie and walking about in our shoes for a while, feel mysteriously compelled to adopt our idiosyncrasies and manners of thought, without ever knowing why. I myself experienced something like this on two occasions.
Cemal Bey, the director of the Bank of Diverse Affairs, and the man behind my dismissal from this establishment, was the architect of many of the calamities I’ve suffered in my life. There was a time when he offered me one of his suits. We had dramatically different personalities: he was a fussy, snobbish, grouch of a man, who judged the world by unbending rules and took great delight in belittling his staff, whereas I had a simple and compliant nature, wishing only to get by. The fact of the matter is that I never did take on his personality. That was beyond the realm of possibility. But his only weakness—his ardent love for his wife—seemed to have seeped into me through his suit. For during the week I wore that suit, I fell madly in love with Selma Hanım—I, a strict adherent to Muslim morals, father of three children, and married to Pakize, a woman far superior to me in every conceivable way. Years after I left the bank, the suit became tattered and threadbare. But my passion for Selma Hanım never waned.
The second suit was given to me by Halit Ayarcı, in the days just following the founding of our institute. He considered it best for me not to report to the institute in the clothes I was accustomed to wearing at that time. On the very first day I wore the suit, I sensed a dramatic shift in my entire being. New horizons and perspectives suddenly unfurled before me. Like Halit Ayarcı, I began to perceive life as a single entity. I began to use terms like “modification,” “coordination,” “work structure,” “mind-set shift,” “metathought,” and “scientific mentality”; I took to associating such terms as “ineluctability” or “impossibility” with my lack of will. I even made imprudent comparisons between East and West, and passed judgments whose gravity left me terrified. Like him, I began to loo
k at people with eyes that wondered, “Now, what use could he be to us?” and to see life as dough that could be kneaded by my own two hands. In a word, it seemed as if his courage and powers of invention had been transferred to me, as if it were not a suit at all but a magic cloak. In fact I no longer saw Cemal Bey’s wife, Selma Hanımefendi, as a woman beyond my reach. Naturally all this didn’t develop as smoothly as it would have for Halit Ayarcı. Every so often my soft, complacent, compassionate nature—made softer over time by poverty and despair—would step in to interrupt and alter my course. In effect I became a man whose thoughts, decisions, and speech patterns were all in a jumble. When the late Halit Ayarcı heard me say as much, he smiled warmly and reassured me, “That’s just how it should be. It adds a certain spice. Keep it up!”
I feel I must stop here to report what was said on one of the days we discussed the matter.
“Aziz Hayri Irdal,” he declared, “what you have said is entirely true. This is precisely why all great men give their clothes and personal effects to those working alongside them. Roman emperors, kings, and powerful dictators have always presented their belongings to their friends so they might think as they do. Indeed this must be the very reason Ottoman leaders would bestow their kaftans and furs on their grand viziers. You have unwittingly put your finger on one of history’s great secrets, a kind of psychological mechanism!”
Without a doubt, he spoke the truth. And let us not forget that I made this discovery after putting on his suit. Yes, it was by donning his suit that I discovered this man had a genius for discovery.
But let us return to watches and clocks. Allow me to speak of The Psychoanalysis of Clocks, a seminal study first published by Dr. Ramiz in our institute’s journal. On second thought, I fear that such digressions—even if they are of an entirely scientific nature, or of a radically different nature, for that matter—will weigh too heavily upon these memoirs, and so I shall refrain. The work is in print, and those interested may consult it if they wish.
Dr. Ramiz and I differ in one significant respect, and here I shall relate what he said to me only personally: While I approached our joint enterprise from the perspectives of general psychology and sociology, he availed himself of such concepts as sexuality, libido, and repression. I was pleased to hear this, even though I knew nothing of individual or collective psychology, and even less of sociology. As he summed up his thoughts, Dr. Ramiz, who had always been kind enough to take me seriously, took the trouble to tell me that I was a great idealist. When my wife and I later discussed the matter, she was of the opinion that—seeing as we were speaking of subjects so intimately linked to human affairs as clocks, watches, and time—my utter disregard for the role of sexuality in the social realm could not be attributed to the so-called idealism the doctor saw in me but must stem from sources far more serious: namely corporeal and hygienic.
However you look at the situation, there is undeniably a difference between fast and slow timepieces, and this difference is an extremely important one. Therefore everyone found it quite acceptable when we enforced a two-kurus increase on the cash fine we collected for slow clocks and watches. In fact people were extremely pleased. And seeing as we fined those whose timepieces were slow, we were obliged to cede a certain advantage to those whose were running fast. Humanity never did sit easily with pure equality, and people need the encouragement of a little incentive here and there. I can say with confidence that good is only ever achieved if an identifiable evil is subjected to punishment and shame. My late teacher Nuri Efendi, whom I will discuss at length in due course, spoke these very words with regard to Sufism: “A thing is possible and accepted only if its opposite also exists.” In fact it was this important point that led Halit Ayarcı to agree to my proposed increase in fines.
The third particular of the system of fines I’d devised was a discount offered to repeat offenders, ranging from 10 to 30 percent. You’re well aware that the punishment for a crime is greater on the second offense, as the laws and customs of the world require. This leads to a kind of standoff between the legislator and the offender, a digging in of heels.
I am not talking about a first offense. It is often the case that the first offense might, like a first marriage, leave feelings of regret. But it is common knowledge that, following a second offense—and the increased penalties it entails—a person will find himself swept away by the hopelessness he might feel at an auction when the price is spiraling beyond his means. This is why in our fining system we prevented this outcome and its natural reactive elements by implementing a reduction of fines up to 30 percent on the seventh or eighth offense. Of course this aggregative and incremental system of fines brought attention to our institute. Naturally there was a business rationale for it. We were in effect doing business with revenues neglected by the municipality. And what enterprise does not seek to extend some kind of discount to its regular customers? As it turned out, I hadn’t been wrong in assuming that the people of Istanbul—who were accustomed to end-of-season sales and who could conceive of only a small fraction of the profits large businesses were making—would be pleased with our system. Suffice it to say that one is not in the habit of expecting so much from a quasi-official establishment, and so it was quite easy for the public to enjoy the system and speak highly of it to others.
And that is precisely what happened. Unable to believe such a thing was possible, or simply assuming it to be some kind of joke, people began to storm our centers with their watches in hand or to stop our inspectors on the street and ask to be fined. Throughout the city, it was suddenly all the rage to pay these fines voluntarily, and even with a smile. There was no longer any need to buy children toys; the little dears had found a more exciting way to share in the happiness of adults.
I should mention that it was not just the people of Istanbul who took a passionate interest in the fines but also those in surrounding villages and even in cities some distance away—so much so that in the initial months of enforcing the system of discounted fines, and particularly when the subscription plans were instated, the state railway management bureau was forced to add additional trains to several lines. Every day the railroad stations of Haydarpasa and Sirkeci would be overrun with people smiling, often splitting their sides in laughter, as they cried, “My goodness, take a look at this!” or “Unbelievable, but true!”
So eager were the masses pouring in from the countryside that we were forced to take regulation teams from as far out as Pendik, on the city’s Asian side, and Çatalca, in Thrace, and relocate them to stations closer to the city and the central terminals. Not only did we have to transfer some of our people to different posts, but when we needed to recruit new regulation teams in the villages, we were also obliged to hire youths, for we had insufficient manpower to carry on as it was.
It would not be incorrect to say that much of the fame our institute won abroad is due to this system of cash fines. Certainly you’ve read in the papers how cruise ship passengers forced captains to change course for Istanbul, where they would stay a week in the city, returning with receipts of discounted fines in hand before continuing on their journey, and how many of these passengers would not leave the city until they had been granted an interview with either myself or Halit Ayarcı, and how they scoured the city shops for our photographs.
I shall not enumerate all the indignities our institute has suffered in recent times. As I progress through these memoirs, my readers will see for themselves just what kind of cruelty was thrust upon us. Yet here again I simply cannot continue without making just one personal observation.
Like those who criticize the Time Regulation Institute, those who praise it always overlook one fundamental aspect: the strong connection it has to my person—in fact to my past. I would never deny that the institute was born of Halit Ayarcı’s entrepreneurial gifts and powerful mind. In every sense and meaning of the words, he was both my benefactor and a great friend. But my role in the Time Regulation In
stitute was by no means what those on the outside claim or imply: I was not merely a cog, or a means to an end. It could very well be that the institute was the result of Halit’s imaginative mind and that all my life I was destined to live through the contingencies born of his creation, with much pain and suffering as the price. But this is the very essence of my being.
My first responsibility in writing these memoirs is to discredit all who have slandered or scorned the institute or its late founder; my second, of no less importance, is to assert a small but very important truth.
III
I’ve already mentioned on several occasions my life’s various misfortunes. As my memoir unfolds, my readers will see how want and privation have been my lifelong companions, together serving practically as a second skin. But it would be wrong to say that I have never been graced with happiness.
I was born into a family fallen on hard times. But I had quite a happy childhood. As long as we are in harmony with those around us—assuming, of course, the right balance—poverty is never as terrifying or intolerable as we might think. For it offers certain advantages. The privilege I most treasured as a child was that of freedom.
Today we use the word only in its political sense, and how unfortunate for us. For I fear that those who see freedom solely as a political concept will never fully grasp its meaning. The political pursuit of freedom can lead to its eradication on a grand scale—or rather it opens the door to countless curtailments. It seems that freedom is the most coveted commodity in the world: for just when one person decides to gorge upon it, those around him are deprived. Never have I known a concept so inextricable from its antithesis, and indeed entirely crushed under its weight. I have been made to understand that in my lifetime freedom has been kind enough to visit our country seven or eight times. Yes, seven or eight times, and no one ever bothered to say when it left; but whenever it came back again, we would leap out of our seats in joy and pour into the streets to blow our horns and beat our drums.
The Time Regulation Institute Page 4
