“Yes,” I said. “But I don’t understand any of this. Did she really make peace with me? And why? Was all that nonsense my wife spouted to the paper just a setup, to attract her to the institute? I can’t be sure of anything anymore.”
“You don’t understand Halit Bey, that’s why. You assume that he acts according to some master plan and that he ensnared your aunt because she’s rich. But no, he merely wanted to promote the institute through you, and just then your aunt turned up and so he seized the opportunity. Halit Bey’s a casual fellow, but he’s clever. And he plays fair—he’s no opportunist!”
The Clock Lover’s Society boasted a whole host of beautiful young women and handsome, courteous young men. It became quite an attraction in its own right. Yet most of these people were from the Spiritualist Society, the coffeehouse, or Halit Bey’s own circle of friends. At one point we were visited by the exalted politician I’d first met at the restaurant in Büyükdere. I was with my aunt when he stepped in. When I told him I was her nephew, he was all the more delighted with our enterprise. He showed a keen interest in the institute.
“How is work?”
I was preparing my answer when a waiter stepped in between us, offering caviar canapés. The politician looked me in the eye, and then down at the tray. With a great show of indifference, he told the waiter to set the tray on the table beside us. A while later whiskey was served. With a tumbler of whiskey already in his hand, Halit joined us. “We’re creating quite a substantial cooperative, sir,” he exclaimed. “To our personnel!” As usual, I was catching up with plans I’d not been told about. Moreover, Halit Bey informed me later that evening that I was also going to be involved in a project to establish Timely Banks. So whether I knew it or not, I was now enjoying a certain success in life. But what had I really achieved? Save my frustration with this strange and incongruous crowd, what else had I achieved?
VII
From the moment of its publication, The Life and Works of Ahmet the Timely was met with great acclaim. The public immediately warmed to this important historic figure—a figure created by Halit Ayarcı in the space of a moment. No one seemed to question the likelihood that such a figure could have anticipated Graham’s calculations two centuries before the fact. At the insistence of Halit Ayarci, I had described in great detail the fascination our forbears had for mathematics at that time, so much so that they must have assumed Ahmet the Timely’s discovery was derived from a mathematical equation. Yet as the book neared publication, I felt absolute terror. “What if no one likes it?” I wondered. “What if they discover it’s all a lie?” Fear made my every moment agony. I couldn’t sleep. Halit Ayarcı simply laughed to see me so anxious. He took every opportunity to assure me that my fears were ungrounded:
“My good friend Hayri Irdal,” he said. “My dear friend, you’ll see that your book will be adored. You seem to be under the impression that it contains untruths. But that’s not so. There is nothing you have done that is not true. Today’s Ahmet the Timely is not a falsification: he is the very embodiment of truth. Do you know what would make him a falsification and a disaster? If he had actually lived at the end of the seventeenth century, if he’d entertained the ideas we’ve attributed to him, well, then that would be a lie. He would be in the wrong age. He would have had to travel through time, which is, of course, impossible. In matters such as these, there is no set truth. It is a question of working with the century at hand and making him a man of his time. Our age needs Ahmet the Timely Efendi. And it is only at the end of the seventeenth century that this need can be filled. That’s all there is to it. He is truth incarnate. We all heard what your aunt said last night. You may recall her tracing the lineage of Ahmet Efendi the Some Timer back to the age of Fatih Sultan. Did anyone challenge her? No. Everyone was quite pleased to accept it as the truth. And why not? Her assertion is proven by two living entities: you and your aunt! In acknowledging that you exist, they accept her line of reasoning. What could be more natural than these two dear individuals tracing their lineage that far back? Had your aunt said such a thing twenty years ago, everyone would have been ashamed of her, and that’s because in those days you two were not the same people. People would have cried, ‘Oh God, please! Could there be anything more ridiculous than people of so little consequence tracing their ancestry back to the age of Fatih Sultan?’ It’s just as the saying goes: the blasphemous man builds his casket out of firewood. A pack of lies. Would their manners not be more noble and graceful if it were really true? Today, on the other hand, they say nothing of the sort. Here’s another example: When your aunt became aware of your success, she changed her mind about you and also your father. And what did she say about your father that night? Was she lying? No. She was simply giving her present opinion a place in the past! Very good of you to discover that Ahmet the Timely participated in the Ottoman siege on Vienna. A man of his importance would not have been far removed from that momentous occasion. I can’t begin to tell how you much I enjoyed this discovery of yours. It calls to mind Goethe’s military involvement in the French Revolution and at the battle of Valmy. Great men ride the currents of the age. That said, it is good that Ahmet the Timely never saw glory on the battlefield—that shows you to be balanced in your judgment. No one can do everything! Be there at the event but have others perform the heroics! Indeed if such a great deed had ever happened—let’s say Ahmet the Timely conquered such and such a castle—it wouldn’t have escaped the eyes of a historian. It really was a stroke of luck that you happened to read his On the Mores of Conjugal Ceremonies and Bonds when you were young. For if you hadn’t, this important work would have been lost, and it would not be here for us to enjoy today. Just imagine the public grief had that work—or his treatise on horology—disappeared. Quite good that you jotted down these two titles from one of the old manuscripts in the Nuruosmaniye Library. Ah, and here we see how important it is that you appreciated the importance of old ink. My dear friend, you have written a magnum opus!”
On another occasion he said the following:
“As important as creating a movement is maintaining its momentum. In extending our movement to the past, you have intensified its forward momentum. In addition you have shown that our forbears were both revolutionary and modern. No one can begrudge his past forever. Is history material only for critical thought? Can we not stumble upon someone from the past whom we love and enjoy? Oh, you’ll see how pleased everyone will be with our work!”
Unfortunately a handful of armchair academics tried to spoil the fun, being so impertinent as to suggest that such a figure had never actually existed and dismissing the book as a complete fabrication.
Had I finished the book in my original frame of mind, I might have taken pleasure in their criticism. “Oh, thank God!” I would have cried. “How could I ever thank you more? If anything, now I know that there are sensible people out there! They won’t tolerate these lies. What could be more felicitous than this?” But sadly I was no longer the same man. Over the six months I’d spent working on the book, I’d come to see the world through Halit Ayarcı’s eyes, so much so that I found any objection to my work intolerable. It was now, after all, a question of an author’s pride. And I had grown very fond of Ahmet the Timely. To doubt his existence at this late date would be far too troubling. I had, in effect, come to see Halit Ayarcı’s notion of relativity as my own.
By way of illustration, allow me to describe two unrelated matters that caused me considerable trouble at around this time. First there was the individual whose family had lived in Çengelköy for five or six generations who claimed to be Ahmet the Timely’s direct descendent. He filed for his family name to be changed and went so far as to ask me to attest to the veracity of his connection in a court of law. Unfortunately he was unable to support his claim with the original deeds, or indeed with any genealogy reports. All he had were copies he’d written out himself. In the name of truth, I was obliged to deny the veracity of the docume
ntation. My decision was vigorously applauded in the newspapers. They marveled at my scrupulous attention to the niceties of the case. And after this the book grew even more popular. Halit Bey was amused by my fine show of resilience. Only Zehra was a touch upset: “Perhaps the poor man really was the Timely Efendi’s great-great-grandson,” she whimpered. I silenced her, saying:
“He might very well be a Timely, but he can’t be related to our Timely, as such a man never really existed!”
The second test came from the Spiritual Society, where one of my friends succeeded, after struggling day and night for a month, in summoning and communicating with the spirit of Ahmet the Timely. Ahmet the Timely took this opportunity to challenge certain points in my book: He denied ever stammering or speaking with a lisp, and he offered up new information on his dervish lodge as well as the extent of his influence. The papers picked up the story, after which the book became more popular still. The strangest thing about it was that—before taking his leave—he asked the summoning spiritualists to extend his gratitude to me. This may well have been the first time an official message of thanks from the world beyond had ever been reported in the media, and it was given the full appreciation it deserved.
And then there was Cemal Bey—now Selma Hanım’s ex-husband. He had always been hostile toward me. He was beside himself upon hearing I had become more intimate with his ex-wife. Using the book as a pretext, he launched an assault against both me and the institute. Born liar that he was, he could not stop at denying Ahmet the Timely’s existence; he went so far as to try and replace him with a fictitious character of his own.
And so it was that Cemal Bey came to insist that there had never been an Ahmet the Timely, but at the same moment in history there had indeed been a man known as Fenni Efendi who had been passionate about flowers, interested in mechanics, and who moved in influential circles. According to Cemal Bey, it was this man who had occupied himself with timepieces and time. We had done no more than to attribute the work of Fenni Efendi to our fictitious Ahmet Efendi. And the reason for this was clear: The name Timely best suited our institute and so was easily used in promoting our endeavors. Thus in an effort to generate effective publicity for the institute we had distorted the historical truth. Sitting at the heart of this absurd affair was a paradox: while Cemal Bey claimed the book on horology had been falsely attributed to the fictitious Ahmet the Timely and was in fact the work of Fenni Efendi, master of science, whose existence could be verified, he went on to claim that its criticism of polygamy had no basis, concluding that we must have written the entire book ourselves.
It was a masterstroke. It was to land a more decisive blow that Cemal Bey had given credence to our lies. So instead of launching yet another dead-end debate as to whether such a man could have existed, he had laid claim to one small part of the lie and waged his war on us from there. The moment his outlandish attack was made public, doubts about Sheikh Ahmet Zamanı the Timely began to circulate. Despite Halit Ayarcı’s prompt press conferences and my own written responses to these charges, we were not able to dispel the suspicions. The book’s reputation had been severely compromised.
I was with Selma Hanım when I first saw the article. In fact she had the morning’s paper with her when she arrived for our rendezvous at the pied-à-terre where we’d been seeing one another regularly.
“Just look at this, the viper’s little sting!” she said, and when my eyes fell on an old photograph of myself next to a likeness of Cemal Bey, I flew into a rage.
Cemal was doing everything in his power to bring me down.
The article began: “A charlatan and trickster through and through, Hayri Irdal once served at my firm as a lesser clerk, but I was forced to dismiss him for egregious moral turpitude and perjury.” And it finished: “But the individual truly responsible for this man’s corruption of the good name of a historical figure, his life and his works, a man who can hardly do simple addition let alone lead a discussion on rabia figures, is no other than Halit Ayarcı Bey.”
For a moment, the whole world and everything in it seemed to be crashing down around me; it suddenly became clear to me that I would never be able to find my way back along the roads I’d traveled over the past year. There could be no fate worse than this. The miracle of my good fortune—the money, fame, and status that had come to me unbidden, throwing open doors and revealing new vistas—would be gone, all gone! Most terrifying of all was the glimmer in Selma’s eyes, which had become so strange and timorous since we’d begun to see each other more intimately.
I would now say that it was only after tasting that fear that I began to take my work at the institute in earnest, embracing it with open arms. No longer did I waver between fact and fiction. To be or not to be—that was the question that drove me. I took care to remind myself that certain thoughts were mere whimsy: that they served only as window dressing, to be accepted as read. Unless I took care, I could go back to being a man without a future, without anything. I might even end up on the streets. I could find myself back in the old days, which, after this blessed interlude, could only be harder and more painful to bear. The loneliness, the humiliation, the self-doubt! The beautiful woman seated before me, half-naked and smiling, took on the air of a distant dream. On that spring morning I looked out over a misty sea and reminded myself that this warm and pleasant apartment, this trysting place, this intimate seclusion, and my real life hovering outside—all this could vanish in an instant. Selma had brought spring flowers that morning and arranged them in a vase between us. For one terrible moment, they seemed to wither before my very eyes.
Suddenly the telephone rang. To me, with my shattered nerves, the sound was as terrifying, as intolerable as if it were ushering in the end of the world. As in truth, it did. For the ring was a summons from the outside world, an assault on our secret haven. And I knew that it was my enemy. Fearfully I picked up the phone. I was somewhat soothed to hear the teasing tones of Halit Ayarcı.
“Have you seen it?” he asked.
“Yes, I’ve just read it. We’re ruined. What do we do now?”
His first reply was in jest:
“Yes, the sky’s falling, so just enjoy!”
But then more seriously:
“Pay it no mind,” he said. “But we do need to get a bit more serious now. You must write a careful response to this man as soon as possible. As for me, I shall seek out his Achilles heel and apply pressure. That should keep the masses busy for a while, but what’s most important is for us to orchestrate a counterblow that will astound them all. You know what I mean? Something new, entirely new . . . Something, my friend, to astound our enemies and friends alike! An institute such as ours will always fall under public scrutiny. Remember this and proceed accordingly. And never forget—you must always rely on your luck!”
“Nothing but words,” I said. “Just words! It’s all over. They’ll take you down with me. There’s no hope. We’ve nothing left to do but pick up the pieces and go.”
Once I had finished, Halit Ayarcı let loose one of his loudest guffaws.
“There will be no plundering, my dear Hayri, no packing up and running! I shall stay put and so shall you! People like us, we who embark on bold pursuits, it is not for us to surrender to our enemies so easily.”
His cool confidence was infuriating. For a moment, I wondered if my good benefactor had his wits about him. Was he aware of the gravity of the situation? As if reading my thoughts, his voice grew more serious:
“Of course,” he said, “the man dealt us a magnificent blow. I never saw it coming. Cemal Bey does indeed know how to wage war with an untruth. Only an untruth can challenge an untruth. Had he attacked us in the usual way, by charging us with invention, he would have come across as a mere crank. Instead he’s turned our own artillery against us. But there’s nothing to worry about. I have faith in my good fortune. See you this evening!”
Halit Ayarcı had assessed the
situation correctly. But he was wrong on one count: When it came to Cemal Bey, however could I trust in my luck? Wasn’t he the antithesis of good fortune? Until I’d had the good fortune to meet Halit Ayarcı, hadn’t I spent years down in the ditch, as a direct result of the blows Cemal had dealt me? And now, just as I was getting back up on my feet, I was face-to-face with this man all over again. How strange is the human soul: as I pondered all this, I somehow forgot that it was this man’s wife who had half her body draped over my shoulder as she nibbled on my ear, awaiting my love and attention. Yet I had played no part in Cemal’s separation with Selma. Though of course our liaison upset him.
The phone rang immediately after I hung up. It was Cemal Bey. His voice sounded the same as ever: polite and proud and cold enough to freeze a polar cap.
“Hayri Bey,” he intoned, “would you be so kind as to have a look at the paper today, if of course you could spare the time? There’s an article that might tickle your fancy!”
“No need, Cemal Bey, no need at all,” I replied. “An old friend brought me the paper this morning.”
And I hung up.
Although Cemal Bey had indeed divorced Selma, he was still jealous. He had learned of our trysting place. He had followed us; we were his overwhelming obsession.
And now Cemal Bey had swallowed me whole. Selma raised an eyebrow, lost in thought.
“I don’t understand it at all!” she said. “Not one bit. You cannot begin to appreciate how much rancor this man has toward me. He thought I was small and helpless. At home he would call me an artificial flower and never let me leave the house without an artificial flower pinned to my chest or coat collar. ‘You should carry one,’ he’d always say, ‘because that’s how I have to carry you around with me!’ If anyone thought to compliment me on my fake flower—oh, how he loved it! Oh that malicious smile . . .”
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