The Time Regulation Institute

by Ahmet Hamdi Tanpınar

  “Doctor,” I cried. “Why not just keep all these things out on the table?”

  For a moment terror overtook me, but then he smiled softly and said, “It’s easier this way.”

  The doctor’s conception of ease was no different from my stepmother’s conception of happiness. Ah, humankind . . .

  “You are quite a wonderful fellow, Hayri Bey. If only we had met in Vienna.”

  And of course we went right back to talking about Vienna—Dr. Ramiz’s beloved city always took precedence over my case. Then we turned to a more inauspicious topic of discussion.

  “The Blessed One was quite important for your mother, wasn’t he?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Try to remember.”

  He was looking me straight in the eye again.

  “Perhaps what I mean to say is, it was a quirky old clock with its own strange moods. It had a whimsical—or, rather, idiosyncratic—way of working, though perhaps that was only because it was broken. And the things it would do in its different moods—well, we found them rather strange.”

  As I spoke, his face radiated joy, and he nodded eagerly as he listened. Then he read over his notes.

  “Strange, quirky, odd, strange moods, idiosyncratic, whimsical, the things it could do . . . That’s right, isn’t it? Very interesting . . . And then?”

  “That’s it.”

  By then I had had enough. What about my examination? He had made absolutely no mention of it.

  “Yes, I’m listening. And your mother?”

  “In the end she was terribly frightened of the clock. You know the type, from the older generation—she was a superstitious woman.”

  “There’s no such thing as old or new in our field. The most primitive person is no different from ourselves. Conscious and unconscious lives are the same anywhere. Psychoanalysis . . .”

  And that was how the word I would hear so often for the rest of my life popped out of his mouth and plopped down before me like a soft-boiled egg.

  He got up.

  “We’ll continue tomorrow. Now let’s make sure you get some rest! Has your bed arrived?”

  “My wife’s sending it over.”

  “Well, that’s good, then. You’ll sleep here in this room. You’d only be bored in the reformatory, and uncomfortable. I’ll have a word with the director about it.”

  He seemed distraught.

  “They don’t like me here. They never listen to what I have to say. But seeing that you are now my patient . . .”

  “But, Doctor, I’m not ill. Now you know everything. And still you believe I am ill?”

  Without listening to me in the slightest, he left the room.

  I stood there, thinking for a while as I watched him leave.

  I dashed to the sink to splash water on my face. The discussion had worn me out. The doctor had left the door open, and a cold draft blew into the room, carrying with it painful cries, sharper now and all the more horrifying. What was going on? Were these the voices of the truly insane? Or were they just patients? That man who had come in earlier had said something about opening a cadaver. I wondered if they’d started dissecting. Perhaps they were just now closing it up! The doctor hadn’t shut the door behind him. Perhaps they hadn’t closed the body. But why were they opening it in the first place? Suddenly I was overwhelmed with a desperate desire to flee. I fearfully stepped out of the office, heading in the direction from which I assumed we had come. As I tiptoed down the corridor, the screams grew only louder. This can’t be the way, I said to myself. But it was as if the screams were drawing me to them. There were voices behind a half-opened door. I poked my head in and then instantly leapt back, my entire body trembling in fear. No, they hadn’t finished closing it up. I turned on my heels, scrambled back to the office, slammed the door shut, and hunkered down in my chair.

  Dr. Ramiz returned a little later, his face lit with joy.

  “It’s done. At first there were difficulties, but I explained that you were a patient with problems that pertain to my field in particular, and they finally agreed.”

  “But, Doctor, I’m not ill. Good God! I’ve told you everything.”

  Again he fixed his eyes on mine and stopped me, his voice full of resolve.

  “You are ill. It is the fate we all share since the birth of psychoanalysis.”

  “Well, then what difference is there between me and the people who are free?”

  “That’s another matter. I shall be looking after you from now on.”

  “Well, then what’s going to happen?”

  “We’ll treat you. Besides, yours is not a very difficult case. In such cases the diagnosis is almost tantamount to treatment. Which is to say that if we follow a tight schedule we should be able to finish in a few years.”

  I was beside myself.

  “A few years? I need your report, Doctor. My wife is ill. You can see clearly by just looking at her face that she’s ill. You must get me out of here as soon as possible.”

  “That’s another matter, which we’ve already covered.”

  Then he changed direction.

  “You’ll spend the evenings here, where you’ll be comfortable. Don’t wander about the building. Try not to think too much. And no cigarettes—they’re forbidden. I promised the director there would be no smoking in the evenings.”

  Not long after Dr. Ramiz had left, one of my neighbors arrived with my bedroll and some food. Emine had not been able to come herself, but she hadn’t forgotten a thing.

  From the following day on, Dr. Ramiz occupied himself exclusively with my case. Now he was interested in my dreams. Who knows, perhaps it was just my nature not to have many dreams? But like anyone else, I did occasionally have strange dreams that you might call nightmares. I described everything and anything I could remember.

  On the fourth day Dr. Ramiz changed his method of treatment. The curtains were drawn, and I was asked to lie down on a sofa facing the wall. He no longer asked me questions but rather invited me to say anything and everything that came to mind. And so I kept speaking. I kept speaking under the impression that in so doing I was deceiving him. But the hold he had on me slowly began to tighten. It was as if my thoughts had been drawn into a dark cellar, a cellar from which it was impossible to escape. Then suddenly a word, a memory, would light up like a window thrown open in the darkness. I was walking directly toward it. When he pulled back the curtains I’d be utterly exhausted. And we continued like this, day in and day out, until the end.

  My despair and frustration were driving me mad, but Emine never forgot me; she would either come to see me herself or find someone to come in her place. All in all, I became quite comfortable. I found a way to fill those previously vacant hours: I began repairing watches for the institute’s staff, starting with the director’s. And so the man gradually took a liking to me. From time to time, he’d call me to his office, and we would sit and chat. He was particularly interested in the story of the Serbetçibası Diamond.

  “You know, if something like that were in my hands . . . I mean, if the name’s anything to go by, the thing must be the size of a walnut. And why not, Hayri Bey . . . ? Just hold on for a few more days until Ramiz Bey finishes his report.”

  Just as I was stepping out the door, he called me back and fished a watch out from one of his vest pockets. Handing it to me, he said, “I almost forgot. This is my wife’s. It hasn’t been working properly for some time. If you could just have a look at it . . .”

  The following day the warden brought me a “friend’s watch.” Some of these I repaired, but on many occasions I could only diagnose the problem and prescribe a fix, as I didn’t have adequate equipment at hand. In the meantime, my psychoanalytic treatment continued unabated.

  I was suspicious of the light that flashed in the director’s eyes whenever Dr. Ramiz’s name came up in our conversat
ions, but I never could muster the courage to ask about my situation. How could I possibly risk saying anything that might compromise a man so good-hearted? But the clock was ticking, and I truly began to despair. Emine became weaker and more desperate every day. Since my detainment, she had been bearing our terrible burden alone. I had to stop work when the trial began, and we were now on the verge of utter poverty. Ten days after I was committed for treatment, Dr. Ramiz cut me off abruptly during one of our discussions.

  “So we have finished with stage one,” he announced.

  He paced about the room a few times, then stopped in front of me and placed his hand on my shoulder.

  “Yes. I have determined your illness. What you have is a typical case of a father complex. Apparently you never liked the man. But this isn’t too grave. This may in fact provide the quickest path to maturity. But you have succeeded in something far more fascinating.”

  I was wringing my hands, and my temples were covered in sweat.

  “Doctor, please!”

  “Now, there’s no need for that. Your condition has been diagnosed. I had in fact already stumbled upon the possibility of such an illness while listening to your life story. It became more evident to me in your dreams. And today I saw it all with great clarity. It is impossible that I have erred in my diagnosis.”

  My very soul was atremble as I listened.

  “Then what do I have, Doctor?”

  “A grave illness . . . , which could have been worse. And there’s certainly no need for you to be alarmed, for this is something we can address easily. A typical case, but harmless . . .”

  He stepped away from me and pulled out a chair from the other end of the room as if he might crouch down behind it. Leaning against the back of it, he continued:

  “As I said, your father, you don’t like the man, apparently you never did.”

  “For goodness sake, Doctor!”

  “Listen to me. Please try to listen. You never liked your father, and instead of eventually taking his place, you have never stopped looking for new father figures. In other words, you never fully matured. You’re simply still a child! Wouldn’t you agree?”

  I leapt out of my chair. This was surely going too far. It was clearly slanderous, perfidious, not to mention cruel; in one fell swoop he had rendered me an outcast from society.

  “Such a thought would never cross my mind. And never did. That’s ridiculous, sheer nonsense! Why would I look for another father? I’m the man’s son whether I like it or not. How could I deny my own father?”

  “Sadly, this is just the case. It’s been like this all your life. This is the source of the continuing confusion in your life, at work, and in your sense of self.”

  I looked around the room in utter bewilderment. No one was there to rescue me from this terrible situation. If I was going to get out of it, I’d have to do it myself. So I rallied all my strength.

  “Look, Doctor,” I began, “there’s nothing wrong with me. I just have bad luck. I always end up embroiled in the most unseemly scenarios. And I don’t know where this bad luck will take me next. Now I find myself stuck in this absurd situation. And why? I spoke out when there was no need. One little word dropped from my mouth, and around it they concocted an entire fairy tale. And they went as far as to make it my ruination. Sadly, I’m the victim of a lie that I myself devised. How could I have done such a thing? Why did I do such a thing? I really don’t know. But that’s just how it happened. I just rambled on and on . . . Nothing more than that. Perhaps I’m no different from all the rest of humankind combined. We are enslaved by our own stories. But mine was on a different scale—for I ended up paying dearly for it, and my children and my wife are paying for it too. Try to understand me. These people simply thrust it all upon me. There’s really nothing else to it . . .”

  If I had thought it possible, I would have thrown myself on the floor and groveled at his feet. This was how I saw myself throughout my tirade. I wanted to embrace something, to beg and plead, until everyone, even fate itself, believed me.

  “Calm yourself, Hayri Bey,” he kept saying. But I continued.

  “It’s a lie. Please understand. An insignificant, simple lie. A joke!”

  I tried to pull myself together and explain.

  “Simply take out the lie and nothing’s there—I’d be saved. I’m not sick at all. If you’re looking for someone who is, well, there’s my wife! I’m terribly worried about her—she’s very ill. She looked dreadful the other day. She wasn’t that bad when I left home, but as for myself, I’m absolutely fine! A man in perfect health.”

  Oh, the sound of my voice then. How well I know that voice and the way it makes my entire body heave. How many times in my life have I woken up from dreams with this same fear inside me, with this voice wet with tears still ringing in my ears? Fear. Fear and man, fear and man’s destiny, the struggle of man against man, and needless hostility. But who was I fooling? To whom could I explain myself? For what can a man ever really convey? What grief can one man truly share with another? The stars might speak to one another, but man can never communicate with man.

  The worst of it was that Ramiz Bey had no intention of trying to understand what I was saying, let alone even listen. He was interested only in my illness, or, rather, his diagnosis. And really, why would I ever disavow my own father?

  “Please stay calm,” he said. “Unfortunately you don’t like the man but not liking someone doesn’t mean rejecting him out of hand. You’re rather mixed up about the whole thing. The confusion began with the Blessed One. Its past exerted an exalted and sacred stranglehold on your home. Domestic values were turned upside down, and your father was relegated to second fiddle.”

  “The clock!? That wretched thing? A crotchety old clock . . . a family heirloom?”

  “Don’t you see? Miserable, old, crotchety . . . You continually speak of it as if it’s a human being. Pay attention to your words: first ‘wretched’ and then ‘old.’ What I mean is that first you spoke of it as if it were a human being, and then you caught yourself and said it was ‘old,’ as if to characterize it as just a piece of furniture. But you weren’t entirely satisfied with that word, and so you added the word ‘crotchety’ . . .” He riffled through his notes. “On the first day you used the following words and phrases: ‘strange,’ ‘bizarre disposition,’ ‘flights of fancy,’ ‘idiosyncratic,’ and ‘those things it would always do.’”

  “And?”

  “In other words, you spent your childhood in a home dominated by this clock. Even your father was jealous of it. Although your mother named it the Blessed One, your father called it the Calamity. I’m surprised the man never smashed it to pieces, because your father realized the danger it presented well before you did.”

  “But he never wanted to smash the thing. He wanted to sell it.”

  Delighted, the doctor bounced out of his seat. I’d supplied him with yet another piece of evidence for his case.

  “So he wanted it out of the house.”

  I bowed my head. It was true. My father behaved as if the clock was a bitter rival, and he would often moan, “The thing never leaves me alone. Oh, the Calamity has practically taken over my home.”

  Again I rallied my strength and began to explain. What else was there for me to do?

  “Doctor, please! All this is quite unreasonable. Just because the poor man let a few words slip . . . No one could really be jealous of a clock. Have you ever seen someone jealous of an object? I could understand if it were a person . . . but why would someone be jealous of their own property? Perhaps they might find it distasteful or become tired of it or throw it away—sell it, burn it, smash it to bits, but . . .”

  “And then there’s Nuri Efendi, Seyit Lutfullah, and Abdüsselam Bey.”

  “Nuri was my master, and the best man I’ve ever known. Lutfullah was a hopeless madman, but I was always amused by his
words and actions. I liked him as I might like a fairy tale. As for Abdüsselam, the man was very kind to me.”

  “Yes, but they all fit into different periods of your life. You followed a different man at each stage in your life.”

  Panic slowly welled up inside me. Was that really the case? There’s no doubt I was in some way attached to all these men. Dr. Ramiz suddenly and quite mercilessly interrupted my thoughts:

  “How do you explain Abdüsselam naming your first child?”

  I held up my hands and once again implored him to return to reason and logic, the only sound approach to all this.

  “Have mercy, Doctor, a little mercy . . . It was a matter of courtesy, for I was living in his home. He had been so kind to me on so many other occasions. He was my benefactor. So call it whatever you like: a blessing, an act of piety to the man, or as the elders call it ‘an auspicious consecration.’”

  “So, in a word, he was a father to you. And you wholeheartedly accepted him as such. You accepted him to such an extent that you even allowed the poor man to give your daughter his mother’s name.”

  “And that is my fault? He gave her the name—and by mistake.”

  “Naturally you were the one who thrust the role upon him. A matter of influence . . . You’re a powerful man, Hayri Bey, or, rather, a powerful patient.”

  By this point all my resistance was broken. There was nothing I could do but stare at him, transfixed by his interpretation. It was the same way I had, for days, stared at everyone in the courtroom in utter surprise. In the same state of mind I had cried, “How can these people actually believe all this?” I suppose it is this state of shock in the face of our fellow human beings that prevents us from going mad several times a day.

  Snuffing out my cigarette, I stood up.

  “Don’t you think this has all gone too far, Doctor?” I asked. “True, I was never a great admirer of my father. He had such strange moods. He was cantankerous, and he spoke too much, and he had no self control. All in all, he wasn’t the kind of man anyone really loved, respected, or, for that matter, held in much esteem. He’d had bad luck—that was certain. But he was still my father. I pitied him even if I didn’t love him. He had such a soft and battered soul . . . To look for someone to replace him, and so many years after he passed away? Now, maybe if I were my mother, I might be able to choose another man for myself . . .” He gestured for me to sit down.