The Time Regulation Institute (54 page)

“I don't know,” he said. “Perhaps I'm drunk. Perhaps I am just trying to settle the score with myself. The best thing, of course, is to rise above the matter altogether.”

“No,” I said. “You're not settling accounts with yourself. You're still trying to break down something inside me. And you're even doing it brick by brick! But why?”

“I'll tell you: Because we've both traveled down the same roads. I am very fond of you, but I'm also at war with you. You remind me very much of myself. Oh no, now don't flatter yourself too much here! I was never like you. I was never confused and downtrodden. But there's a side to you that . . .”

And his laugh was like crystal.

“Have you ever in your life laughed like that?” he asked. “Your soul has never been as pure as mine because I have always remained above and beyond all these matters.”

Then suddenly he embraced me.

“But you have taught me to love life!” he cried. “The state you were in when you whiled away your time in that coffeehouse in Sehzadebası: that ridiculous despair, your hopeless grief, those burdens you could never shake off . . . Your astonishment at the restaurant at Büyükdere, your timidity, your flights of happiness . . . That world in which you lived, small as an olive pit, all of this taught me to love life again. Had I done no more than pass a discreet five-lira note into the palm of your hand that night—how happy you would have been! Yes, you made me love life again. You are a most wonderful foil!”

My face went bright red with shame.

“I wish you'd done just that!” I said, wrenching myself free of his embrace.

“Now, what a ridiculous thing to say,” he said.

He smiled again and raised his glass.

“Be as you like, then,” he said. “In any event I never wanted to change you altogether! If that were the case, then we would no longer need each other. It's just that you needed mild alterations here and there. At least that way you won't disturb those around you, who are simply living out their lives!”

I paused for a moment. I was lost in doubt.

“You don't believe in anything do you?” I asked.

He took a sip from his glass and then wiped his forehead with the handkerchief he'd taken out of his vest pocket:

“Enough already,” he said. “Look, our friends are coming this way. Long live the Time Regulation Institute! Long live the TRI!”

And with this toast, he saluted my entire family, including my aunt, who had taken Van Humbert by the arm.

Van Humbert's delight knew no bounds. You'd think he'd just won a great victory. He congratulated me on my wife and my daughter and invited both of them to Holland. He said he would teach them how to ride a bicycle.

“Here we all ride the carousel together,” I said.

Halit Ayarcı looked at me reproachfully. It was clear something had changed between us.

Van Humbert stayed in Istanbul for one month. It would take far too much time for me to explain all the adventures we shared together, but allow me say just this: he left us quite pleased. Years later he described his visit to Istanbul in a series of articles. He never forgot his
zeybek
with my daughter, or Halit Ayarcı's kind attention, or the yogurt kebab we feasted upon in Çamlıca on the day we visited the tomb of Ahmet the Timely.

I'd thought this man to be thoroughly pleased with me, and so it was a shock to see him turn against me. I can only think of the old saying, “A fallen man has no friends,” which was first uttered many years before my encounter with Van Humbert. And so I harbor no anger against him, nor dreams of vengeance. I just think it would have been so much better if he'd never come at all. But let's not forget: Van Humbert suffered dearly for his involvement with us. In particular there was his book on ancient Turkic folklore; he'd based it on information gathered from my wife and my older sister-in-law, and it was savaged by the critics. Yet in his subsequent articles he continued to speak fondly of me. He concluded one with this sentence: “Hayri Irdal and his family know all too well how to reach a man's inner essence. No matter what may happen between us, I'll never forget the time I spent with them during my visit to Istanbul. As happy as they might be with the carousel, if they ever come to Holland, I shall keep my promise and teach them all how to ride a bicycle.”

EVERY SEASON HAS AN END

Halit Ayarcı's prediction came true. Within just a few months of my aunt's cocktail party, we had received telegraphs from several agencies informing us that independent chapters of the Clock Lover's Society had been established in six South American cities. It was not long before those groups were in direct communication with our own Clock Lover's Society, requesting information on our charter, official rules, and regulations. Similar requests came in from all parts of the Middle and Far East, as well as from several countries in Europe. In the space of just two and a half years, three institutes and more than thirty Clock Lover's Societies were established abroad. It was strange to see how, in countries ill disposed to such institutes, the authorities felt compelled to supply the public with clear and concise reasons for their opposition. In almost all cases the announcement was in fact the same: “Our industries are developed to a degree as to preclude the need for such an institute.”

And so it was that—whether or not they had an institute—all countries were united in viewing it as a necessity. Following each official telegraph to this effect, Halit Ayarcı organized a press conference at which he again emphasized our institute's importance. When he was occupied elsewhere, the task fell to me. My aunt, meanwhile, became a storm of industry. She did not miss a single one of the International Clock Lover's Society's frequent congresses. For a time, she kept her packed suitcase ready in her bedroom, only to decide that it would be easiest to simply leave it ready in the entrance hall. On most of these trips abroad she was accompanied by my daughter and also (on occasion) her husband. When passing through customs in Istanbul, she
was among those who could count on being recognized. She renewed her passport every year without fail. In addition to the ornamental treasures and jewels left to her by the street sweeper's trade guild, she was awarded medals by seven or eight foreign powers. Meanwhile we were just as busy. With the capital raised from our twofold penalty system, we constructed our new building on Freedom Hill, and, in partnership with the cooperative established with support from Timely Banks, which received generous aid from the International Time Trust, we brought into being a unique residential development for our personnel, which came to be known as the Clock Houses.

Aside from the aforementioned cash-penalty system, my most notable—or, rather, most taxing—contribution to the institute was its new building. Though our cash-penalty system attracted a great deal of notice, it was, in my estimation, nothing next to the attention accorded to the erection of our new building. It was this edifice that led to my election as honorary member to the International Society of Architects, but in the beginning I had very little to do with it. As with all other affairs of this genre, we opted for an open competition. After I had composed the rules for this competition, Halit Ayarcı insisted on adding the following requirement: “an original and new style in harmony with modern-day realities and the institute's name.” Perhaps out of anger—or perhaps because I wanted to ridicule him—I made a slight change to the last part of his (in my view entirely unnecessary, but in the view of Halit Ayarci all-important) addendum: “and in a manner that embodies its name inside and out.”

This final condition—that the building should comply with its name, both inside and out—was what kept me working on the project for many a long month.

When the competition rules and regulations were published in the papers, they were generally accepted as reasonable. We are cursory readers at best. And, sadly, our overuse of terms like “modern-day realities,” “harmony,” and “inside and out” has led to their becoming worn phrases stretched way beyond their original shape. Thus the competition entries were nothing
more than designs for commonplace buildings with a few stock innovations. It was a surprise to us all that a man like Halit Ayarcı would cling to his words till the end, refusing all others the chance to interpret their meaning. Yet he rejected every last entrant, and each time he justified his decision by referring to the clause that I had included out of obstinacy and a taste for irony, saying that the proposal in question did not comply with the idea inside and out.

“What part of this facade resembles a clock?”

That was his first question. And the second came right on its heels:

“And in what way did you express the essence of timepieces, or of time and regulation, in the building's interior?”

The architects who had entered the competition were unable to answer these questions to his satisfaction, and so they were asked to leave. Never before, and not even during the days of liquidation, had so many pieces critical of the institute appeared in the press. These architects would storm out the front door, with their blueprints stuffed under their arms, and head straight for a newspaper office. Article after article cropped up in the daily papers. We were quick to jump to action and rebut the charges. Halit Ayarcı held one press conference after another, and the message was always this: “Modern man does not engage in idle talk. We shall not tolerate ambiguity. We shall respect the rules and regulations of our competition in their entirety.”

A number of those entering the second competition did warm to the idea of a building that reflected the clock theme both inside and out, but still the architects limited themselves to rectangular buildings. Almost to a man, their prospective structures suggested alarm clocks or grandfather clocks, using either additional ornamentation or a narrow foundation with extra floors. Some went further and arranged their second- and third-floor facades to suggest the face of a large clock. Such conceits called for the concentration of windows in the middle of a largish circle. Halit Ayarcı took a dim view these proposals too. To some he said:

“Such ornaments can be tacked onto any building. What's
modern about these designs? I see nothing modern here and nothing pertaining to clocks.”

Other proposals he rejected by saying:

“These are all fine as far as they go, but what happens when we have to renovate? Will we be obliged to remove the clockface altogether? The windows will draw our eyes to the regularity of the floors, and what will be left of our clock?”

Naturally the answers varied. A building could never actually be a clock. A clock has a particular face and a structure all its own. In this sense it already resembles a building. In the face of opposition Halit Ayarcı would either tap on the relevant sentence in the competition rules, which he had written out in block letters and placed under the glass on his desk, or he'd have applicants write out the sentence themselves before pointing to a panel on the opposite wall that read, “Inside and out.”

One applicant took the idea further still by making the windows that looked onto the second- and third-floors light shafts resemble clockfaces. And what's more, his design set the entire building to rest atop four substantial pillars. But Halit Ayarcı rejected this one too.

“All too forced! A window's a window. But this isn't a window at all! If I simply rubbed off the designs on the sides, it would look just like Gothic stained-glass. No, we're looking for something else. We want the concept of a timepiece to be embodied in the very structure of the building. They should be as one! We don't want motifs soldered on. We want to see our programs and goals manifested in the building itself.”

It was these very words (I must confess) that alerted me to the central problem. “If the concept of a timepiece merges with a building's structure,” I thought, “then that building loses its identity as a building.” And I nearly burst out laughing, out of pity for my poor friend. But the following morning I arrived at the following conclusion unassisted: “A building that has renounced its very essence as a building, and in so doing denies a building's fundamental principles, should be quite capable of planting the concept of time within man!” I shared my idea with the first architect I met that day. Unprepared as I was, I was unable to furnish an explanation worthy of the idea. Yet
this conversation left me with the idea of “mass.” “I can make this happen,” I thought, “if I can liken a building to a clock in such a way as to annihilate the concept of mass.”

It was one of those nights when Ahmet happened to be at home; a quiet dissenter in all things pertaining to the Time Regulation Institute, he usually only came to see us on holidays. We discussed my dilemma. He supported the architect's opinion: “Before it can be anything else, a structure is by its very nature a mass.” The following day I dismantled a clock and then reassembled it. No, it was impossible. This wasn't the way to make it work. Perhaps I could make use of its internal structure, but I would still have to do something about the exterior. Halit Ayarcı didn't like the idea of designing the entire facade in the shape of a clockface. So I'd have to come up with something else.

Meanwhile I stayed in regular contact with Halit Ayarcı; I pleaded with him to save himself and the institute from so much pain and suffering, assuring him that just about any structure would fully suit our needs. But he was adamant.

“Until now the Time Regulation Institute has done everything it has promised to do,” he said. “Indeed neither city clocks nor personal timepieces function with due timeliness. But our people have now acquired the habit of checking and resetting their timepieces, and though we might not have brought timepieces to the villages, we have at least instilled in their inhabitants a taste for them. There are today a million village children wearing toy watches that we ourselves sold them! What this means is that when they grow up they'll all buy watches, with the help of the easy watch-exchange plans made possible by our Timely Banks. And if such toys are fundamentally useless, well, at the very least they are property their owners can pawn, or sell for a nominal amount, if they fall on hard times. We've produced women's watches in the form of delightful bracelets. And we have applied the same concept to the entire range of costume jewelry. May I draw your attention again to our garter belts adorned with miniature clocks, which are enjoying worldwide success? You may recall that you were very much opposed to these, saying they'd only be of use in
music halls, whereas thousands of ladies in Istanbul wear these garter-belt watches today. A belle dame can lift her skirt in the most elegant way possible, to check the time as she strolls down a busy boulevard. But that is not all: remember that the International Clock Lover's Society has now approved my proposal to have a number of state awards marked with timepieces. This has sparked a tremendous promotional surge. Following on from this—and thanks also to your lecture at the last congress—there is renewed international interest in Mahmud II, he who presented golden watches to all those he dearly loved and appreciated. Books upon books are being written about this man. Why should I back down in the face of all this success? We may not have established a watch and clock industry yet, but we have expedited the adoption of new regulations that should make it easier to import timepieces. The country's finest timepiece emporia operate under our corporate umbrella! How can a functioning, and indeed thriving, institute go back on its word? What right does it have to do so? Why should I accept the doom and gloom of naysayers? And all this aside, why would I ever portray myself as vanquished or in the wrong? I am not in the wrong! I set but one condition, and those who can abide by it will do so.”

“That's wonderful, sir, just wonderful, but as you see, they simply can't do it. It's just too difficult to realize.”

“But it must be done!”

Deaf to his words, I pressed on:

“And anyway this isn't your fault! I was the one who added this ‘inside and out' clause to the rules and regulations. I am only human, and I was angry with you because you were so insistent on the matter! Backing down here really doesn't count as a defeat!”

I felt my face flush crimson. I lowered my head and waited for his answer. Halit Ayarcı smiled softly, or, really, it was as if his voice were smiling as he spoke.

“I know,” he said. “I'm aware of this. I'd like to thank you for saying it. But I'm going to thank you for something else as well. And that is for your flawed ideas in regard to such matters, or rather for your churlish disposition, which has forced these
ideas upon you. Thanks to all this, we shall soon have a truly original building! I am a man made for results, not intentions. You did well in adding those words! Now we must remain steadfast. Don't forget that the International Congress will take place here, in April next year. I want to host this congress in our new building. But others have already taken the idea from us and surpassed us in our own field. If nothing else, let us create a building whose originality establishes us as leaders in our realm.”

Ahmet Zamanı's April birthday had become the official International Time Day, as a matter of course. Our congresses were held every year on that date.

“All right,” I said. “But how can we achieve such a thing? However will we integrate a clock into the body—I mean, the building's structure?”

He took his head in his hands.

“I don't know,” he said. “Even I haven't the slightest idea. We'll leave it to the architects. They have to come up with a solution. Actually, the job falls to you. As it was you who added the condition, it should be you who comes up with the solution!”

He rose to his feet. He fixed his eyes on mine, and in his most serious tone of voice he slowly gave me his final word on the matter:

“You will have this building built, Hayri Bey. Is that understood? I will have no one else. You owe me this one—it's personal!”

And so that's how it happened. But only I know just how difficult it all was. The reason being that from the very beginning I was stuck on the idea of a pocket watch. Isn't it often the case that most of the difficulties we face in our lives come from our stubborn embrace of the first idea that comes into our minds?