The Time Regulation Institute (32 page)

“My dear Hayri Bey, could you come over and see us tonight? Selma's expecting you. Yes, around six or seven . . .”

On the phone Cemal Bey sounded like a child rocking back and forth, desperate to pee.

“Right away, sir,” I replied.

I felt disgusted just talking to him, so I hung up the phone, knowing all too well that my face was bright yellow with rage. He always wanted to hang up first.

I waited until seven to knock, but I had been at the door since six thirty. The maid flashed me an oily smile when she opened it. She was drenched in the most revolting perfume in the world, and there was a nasty flicker in her eyes. Despite the light in the foyer, it seemed like she was leering at me through a dingy darkness. Her hand clutched onto my jacket. But why get upset? Weren't we both serving the same people, in just the same way? Shouldn't there be some sense of common cause? No, I wasn't angry. I was merely in a hurry.

The blinds in Selma Hanım's bedroom were drawn, and a single lamp gave off a piercing light that gave the room the aura
of a cave by the sea. The bed was swollen in the dappled light—a gigantic seashell with Selma Hanım stretched out inside.

Was she ill? My daughter, my little girl, was ill at the time. She'd been poorly for the last ten days. Dr. Ramiz had not managed to stop in to see us yesterday. But Selma Hanım's illness was of a different nature altogether, relegating all else to the background: I suddenly forgot all about Ahmet's chest problems, Zehra's sinusitis, my wife's thyroid gland, even her slight fever. Silk undergarments were strewn about over an armchair and a chaise longue. Cemal Bey had collapsed into an armchair and sat there waiting for me in his dressing gown.

“I wish you the swiftest recovery, madam.” Blood throbs in my temples. I want to say more, but what? That morning my daughter's temperature spiked to thirty-eight degrees and her face looked so terribly strange. But this is of no concern to Selma Hanım. I should be home right now. But I'm happy to be here.

“My dear Hayri Bey, I've put you to so much trouble yet again. But there really is no one else we can count on to help us.”

She's so beautiful, so charming. Her face reminds me of the sweet shops of my childhood—or the window displays of the florists today, flashing with color and light.

I hear Nuri Efendi's voice echoing in my head: “Man's only fortress is patience.”

I listen to him inside my fortress. But in this particular room its defenses are thin.

“We must have a gift delivered. And as you can see, I'm not well. I simply cannot get rid of this cold. Cemal Bey wanted to go, but he had a touch of fever this morning. I was worried that one of us might take a turn for the worse.”

And there it was, the slap in the face. Nothing involving Cemal Bey could ever bring me happiness. But such were the workings of a woman's mind. What could she do? Being beautiful was enough. She went on:

“Besides, he's already made other plans for the evening, so the task must fall on your shoulders. The woman's a relative of ours . . . in the maternity ward . . . in Sisli. We were always close friends. And there is just no one else we can call but you!”

Undoubtedly her malady makes her more beautiful. A simple
sneeze and she's more charming than ever. Ah, if only I could take her away from here and suspend her over the head of my bed like a chandelier. She fumbles for something in her bed: “Please, a tissue from over there . . .”

“But, hanım, you could catch a cold . . .”

“No . . . The room's quite warm.”

The room's warm, but still, please cover up. Cover your arms, your neck, and your chest. Let your figure disappear beneath the covers. Cover yourself up so this dogged fidelity can survive. For if not, if not . . . Yes—oh, why must she hide herself from me? How lowly is the station from which I gaze up at her . . .

“The gift is ready. It's there on the chair. I have just one other request. Ayse will give you one of Cemal's suits to wear. The complete suit. I'm sure you'll understand—they're wealthy people. The gift must be delivered by an old and faithful servant of the family. I'm sure you'll look absolutely wonderful.”

She laughs again. I want to take that with me too. But where would I hang it? It isn't enough just to serve her? I also have to convince her friends and family that I was born in their home and lulled them to sleep as babies in their cradles. I have to look sharp and clean! And beyond that, I have to be seen wearing one of Cemal Bey's suits! So that people will notice and say, “They're looking after the man well enough, that's for sure. Wasn't Cemal Bey wearing that very suit just the other day? He's got quite some girth! That's true nobility, with the air of a well-mannered man.”

“You won't be angry with me, will you, Hayri Bey? Besides, I know how much you care for me. You'd never be angry with me, would you?”

So she knows I love her. Oh joy! I am overwhelmed with joy. She buries her face in her pillow. Her hair is a mess. Like a beach of soft sand the bed takes the shape of a woman sleeping facedown under the covers. The covers softly undulate over the form of her body. If only I could just take the gift and flee . . . but she rolls over and flashes me the same capricious smile. Clearly I am the only one for her. But evidently she is preparing yet another impertinence:

“Ayse will give you money. You'll take a car!”

Ayse has prepared the brown suit I had seen Cemal Bey wearing just three days ago. I undress in a narrow nook in the kitchen, with Ayse standing just outside the door. She opens the door, and there before my eyes are Emine, my children, Pakize, everyone. Why do they all insist on swarming around me at moments like this? Only Selma Hanım isn't there. She's curled up in her bed like a sly cat. If she appears too, if I can't get her out of my mind, I won't be able to go through with this. But shouldn't I be the one catching Ayse unawares?

Both of us feel knots in our throats, and then we swallow. Her arms are nothing like Selma's. Nausea strong enough to turn all the stomachs in the world seizes me. No, I am not the kind of man to fancy someone like Ayse. But Selma Hanım only gives me tips, secondhand suits, and errands. I dangle in a void between the two of them. I need to grasp onto one side so as not to fall. But how to manage such a feat?

A transformed Hayri steps out the front door with two packages tucked under his arms. I'll leave one with the tobacconist; I can pick it up on the way back. But if I do go all the way to Sisli, how will ever I get back home? By tram, I suppose. There's no other way. Ayse's not like me; she works for money up front. But, then again, so do I: how many times have I had cash advances on my monthly wages—first from creditors, then from friends, and finally from any old stranger who happens to be around?

I have to get the money out of her somehow. But why don't I like her? Ayse, Pakize, Selma Hanım, Emine—I can't even think of them anymore. I'm no longer worthy of them. I can't rid myself of the nausea I feel when I think of her corpulence. How could I have stooped so low? To betray such a beautiful woman—and with her own maid! And both Selma Hanım and Cemal Bey making fun of my very thoughts . . . “Cemal Bey has a bit of a fever today.”

The car came to an abrupt halt in front of the restaurant. The mullet in the display window glittered red and blue, reflecting the last remnants of our journey up the Bosphorus.

“After you, Beyefendi.”

“Oh no, please, sir, I insist . . .”

The proprietor greeted us in the courtyard and took Halit Ayarcı by the hand. So this was the custom. I'd do the same if I had money. But not like that, no, I couldn't. How could I ever be so confident? This was not just a greeting at the door of a restaurant—it was more along the lines of regal conquest. If shaking hands like this had been the custom in their day, then surely Alexander the Great would have done the same in Egypt, and Darius in Greece. The restaurant seemed to expand with our every step. Or perhaps not, for at the same time it was narrowing its focus, galloping toward us en masse. All eyes were fixed on us, except for those of a rather attractive woman in the corner who had buried her head in her plate. If only I could have seen her face just then. But I was just a little too late. I couldn't tell if I knew her or not. But I understand why Halit turned his back to the sea—he didn't want to disturb her. But who is she? He had me sit down opposite him. The woman lifted her head up from her plate, her face stripped of joy.

Beyond us the sea and the night—a rich blue night that swims through a man like a fish from a dream whose silence has settled inside him.

“Soon the moon will rise just over the opposite shore.”

Halit Bey ordered like he was firing celebratory gunshots at a wedding.

“Rakı—but not Kulüp. One of those . . . You know, the ones I brought the other night!”

Another brand apart from Kulüp rakı! But why not? There are premium grades of everything. Weren't women the same? First Selma Hanım, then Nevzat Hanım, Pakize, and last my older sister-in-law, even though she is Pakize's sister—they were all different grades. And then so many more. The universe is like a huge head of cabbage, layer upon layer.

The headwaiter gave us the menu.

Halit Bey turned to me and said, “Do us the honor of selecting the meze!”

I pulled myself together.

“You are more familiar with this restaurant than I, Your Grace. I am only familiar with stuffed mussels. I once sold them in the
Balıkpazarı . . .”

I could have gone on: “I'm a poor man. If you hadn't brought me here, I could have done no more than walk past this establishment's front door. Perhaps they have dishes I wouldn't even know. I am Hayri Irdal, the man whose youngest daughter was carried to her grave by the cemetery guard just five years ago. You must understand that I am a miserable wretch. And tomorrow I'll give my eldest daughter to Ismail the Lame, the very scoundrel who had the impertinence to receive that thrashing before Your Excellency's very eyes.”

But what good would all that have done? Why ruin an evening that had started out so beautifully? That night fortune made me Hayri Beyefendi. Best to make the most of it.

Crossing my legs, I looked about the place with studied nonchalance. Or at least I think I did. Perhaps my face seemed racked with confusion, because (as I am sure you are already aware) I am like any other wretched soul, trundling about this world with my mortal burden borne on the hump of my back.

The headwaiter waited patiently. Good God, he gazed upon Halit Ayarcı with such compassion, such love! It was as if joy itself had attached Gabriel's wings to the waiter's torso. And when his eyes were graced by the gaze of Halit Ayarcı, it seemed he might fly through the window, over the sea, and up into the sky still holding the tray of mezes, maybe even taking the entire restaurant with him. But no, he wouldn't make it so far; for he would be absorbed into the windowpanes, like the angels in the frescoes of the domes of the Hagia Sophia. And from there he would cry out to Halit Ayarcı: “Ah! the blood in my veins! Oh! the light of my eyes!”

“A toast to you, Doctor! And you too, Beyefendi.”

The customs of such places were second nature to him. His voice was made for giving orders. I wondered if he didn't have a bit of the actor in him. But no, this wasn't acting; this was on another scale. He is so comfortable in his own skin. He has never suffered defeat.

“Some ice? Just a bit more? Now, we will down the first few glasses in haste, and then we'll slow down. And so we'll be able to enjoy ourselves for as long as we like.”

Sitting at this table in a restaurant was far more pleasant
than standing behind the counter in my corner shop. There was time to drink rakı with due attention. The melting ice turned a milky gray, swirling down my glass like liquid marble. This must have been how God created light on the second day. Then the pleasure of the second sip. I pressed my tongue against the roof of my mouth oh so gently, to taste the hint of mastic. What a change from those forty-fives I used to drink! With the second sip and the third, a weight bore down on me, a lid slamming shut, and a strange new warmth coursed through each and every fiber in my body. I felt myself in the echoing inner chamber of a hammam. My fourth sip emptied the glass. Was it right to be drinking so quickly? Shouldn't I have savored it? This evening would never repeat itself: never again would I enjoy such food or drink!

Halit Ayarcı refilled my glass. Ah, if only everyone loved his watch as much as this man does; if only they all could be friends with Dr. Ramiz . . . The ice in my glass turned the rakı into veined marble.

“Aren't you eating, Hayri Beyefendi?”

I'd lost track of how many glasses I'd had. There was no use trying to remember. “No, thank you,” I said. When all the food was laid out on the table before me, I suddenly felt full—that's just the way I am. Dr. Ramiz is another story. He was devouring the food as if he'd no memory of all the advice he'd given me about polite eating whenever he'd invited me to eat at that little
meyhane
in Sehzadebası. Plates kept circling back to him as if he were the official checkpoint. And as I viewed him through a huge and melting cube of ice, I fancied myself behind a vast pane of glass.

“Psychoanalysis is the most important discovery of the age.”

Halit Ayarcı's voice suddenly went sharp.

“Enough of your psychoanalysis, Doctor. For God's sake! We're drinking rakı.”

Dr. Ramiz dropped the subject at once, turning his attention to his lobster. To tell you the truth, I'd spent ten long years—our entire acquaintance—longing to tell the doctor just that. But whenever we'd gone to a
meyhane
, psychoanalysis had been the only topic allowed.

“You really taught Horlogian a good thing or two!”