The Time Regulation Institute (34 page)

The politician was in a class apart; he was not the kind of man who would subject himself to misery and pain just to temper his mind and soul, a man who blunted the edge of his fortune, ready to dismiss the bounties of this world for eternal happiness in the world beyond. He was in every way the opposite: for he belonged to the society of men who snatch, seize, devour, and smash whatever takes their fancy, only to look for something new when they finish, becoming bored and restless until they find it. It was clear that he had never flirted with the ascetic life, nor was he the type of man who would sacrifice his
diet, even when struggling against the gravest illness. The way he looked down at our table, his manner of complimenting others, the celerity with which he zeroed in on the mullet, the split second it took him to notice the bit of fried mussel dangling on the end of my fork, his falconlike attention to the bounties the table promised, and the swiftness with which he swooped down to claim what was rightfully his, even if it happened to be in the hands of another . . . No, he was forged of a different sort of steel. He was born for this life. Consider for a moment: he did not hesitate in relieving Hayri Irdal of the mussel dangling before him in midair because Hayri had spent his whole life in the corner of a coffeehouse, scrounging for food day in to day out, and now that he was sitting in an elegant Bosphorus restaurant in Büyükdere he couldn't bring himself to eat it; this man was gracious enough to savor it on his behalf. With this gesture he had propelled Hayri Irdal into celestial bliss, while his old friend Dr. Ramiz watched on with envious desire.

To meet such a man, to look him directly in the eye—this was without doubt an auspicious event and a great source of happiness. And naturally it promised an abundance of good fortune (as indeed it did). My life's orbit and its very meaning changed the next day; in fact it started to change that very night.

It began when the aforementioned weight on my shoulders was lifted and I first felt the new lightness of being to which I have already alluded. Then slowly but surely my patterns of thought began to shift. Indeed my very perception of the world began to alter, as did the manner in which I perceived objects and understood humankind. Of course all this did not occur in just one day; it happened incrementally, and not without some growing pains. Indeed on many occasions the transformation negated the man I had previously been. But, yes, in the end it all happened.

That night Halit Ayarcı heard the complete story of my life. I told him all about Nuri Efendi, Seyit Lutfullah, Abdüsselam Bey, Ferhat Bey, Aristidi Efendi, Nasit Bey, and the treasure of the emperor Andronikos, although I lingered perhaps a bit too long on the topic of turning mercury into gold, explaining that the preferred method was a combination of numerology and
consultation with spirits via a medium. I could still feel the weight of the politician's hand on my shoulder turning the wheel of my fate; perhaps I was calling on all my oratory skills with the hope that I might plant in this esteemed and wealthy individual's mind the passion to pursue the treasure so he might then acquire the secret powers of the universe. Indeed I even disclosed certain details to him that I had never told anyone.

“All the treasure—silver and gold inlaid with jewels and pearls—is under a tent raised by twenty-seven golden poles. And chest after chest overflows with gems and jewels, gold and silver bowls, ladies' ornamental jewelry, rings, chains, evil-eye talismans . . .”

Halit Ayarcı laughed and said, “Impossible. The Byzantines didn't have evil-eye talismans. Those are particular to the Turks.”

I had to think that over for a moment. What was the infidel's equivalent? The word
masallah
was definitely ours, most certainly.

“Yes, but surely they wore some sort of evil eye for good luck and to ward off evil spirits. Seyit Lutfullah told me that such tokens were normal gifts in the Christian states, which were then passed on to us and became true talismans with magical properties. That was what I was referring to.”

But Halit Ayarcı wasn't interested in Seyit Lutfullah. He was far more interested in Nuri Efendi. He had little curiosity about the calendars and the astronomical tables my late master had intermittently published, nor was he interested in the chemical formulae he had unearthed in old manuscripts. He was concerned only with his horological works.

So there was nothing to do but move the conversation in that direction. I conveyed to him all the adages of my late master that were still fresh in my memory. Halit Bey rejoiced after nearly every sentence:

“Unbelievable. We need such a man among us.
Mon chér
, this man is a true philosophe, and just the kind we need—a philosopher of time. Do you understand? A philosopher of time is a philosopher of work, and you too, Hayri Bey, are a philosopher, indeed a true philosopher!”

But I wasn't listening to him. I was standing up, pointing at the politician's table.

“Do you see what's happening there? The plates, everything is moving. Dear God!”

The plates on his table seemed to be rattling as if they were being buffeted by a strong southern wind. But the remarkable thing was that no one at the table seemed frightened, no one was whispering prayers, and not one of them was darting away from the ruckus; rather, they were all holding on to their sides in uproarious laughter. It was as if they were all possessed by evil djinn. And the terrible thing was that after my declaration their laughter intensified, and the plates on the table rattled with even greater vigor. They were all looking at me and laughing.

Halit Bey said reassuringly, “Don't mind them. That's just our friend Faik. He always does magic tricks at these places. He loves entertaining the crowd with such parlor games.”

“No, no,” I said. “You're pulling my leg. I'm drunk. Just a moment ago I could have sworn I was looking at the treasure of the emperor Andronikos at the bottom of the sea. There's something wrong with me. Please, I need to go home.”

By then I really did want to go home. I had tired of this life that really wasn't mine; all this fun had worn me out. I wanted to go home; I longed to be surrounded by the things of my life: my own troubles, my own poverty.

“But no, let's all go together. As for your being drunk, you can very well see for yourself that you are not—far from it in fact. And even if you were, you'd come round soon enough. How could you think of abandoning the evening so abruptly? Now, please do sit down and explain to me this idea of a letter written from one master to the other. But before that, let's drink.”

And Dr. Ramiz echoed him: “Yes, let's drink.”

We drank more. I felt ill at ease. Yet still I did the best I could to satisfy Halit Ayarcı's curiosity.

“Old watches were crafted by hand. Those who made them were masters of metallurgy. That is, they were jewelers in the highest sense of the word. As they were the great artists of their field, the watches they created were adorned with sublime
details, with engravings and flourishes and so on. Oftentimes the most beautiful, indeed the most important, of these were engraved inside the inner cover—that is to say, on the inside of the back lid—a place that is only ever seen by another watchmaker. This was why the late Nuri Efendi called them letters from one master to another. Take, for example, the engraving on the inside of the cover of your watch. You know, the woman with the helmet and that fantastic goliath of a man with his hand on her shoulder. I once saw a watch resembling this one while working with Nuri Efendi.

Halit Ayarcı identified the scene: “Why, you mean Hercules and Athena!”

Then returning to the topic he said, “But you're absolutely right. Only a watchmaker would see them.”

And Halit Bey raised his glass once again. “A toast,” he exclaimed. “To you in particular, Hayri Bey, but not if you continue to wear that glum face. That you are unemployed and entangled in all sorts of trouble must not stop us from having a good time.”

“If only I had your point of view . . .”

“One day you will. But first tell us about your present situation. Let's just review the various positions you've held.”

So I told him about my life at home: about my wife and her sisters and about Ahmet and Zehra. He listened to everything I had to say, with Dr. Ramiz interjecting now and then to elaborate a particular point. Then he looked me straight in the eye and said:

“The most common predicament in the world: First, you have no money. Then, you find yourself living with three young women who need to be married off. And, finally, everyone at home is suffering from poor health. It all boils down to the same fundamental problem. Simply said: it's a matter of money.”

It all seemed so easy if you took each word at face value: money, three weddings, and plenty of food and drink. I expected him to carry on and suggest that we enact a few new laws to allow for the swift and easy settlement of my affairs.

“But how could I ever give my daughter to Ismail the Lame?” I moaned.

“Naturally you'll do nothing of the sort. According to what you've just told me, you have a daughter who is both charming and good-looking. Of course you won't give such a girl to that man.”

But it was the same old cul-de-sac.

“Well then, whatever will I do if I don't?”

“You will find the right match. He will come to you without any intervention on your part.”

“And the others? My sisters-in-law—especially the older one, the fanatic
musicienne
—who would ever marry her?”

Halit Ayarcı thought for a moment.

“From what you have told us, she isn't quite the type to be snatched up. But you never know. For example, first a little fame on the radio, and then perhaps she becomes a famous singer in a club, or maybe a professional vocalist . . . And presto! You see there's a solution to any problem. Just a few minor adjustments to your life balance, a little entrepreneurialism, some elbow grease, an ever so modest change in perspective—and voilà! Everything has been changed.

“I must confess that I never thought of it that way. I assumed the only solution was a natural disaster or an epidemic that would wipe out the entire household. I was just biding my time.”

“A mistake, a miscalculation . . . Don't you expect something from these miserable people at home, from yourself? Now, from what you've said, these are ambitious individuals, obsessed with getting the most out of life. This means they already have success inside them and suffer for lack of an outlet. They're not the kind of people to settle for a humdrum existence.”

“No, certainly not. My wife thinks she's in Hollywood, and her elder sister is convinced she's a renowned singer. And the younger one . . .”

“But of course. Of course this is what they think! And they are all a little angry with you because you don't understand them.”

I lowered my head. I thought he would at least try to see it
from my point of view. I had spent the last six hours with this man, I was captivated by his every move, but clearly he was insane. He didn't have to suddenly throw his hands around my throat or remove all his attire and cartwheel in the open air to make this clear. He continued:

“Yes, why wouldn't these people be a little frustrated with you for not understanding them? What could be more natural? But don't begrudge them, for you have had no experience with life and humankind. You are like an army convinced of its defeat before entering the war. Instead of stepping onto the bridge of the ship, you've taken cover down in the hull.”

This diagnosis of my illness, or rather this identification of my discontent, left me nothing to do but drink. And thank God there was plenty of rakı. I could celebrate this happy event as much as my heart desired.

But still he carried on:

“Especially your attitude toward your eldest
baldız
—a true artist. The way you deny her . . .”

I put down my glass. Once again I was determined to interject—in the name of logic, in the name of reason—come what may. After I did so, I'd be content to hold my tongue.

“But please, Beyefendi,” I implored. “An artist? A
true
artist? In my modest opinion, her voice is wretched. She simply has no talent. And then, of course, she knows nothing at all about music. She has no understanding of Turkish
makams
: she can't tell the difference between a
Mahur and an
Isfahan, a
Rast from an Acemasiran. No, impossible. Perhaps she possesses other merits. Perhaps she's pretty—what do I know? Well, actually, no, she's not, but perhaps I just haven't noticed. But to enjoy music rendered by such a voice! Out of the question. She has no ear, sir, none at all. She's entirely tone deaf. She can't distinguish one pitch from the other.”

Halit Bey offered me a cigarette. Then he took one for himself and looked out over the moonlight, still shimmering over the sea in all its glory. After a moment, when it seemed as if he was listening to an argument at the opposite table, he shrugged his shoulders, turned to me, and said:

“Well, we've determined, then, that she isn't beautiful, for
you would know, as you have the eye of an aesthete. I have learned your life story. And I know that you understand beauty in a woman. But you don't understand art, at least not the art of our times. First of all, it is a question of the masses. What do they love and what do they reject? No one really knows. This question also touches on the desperation of the masses. You know very well that this exalted ideal known as good taste comes with many counterparts that range from our deepest desires to whatever comes to us most easily. It is when we lose hope in the notion of taste that we surrender to these counterparts. It's all rather confusing, so we lose hope in taste. When we speak of music, people first inquire as to the genre; once such a question is posed, the matter of taste or style is eliminated. Then there is the matter of the public's untrained ear. We live in the age of radio, and we listen to music all the time. The radio has become the natural companion to rheumatism, the common cold, penury, the possibility of war, and the trials of just getting through the day. And if you add the masses to all this . . . No, I am quite sure that this hanımefendi of whom you speak will conquer Istanbul within just a few days, in a startling rise to fame. But look at it this way: the task would certainly be far more difficult if your sister-in-law had taken a passionate interest in Western classical music, as such music requires years of rigorous training indeed.”