The Time Regulation Institute

by Ahmet Hamdi Tanpınar

  Why was Nasit Bey treating me with such hostility? What did he want from me? Why was he so bent on ruining me, and why and where had he mustered such ambition? It was beyond comprehension. His speech sent me spinning. But even before he so much as opened his mouth, I could feel my blood coursing through my body, robbing me of all peace. I had, I suppose, been undone by his cold and clever calculations, his ironclad determination.

  Then something snapped. I felt instantly lighter, as if relieved of an immense burden, as if layer upon layer of worry had suddenly evaporated. From the very beginning of this bizarre and absurd trial, I had been expecting—and dreading—a change of heart along just these lines. This lightness in my soul—this impertinent indifference—signaled the opening of a door that had remained tightly shut since my marriage to Emine.

  It was as if Nasit Bey had deliberately set out to pull Emine away from the door she had been guarding with such angelic vigilance. So the moment he finished speaking, I called out in the loudest voice I could possibly muster:

  “No, no! My aunt actually died. And she was about to be buried when she came back to life—and now she lives among us as a ghost! She came back from the dead because she couldn’t part with her money. If you don’t believe me, then ask for a picture and see for yourselves. It’s the latest fashion these days, getting your picture taken. Take a good look at these pictures, or summon her here and see her in the flesh. Have a word with her! Then you’ll see that what I say is true!”

  Everyone was shocked. But what did I care? I couldn’t have felt more comfortable. I was calm, and there was a lightness in my soul. The others were all clinging to their own particular version of the truth, bending time to suit their purposes; I saw no reason not to follow suit.

  I continued:

  “As for my aunt’s humane disposition—well, she said she never again wanted to see my face, never mind allow me to pay her a visit. She never lets anyone visit her. And she’s never loved anyone. She’s a mean and ill-tempered woman, a slave to her whims and desires. So afraid that someone might rob her, she slept in the coal cellar, with the money she hid there. There was just one man she could bear: this swindler, this profiteer who got fat on the war . . . She even tolerated his beanpole of a daughter.”

  And then I added:

  “His original plan was to foist her on me. But I refused: I couldn’t bear the sight of her. Back then, Nasit Bey was poorer than I was. But now that he’s rich, he’s suddenly become my enemy. Probably because he knows that when my aunt dies, her entire fortune will go to me.”

  I still blush when I think back on all this. Nasit Bey had turned me into a man I didn’t recognize. At that moment I gladly would have been turned into a snake, just so I could lash out and bite him. Though such metamorphosis was denied me, I could at least stab my finger at him as I cried:

  “War profiteer! Soap and sugar smuggler! What do you want from me?”

  Another rumble of dissent from the crowd. The hearing went to a recess. Nasit Bey flashed me a saccharine smile before leaving the hall. I had given him everything he wanted, in fact even more.

  Fifteen minutes later they announced that I was to be sent to the Department of Justice Medical Facility.

  This is where I came to meet Dr. Ramiz. When they took me into the office, he was waiting for me with the director of the facility. He gave my story the utmost attention, declaring an interest in my case and accepting me as a patient. After leaving the director, we went straight to the doctor’s office. At the time the medical institute was in one of the annexes of the Dolmabahçe Palace. Dr. Ramiz’s office was in the basement. It was a narrow and depressing little room whose only window looked at the garden wall. Against one wall of the office was a sink with a leaking faucet. Upon entering the room, Dr. Ramiz went straight to the sink and washed his hands, while I stood in the corner, contemplating my fate.

  On my way over to Dolmabahçe I’d caught a glimpse of the sea, and for just a moment I was pulled away from the fate to which I had become accustomed, losing myself in those deep-blue waters, awash in the glow of the autumn sun.

  My thoughts were in disarray. My wife, my children, and my home seemed a million miles away, lost to me forever.

  Once again I was seized by the fear that had haunted me throughout the proceedings. What if they involved my wife? It was strange that the judge had kept her out of the trial. This gave me hope. I took it to mean that he didn’t take the accusations against me seriously. But if that was the case, then why had he sent me here? No, he was just buying time. Soon enough they would entangle Emine in this infernal web. Though ten days had passed since my detention, I was able to visit with my wife in the courtyard before I was taken away—her arms tightly wrapped around my neck, her eyes drawn, her cheeks hollow, her voice hoarse, her hands burning with fever. I thought of her as I stood before the window, studying the last flowers of the season, dusty and forlorn, at the base of the garden wall, struggling to stay alive but surrounded by misery. A bee buzzed lazily over my head and landed on the window screen, a few inches from my nose. Cries of pain and anguish echoed through the building: Never before had I heard such sounds. Ramiz Bey had finished washing his hands and was now busy dousing them with the lemon cologne he had taken out of his bag.

  There was a knock at the door; a warden opened it and suddenly the screams from down the hall were much louder.

  “Salim Bey says we’re to open the body. Aren’t you coming?”

  My entire body shuddered in fear. Vigorously shaking his cologne-soaked hand, Ramiz Bey replied:

  “No, I’m busy here. Have them boil the intestines. I’ll come have a look later.”

  Then he turned to me.

  “There’s been a case of poisoning, or rather we suspect as much.”

  Once again he picked up his briefcase. It was made of yellow leather, with a handsome and intricate interior, and there was a lock on the outside. It soon became apparent that my future friend never carried any of his personal effects on him, keeping them instead in this briefcase; and each time he replaced an item he had just used, he would close and lock the case with considerable haste. He took out a packet of cigarettes and offered me one. Then he took one for himself. I searched for my matchbox but couldn’t find it, so he lit both our cigarettes before ordering coffee from the warden, who was still standing at the door.

  Dr. Ramiz was a young man, somewhere in his thirties, slightly taller than average, with a light-olive complexion and a physique bordering on plump. His large, vacant eyes were pitch black. But on first looking at him you didn’t notice his eyes or his rather ordinary face. You were nevertheless left feeling that there was something about it that wasn’t right. Then, as you came to know him, you began to see how badly put together it all was, with his overgrown forehead, his overly symmetrical bone structure, and, last but not least, his chin, which ended abruptly, like a fugitive struggling to break free of its unnatural contours. And it was the same with his voice: he would start off in a bizarre and articulated accent that trailed off into a kind of muttering, until finally it vanished into nothingness. For some reason it conjured up spirals made of uneven curves, and so, too, did his face.

  Dr. Ramiz had just returned from his studies in Vienna. Later I heard from just about everyone that he was a respected doctor whose reputation rested on diplomas of distinction. His specialty was psychoanalysis, which he’d practiced at various institutions for several years.

  Even that first day I could see that Dr. Ramiz was interested in psychoanalysis less as a means of treatment for individual patients than as a science that might remake the world in its image, a road to salvation that rivaled the established religions. To him, this new science was everything: crime, murder, disease, greed, poverty, misery, misfortune, congenital disabilities, and archrivals—these things didn’t exist. No living hell lay beyond the reason of man’s will. There was only psychoanalysis. Sooner or
later everything came back to it. With this one humble key, he proposed to explain all life’s mysteries.

  Returning to his homeland, he had been refused both the position and the funding he would need to cure the entire nation with his miraculous practice and, by the time we met, resentment had seeped into almost every aspect of his person.

  Dr. Ramiz’s great passion for social issues served only to feed his anger. After speaking with him for several hours, or rather suffering his complaints, his analyses of social ills, and his assorted musings on the future, I could neither imagine nor indeed genuinely wish for a world in which all might attain happiness through work befitting their person or capacity.

  And so it was on that first day that I realized Dr. Ramiz was the incarnation of discontent. Although possessed of a fine arsenal of bons mots—words and phrases like “adolescence,” “domestic issues,” “public education,” “production,” and, in particular, “activity,” were forever trickling out of his mouth—he was the kind of man who never could apply himself to a task for very long and who was only content when complaining or occupying himself with mandatory tasks, which is why, despite a fine position and a fixed place in society, he saw himself as a miserable and mistreated man with a dim future. Perhaps he took a liking to me and offered his protection because he saw in me another sorrowful outcast. Since his return from Vienna, he had, in his bitterness, swept his life empty of friends.

  Still standing, we began to discuss the current state of the nation. More than ready to see the world through rose-colored glasses—provided, of course, I could first extract myself from the trouble that had befallen me—I nevertheless understood little of what the doctor said. But slowly I learned how to follow his line of thinking. He liked nothing at all about our country. The mind-set of its people was démodé. Young men like him (and me!) were denied the opportunity to advance ourselves. We had only to consider my own situation to see how bad things really were in this country of ours. Was this the kind of treatment a man of my caliber deserved? Since his return from Vienna two years ago, Dr. Ramiz had indeed been unable to practice psychoanalysis. Now, for the first time, he had a patient. As a “case” I was extremely important, and thank God for that. I was at least a goodly source of consolation. In Europe, however—in particular in Vienna and in Germany—the situation was quite different. There they had a respect for specialization; for them, psychoanalysis was as fundamental as their daily bread.

  When our coffees arrived, Dr. Ramiz moved to the head of the table and had me sit directly opposite him. He then opened his briefcase once again and took out his cigarettes. After we each lit one, he placed the pack back in his briefcase and locked it.

  “No, they don’t like me very much here,” he said. “They use such antiquated methods that . . . But anyway, it’s not really my place. I’m doing my mandatory service. But now they’ve assigned me to you. The director promised: ‘If a suitable case comes along . . .’”

  How clear it was from that moment. Our fates were entwined for all eternity!

  Following his explanation of the situation at hand, we briefly returned to the topic of Vienna and the Teutonic nations. Together we pined for their order and beneficence.

  When we had finished our coffees, he stood up and pushed our cups aside.

  “Now tell me what’s happened,” he said.

  He allowed me to lead the discussion. I briefly explained the case to him. Then he asked me to explain my entire life story. He took notes on a piece of paper in front of him as I spoke. He paid special attention to my childhood and asked me to repeat almost everything I told him. He was particularly taken by the Blessed One, and asked endless questions about the old clock, always using the name my mother had given it.

  “What was it like?” he asked.

  “An enormous grandfather clock . . . of very high quality, old English workmanship, purchased during the reign of Sultan Abdülmecid. But broken. My wife has it up in the attic. But it’s still possible for you to see it, if you’d like. It produces the most wonderful sounds.”

  And I gazed into his eyes, hopeful that he might wish to buy our clock. It wouldn’t have been the end of the world had he done so. When I was in the detention center, one of the guards told me about a well-heeled Jew in the adjacent cell who had sold to an Iranian from Benderbouchir a sunken ship salvaged in Lisbon; and the guard had even received his commission in advance. I might do the same myself. Finally, no longer able to resist, I cried out: “I’ll give it to you for a fine price. And if you like, we can go have a look at it right now!”

  This was of course for my benefit. I was speaking directly from the heart and only could think, “Oh, if he shows enough interest, we’ll go back to my home where I’ll fill my eyes with the sight of Emine pumping water from the well in the courtyard, and I’ll wash my face with its waters and sing children’s songs with Zehra . . .”

  “Didn’t you say it was broken?”

  “Broken? Just in need of a little repair!”

  He thought for a moment:

  “Yes, of course, that must be it . . .”

  But what was it that must be? I couldn’t quite understand what he meant. Nuri Efendi said a watch or clock should always be in working order, in fact it should never stop at all. I shrugged my shoulders. When would our conversation return to my present situation? Perhaps never. After many hours had passed, Dr. Ramiz moved the subject to my father. And after my father, it was my mother, and after my mother, Nuri Efendi. He was curious to know about all my acquaintances. And then he zeroed in on the story of the mosque that Ahmet the Signer had never found the wherewithal to build.

  “Was this mosque discussed often at home?”

  “No,” I said. “Or at least not very often. Whenever my father had the slightest hope of a little money coming his way, he might bring it up. Otherwise he’d never let anyone even mention it. Actually the clock reminded him of the mosque, so he harbored rather hostile feelings toward it.”

  “Which clock?”

  “The big one.”

  “You mean the Blessed One? But why don’t you use its proper name?” he scolded me. “When something has a name, it should be addressed with that name.”

  Saddened that I had overlooked this simple truth, and delighted that he had discovered a new aphorism, I let the discussion return to the Blessed One. The doctor presented me with a steady stream of questions, and I explained everything as best I could remember, innocent of what lay ahead:

  “One night we were all sitting together at home when suddenly the clock began to chime. My father flew into a rage. ‘Enough!’ he shrieked. ‘You know just like everyone else that I’m broke. It’s simply impossible right now. We can barely get by as it is. Things are not like they used to be. Why do you keep harassing me?’”

  “He said all this to the Blessed One?”

  “Yes, I mean, I suppose so . . . I don’t know!”

  “Yes, it must be . . . A very interesting case indeed . . . Extremely typical, but, then again, just as rare. Thank you very much. Thank you very much indeed . . .”

  The man was thanking me for having gotten myself into this sorry state.

  “And those were the man’s very words, right?”

  His attentions and intentions were evident from head to toe as he peered into my face. “I will most certainly write a report about this for the congress . . . Now, tell me again what you just said a moment ago?”

  I went over the episode again.

  “This is a rare case of tremendous significance—one might almost call it a taboo encircled by a web of complexes. But similar cases have been documented.”

  And he told me how infertile women on a Javanese island, or some such place, were in the custom of visiting an ancient cannon that their people venerated as a prophet, tying strips of cloth to it in the hope of curing their condition. Hoping to change the subject, I said:
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  “We have similar stories too. The old war ship Mahmudiye was like that. You know, the one that supposedly had three hulls? At night the ship sailed by stealth across the Black Sea to attack Sebastopol, unloading its cannons on the bastions and returning before morning. My father remembers it well. The inside was as large as the Selimiye Barracks—”

  “It was inside your house?” he asked me.

  Was he daydreaming, or did he just assume I was completely out of my mind? Or even more terrifying . . .

  “No, no!” I cried. “In our country. I mean, it was in Istanbul.”

  And so I tried my best to articulate my thoughts clearly so as to prove I was sane.

  “How could such a battleship ever fit inside a house? You would need something the size of Hagia Sophia to hold such an enormous vessel.”

  “Hagia Sophia?”

  I saw now where I had gone wrong.

  “I mean, these are merely figures of speech,” I said. And without allowing him a chance to speak, I returned to my story.

  He listened with grave attention, all the while taking notes. Then, thanking me once again, he offered his opinion:

  “This, too, is extremely interesting, but rather different. Which is to say, it’s something else entirely . . .”

  At various points in our discussion he stopped to clean his fingernails with the pocketknife he’d taken from his briefcase. When he finished the job, I was sure he’d pass the knife to me, which really wouldn’t have been all that bad, seeing as the best thing to do would be to fiddle with something, anything to keep my mind off the absurdity of my situation. But he didn’t offer me the knife, instead placing it back in his briefcase before we doused ourselves in more lemon cologne. Then out came the cigarette pack all over again, and I could bear it no longer.