The Time Regulation Institute

by Ahmet Hamdi Tanpınar

  Sabriye Hanım put forward just one condition before she engaged in these séances, and that was that the hypnotist wasn’t to wake her up before she took a quick look around Nevzat Hanım’s home. Awake and fully compos mentis, she’d exclaim, “What did I say? Did I see anything? You let me have a look around, right?”

  The truth was that Sabriye Hanım believed Zeynep Hanım had shot herself after uncovering a secret love affair between her husband and Nevzat Hanım. She also believed that Murat, like Aphrodite’s aunt, was a fiction—a fiction invented to cover up a love affair, a criminal love affair that had resulted in the death of someone she dearly loved.

  The association did not merely disagree with Sabriye Hanım; it rejected her theory wholesale. Murat was nothing like Aphrodite’s aunt. He wasn’t the kind of spirit that could be knocked out in just one blow. So much of the association’s quaint warmth came from this churlish and outspoken but loveable spirit. Who will ever forget that sudden rush we all felt the evening when a capricious Murat cut the electricity and we all huddled together in fear? The following week the association was compelled to ban new members, if only to protect this dearly loved creature from exposure.

  So the promises the hypnotist made to Sabriye Hanım were never honored: he made every effort to keep her far from Nevzat Hanım’s home. Though she probably could have indeed conversed with Nevzat Hanım, no one could be sure to what extent she could actually converse directly with Murat. And no one wanted to offend him.

  Sabriye Hanım’s skepticism and her affinity for tragedy were not entirely unappreciated. But it was never forgotten that she was a naturally inquisitive character, with a formidable grip on affairs of the heart.

  She was well aware of all this and so reluctant to partake in hypnotic séances, preferring homelier ways to communicate with the departed. She often led séances at home or at the club during which she treated those spirits who’d accepted her invitations to lectures on the nature of the true torments in the world beyond. It was hard not to be taken aback by her questions. In séances of this nature she preferred not to call those spirits who were already accustomed to the operating styles of the hypnotist or the sheikh. This was why she chose to fall in league with Seyit Lutfullah, whose story I had shared with her, undertaking a momentous collaboration with him, of which more later. I arranged for Seyit Lutfullah to attend Sabriye Hanım’s lecture “Spiritualism and Social Hygiene” at the association the following week; in the talk she fervently declared her commitment to her art, going so far as to explain under what conditions a secret service of spirits might be assembled, and expounding on the many benefits such an assembly would afford. We all knew that Taflan Deva Bey was lending her tremendous support in her efforts. This refined and learned man of no small means indeed had an overwhelming passion for social hygiene. I often think how different—and more wonderful—our lives would be had our country’s more gifted individuals succeeded in finding their rightful places. I cannot imagine a person among us who, after listening to him for just ten minutes, would not be swept away by the overpowering desire to have Taflan Deva Bey made mayor of Istanbul, or of any other province in the country, for life and to spend every penny he had to make it possible. He was aided by his insight and good manners and his ability to attract individuals from all social strata. What a pity that Deva Bey was only concerned with the social and moral manifestations of hygiene. For him, streets, homes, and the entire cities were themselves always secondary and tertiary points of considerations. What was most essential for him was a society’s ability to purge itself of deviant thought.

  Thus it was Sabriye Hanım’s curiosity that led me to reconnect with Seyit Lutfullah one night, at a time in my life when I least expected to see him. The truth is that I had begun to feel closer to him since joining the Spiritualist Society. No matter how pure the association’s scientific goals, and no matter how serious its debates and investigations, he was the true master of the manor! It was as if he were standing there next to me from my first day there. And in certain communications, it was all too clear that he had intervened.

  X

  My life might have gone on like this forever had I not been pulled out of the Spiritualist Society through the entirely unexpected intervention by Cemal Bey, who offered me an attractive and handsomely remunerated position in his company. My work for him was to be made official. “We’re already friends, aren’t we?” he said. But to accept I had to be free for work during daylight hours. Not only was I obliged to leave the post office in Fener; I also had to sever my ties with the Spiritualist Society. Enticed as I was by the conditions of employment, I accepted the offer without fully considering the consequences. In Cemal’s words, I was at last making a career for myself. And from this rung I would only climb higher. I was an individual with talent, he said—so why had I been content to drift from one menial position to the next? It simply made no sense for me to waste any more time in service.

  Life at the Spiritualist Society had worn me down. It was impossible for me to get home in time for dinner. I hadn’t been sleeping well at all; the association members had been taking up nearly all my time. The only break I’d ever had from them was when I was off running errands for Cemal Bey.

  Before I left the association, I said good-bye to Nail Bey, and once again he listened to everything I had to say on the matter. Then he closed his eyes and intoned:

  “Lutfullah.”

  I cocked my head to indicate I hadn’t understood. Assuming he was only having me on, I answered:

  “He’s in safe hands. Sabriye Hanım’s looking after him.”

  Nail handed me a communiqué that had been distributed the day before. It warned of evil spirits plaguing the association and advised that Seyit Lutfullah was not to be summoned to any future gatherings.

  Nail Bey leaned toward me and said:

  “Seyit Lutfullah knows too much, he knows as much as Sabriye Hanım. And you’ve been asking him such misleading questions. So watch your step!”

  Only much later did I fully grasp what Nail Bey was trying to tell me. Speaking with him then I was under the impression that I was leaving the association with my old friend Seyit Lutfullah by my side.

  The work I was to do for Cemal Bey was simple and straightforward. After five o’clock I was free to do as I pleased. I had a new circle of friends. I no longer had to put up with the masses at the Fener post office or the mounting chorus of moans as they pushed and shoved their way to the one public telephone on a wooden table covered in cigarette burns. My new surroundings were comfortable and refined. I had a telephone that was for my use only. No longer did I need to jump up at the call of a bell. Now there were men jumping up when I rang for them. The first day I rang for the office boy eight times. The first time I asked him about the weather; the second time I asked him for the time; when he hurried up a third time, I asked for his help in putting on my coat; the fourth time I had him take it off; on his fifth trip I got his name; but by then the whole thing had become rather tedious for us both. Calling him up to see me for the sixth time, I offered him a cigarette and asked him to sit with me for a while; and on the seventh buzz I asked him to go away, until finally I rang for him to come back and keep me company.

  You might not believe me, but I found it all to be a genuine delight. I had indeed stepped onto the first rung of the ladder!

  I started meeting Dr. Ramiz in the coffeehouse in Sehzadebası again. But the place had lost its warm atmosphere; four years had passed and most of the regulars had moved on. But this was of little import, as the main characters were still there: Lazybones Asaf Bey, Dr. Ramiz, a few painters, a journalist. My recent exploits had made me a character in my own right. From time to time, the poet Ekrem Bey would come round to fill us in on the latest spiritualist gossip: Nevzat Hanım seemed discontent and hopelessly scatty, and Sabriye Hanım almost never came to meetings anymore.

  One day at the office I received a
telephone call from Sabriye Hanım. She invited me to a meeting at her home. I invented an excuse but she insisted. She left me no choice. When I told Cemal Bey later in the day, he flew into a terrible rage:

  “Out of the question!” he croaked. “Absolutely not. I forbid you to go!”

  So naturally I didn’t go.

  Throughout my time in his employ, my personal relationship with Cemal Bey remained constant. He sent for me whenever there was something he needed; whether I was at the coffeehouse or at home, he would find me. But he was no longer the same man: day by day he grew increasingly petulant and no matter how carefully I carried out his precise commands he would accuse me of botching the job and scold me harshly. I ascribed his change in behavior to various problems that I knew to be causing him anxiety at the time. He was suffering from severe financial difficulties. Whenever we met, he was busy going over his accounts. On several occasions I watched him fish a wad of cash out of his pocket and sort the bills into separate piles before returning the small fortune to his wallet with a mournful look on his face.

  “I won’t make it through the month!” he groaned.

  With the money he had counted right under my nose, he could have sent the entire community at the customs bureau on the hajj. That year he spent the whole winter fretting over his accounts. Then suddenly his situation improved. The same could not be said of the way he treated me: I was still accountable for his misadventures with his tailor, cobbler, haberdasher, his butcher in Karaköy, and his landlord; I suffered them all and paid dearly with my sweat. But his financial woes had somehow disappeared.

  It was around this time that something happened that seemed of little consequence. One evening Sabriye Hanım decided to call on us at home, in a car so enormous it blocked off our entire street. Together we revisited memories from the past, and in doing so she managed to squeeze out of me the odd piece of information regarding Cemal Bey’s private life. Then, after kissing my wife and my sister-in-laws good-bye, she took her leave.

  Her visit had a devastating effect on the family morale. Her fashionable attire had left my wife and her sisters awestruck. In setting out at once to imitate her style, they failed to remember that dressing in such a way required money. To them, it was a simple matter of will; and all three began to tap it most aggressively. I had to spend three months’ wages in one month. But the spree continued unabated; there was still so much more they had to have. Before saying her farewells, Sabriye Hanım had declared my younger sister-in-law to be rather pretty; swept away by the compliment and convinced of its sincerity, she entered her first beauty contest that very year.

  Two months later Nevzat Hanım somehow found my address and came to visit us, too. She was curious to find out just what Sabriye Hanım had asked me that night, and she was curious to know my personal opinion of Cemal Bey.

  The three sisters were quick to conclude that Nevzat Hanım’s style was in fact the true embodiment of elegance. Everything—from all their gowns to their undergarments—had to be changed. All their old clothing was sold secondhand, for next to nothing. Thus we burned our way through two more months’ wages. To make matters worse, Pakize began to feel jealous; though she couldn’t have cared less about him until then, her husband had suddenly become a prized commodity. There had to be a reason why women of such quality would visit me so brazenly. She suspected we were up to something.

  How had Cemal Bey heard about Nevzat Hanım’s visit? The very next day he was as cold as ice. No longer content to limit his criticism to the way I carried out his personal errands, he began to find fault with my work at the office. Nothing I did pleased him. He flung papers in my face and even shouted at me in front of the office boys. It was no longer the good life but a living hell. With each of Cemal’s remonstrations, I swallowed a bed of red-hot coals. And I’d had to sell my own clothes to keep up with the fashion revolution at home. I’d been reduced to wearing a suit covered in motley patches. But neither this sartorial disgrace nor my scraggly two-month-old beard did anything to lessen Pakize’s jealousy. I had no choice but to supply her with a running account for every minute of my day.

  I have already told you that I am an ignorant man. All my life I’ve had to learn new words. At almost every stage, I was obliged to renew my lexicon with revisions based on real-life experience—with my own blood and toil. Through my adventures with the Sehzadebası Diamond, I came to understand the meaning of the word “absurd.” Till then I had understood the word to allude to things beyond my ken. Now it was part and parcel of my life. A fear I had never before experienced took root inside me. I lived each second of the day afraid of what awaited me around the next corner. I knew that within the next half hour either my wife or one of her sisters would come by the office to check up on me, and that Cemal Bey would call me in to chastise me, showing no mercy (all this while my visitors were still there), and that I would wrest myself free of him only to come face to face with one of my creditors.

  With every passing minute, I felt degraded in a new way. With every hour, misfortune appeared before me in a new guise. Yet there was no reason for me to be suffering so. In no way had I brought this on myself. It all seemed to unfurl by its own logic.

  At around this time, a young woman came forward, claiming she wanted to marry me—though I had made my situation clear. But, then again, it may have been my marital status that piqued her interest. I met all sorts of people by chance in those days, without ever considering the consequences. One of these creatures took to me. And there was absolutely nothing I could do beyond surrendering to her claws. I just couldn’t break free. A machine operated by some external hand was now controlling my life; at one point the engine picked up speed only to slow down a little later, and sometimes it stopped functioning altogether. When this happened, neither the saw nor the blade worked; and a fear took the place of my panic and pain. I trembled to think what might, as the saying goes, next be lying in store.

  Toward the end of summer Cemal Bey went to Ankara for three days. It was nothing less than heaven. Though anxious as ever, I was spared the terrible burden of the man’s company. No longer was I submerged in a deep sea; no longer did I feel that horrific weight on my back or my bones nearly splintering beneath it. And then there was the rest of it: the daily hardships, the concomitant fatigue, pain, and suffering. Thus I came to understand the extent to which a single person can impinge upon the life of another.

  Over those three days I couldn’t stop thinking about Cemal Bey. In a way nothing had changed. Everyone at the office had adopted his style, so I was more or less exposed to the same kind of treatment. Life at home was ever the same. I felt just a bit more comfortable and more relaxed. Yet this creature known as Cemal Bey still cast its looming shadow over my life; there was no escape.

  And he wasn’t just a part of my life: he infused all that surrounded me.

  My own life had taught me this: mankind’s hell is mankind. There might very well be hundreds of diseases that will end our lives, hundreds of paths that may lead to our undoing, but all these pale next to the devastation that can be wrought by another human being.

  Now I was to discover that I wasn’t alone in this view. Before leaving for Ankara, Cemal Bey gave me a long list of errands. For one of these, I had to speak with his wife. So I stopped by their home. Selma Hanım did not greet me at all warmly; in fact she didn’t even seem happy to see me. Everything was just as it had always been. Yet something between us had changed. She seemed more at ease and sure of herself, and she was wearing an expression I’d never seen before. She seemed relieved.

  She insisted that I stay for a coffee. She sat down opposite me in the living room, really not that far away, and I watched her fiddle with the folds on her skirt. She too was liberated but, like me, for a limited time only. She had the easy air of a child granted a reprieve from her governess. Or was it something more than that? She called to mind a young girl rescued from an evil witch in one
of those fairy tales.

  Surely Nevzat Hanım must have been the same. She had a new lightness of being, seemed more at ease.

  At one point Selma Hanım asked me if I had seen Nevzat Hanım. To demonstrate my mastery of the intricacies of class distinction, I took care to endow Cemal Bey with the title beyefendi.

  “The beyefendi has prohibited my association with her.”

  At first it seemed that Selma Hanım hadn’t understood.

  “It seems Nevzat Hanım isn’t feeling well. I haven’t been able to visit her either.”

  Then all at once she looked me in the eyes as if she had just come to her senses. She wanted to say something but stopped. She had understood.

  And so? What would that achieve? It would do nothing but poison the three days of freedom that chance had bestowed upon her. It was best not to think about it at all. Escape was the only way, to take flight into myself. But was there even such a place to take refuge? Indeed was I even there? This thing called “I” was no more than a mess of desire, pain, and fear.

  This was why I was not so very upset when Cemal Bey relieved me of my position the moment he got back. If nothing else, I was finally free. I’d never see the wretch again. I’d never have to suffer his screeching voice. His oafish gestures and the revolting lines on his narrow little forehead would never again haunt my dreams. The nausea would finally cease. Anger and rage would no longer eat away my insides.