The Time Regulation Institute (41 page)

“What's happened to Murat?”

“He's disappeared. Like I said, she's no longer the same Nevzat Hanım.”

Then she quickly changed the subject.

“Why, do you know who I recently befriended? Your aunt. What a wonderful woman, so vibrant and alive, and what vigor for her age! To be honest I feel bad you two have drifted apart, for your sake that is. Such an open-minded, clear-sighted
human being . . . And do you know she has a keen interest in Sufi mysticism too? In fact she's even written several ecstatic love poems. Tomorrow I'm invited to her house for tea.”

It was clear that the conversation was going to get boring, and so I left the house, promising Sabriye Hanım I'd telephone her as soon as I could.

I was really quite moved by what Sabriye Hanım had said about Selma Hanım. That's probably why I called her from the first corner shop I could find. I planned to hang up if Cemal Bey answered. Just to hear Sabriye Hanım say just those few words about Selma Hanım had set me alight, though I hadn't thought about her for the last five years, and could hardly recall her face, on account of all that I had suffered, and it had to happen now, just as my life was just starting to get on track and I had entered into a sort of second honeymoon with Pakize.

Selma Hanım picked up.

“And where have you been hiding, old friend! I kept asking Cemal Bey about you and he'd say, ‘Oh, who can tell with Hayri Bey. He resigned and never came back.' I begged him to look for you, and I assume he asked around everywhere he could. But to no avail . . .”

Her smooth, crystalline voice was infused with a childlike exuberance. So that's what happened, then. Cemal Bey had told her I'd resigned. I was an unreliable character. He'd looked all over for me, did he? But somehow just couldn't find me.

I told her about my current situation, and I asked her if she would be willing to help. She loved the name:

“The Time Regulation Institute. What does that mean, my dear?” she asked. “This must be a joke. Really, is this some kind of lark? “Well, then, tell what it's all about.”

I did my very best to explain the institute to her, and then I told her what we were asking her to do. She agreed to come the next morning. This was when Zehra was still new in the office, so I decided to meet her in Halit Bey's room. Straightaway I noticed that many things about her had indeed changed. She was elegant and beautiful as before, and completely in control of all her movements. But although her smiles lit the room like a fireworks display, there seemed to be something wrong with the launching
device. She had lost her usual good cheer. It was clear she had gone through some ordeal. It was as if she were speaking through sorrowful, dark thoughts and perhaps even a fear we couldn't know. There was something sad or thoughtful in her voice that I had never noticed before, perhaps even fear. I had lived with fear all my life; I knew the viper all too well. Once it's coiled up inside you, your soul is at its mercy. But what was she afraid of? Why did she seem so ill at ease? I just couldn't understand.

First she asked me to describe the job. And she kept saying, affecting an air of childlike innocence, “Oh, how could little old me manage such a thing?” And her gestures were so enchanting that I spent the rest of our conversation waiting most impatiently for their return.

“It's not quite what you may be thinking,” I said. “You'll just offer suggestions to the institute. There's nothing to it really. And you can do this better than anyone, as you have such impeccable taste.”

Finally she agreed, figuring that it would be an entertaining job. Fashion was just her thing, after all. All that remained was to consult with Cemal Bey.

“Perhaps he'll say no,” she said. “So I can't promise anything right away. I don't want to create problems.”

“Problems? Of course not. I can't imagine Cemal Bey objecting to anything you really wanted to do!”

I made a point of saying this, and she nodded.

“Cemal hasn't been his usual self lately.”

This woman who was usually so self-contained was on the brink of tears. I felt a knot in my stomach.

What shocked me was to see Selma Hanım's entire life behind these words. So she'd never understood Cemal Bey and never doubted him; she'd been hopelessly blind. All her life she'd seen him as a paragon of maturity and loved him for it. And that wasn't all—she was attached to him. She was under his command. She loved him, she was jealous of him, and she feared him. I had loved this woman until then, but at one remove from her life. I'd known she was married to Cemal Bey, and I'd accepted that. But I'd never thought very much about their relationship. In my mind I could never link Cemal Bey to Selma
Hanım, nor did I feel compelled to do the reverse. She suffered her husband in very much the same way she might suffer a chronic illness.

Now that I realized I was indeed jealous of him, the situation suddenly changed. Till now I had simply despised Cemal Bey. I'd harbored untold rancor toward the man, but I had never been jealous of him. Now suddenly I was jealous. Blood racing through my veins, I said, “Well then, ask him. I hope he doesn't refuse.”

The true catastrophe that day was the harsh reality I had to face: this woman I had loved so dearly now seemed just like any woman moaning about her life. But there was something even stranger, even absurd in all this: Once I'd freed myself from my troubles I'd simply gone and replaced them. Just after finding myself in a new job, I'd gone right back to my obsession with Selma Hanım; I was like a swimmer who loses focus after lifting his head above the wave to look at the opposite shore. “Why should I be surprised?” I thought to myself. “I'm just slowly reverting to my old self.”

After we'd discussed her employment, Selma Hanım was curious to know about the last five years of my life. First she asked me why I had resigned from Cemal's service.

“You know, in those days Cemal Bey was always saying he planned to raise your salary.”

For a moment, I stared blankly into her face. I was about to tell her everything. But why should I rush into such things? Perhaps she wouldn't even believe me. Or I'd just be adding yet another sorrow to her life. Best would be to wiggle out with a white lie:

“I was out of Istanbul,” I said.

“But people saw you here . . .”

“Well, that's not to say I didn't come back from time to time while I was staying in Izmir.”

Selma Hanım raised her head and looked into my eyes.

“Why won't you tell me the truth?” she said. “I know that Cemal was lying to me.”

Another silence.

Slowly she said, “Or rather I suspected so much. But now I'm sure. Your tone just now said it all . . .”

I did everything I could to soothe her, but she carried on.

“No,” she said. “This whole thing isn't as simple as you might think. It's really rather complicated. I don't care what he hides from me. But finally he understood that I was fond of you. You always went out of your way to help me. We were such good friends! Perhaps he kept it from me, thinking that I would be upset, which is perhaps kind but still unforgiveable, because there were just too many lies. But why did he go and fire you when he was the one who brought you there in the first place?”

“Perhaps the others insisted that I go . . .”

“Impossible! If that were the case, then he wouldn't have lied to me. But even so, how could he have let such a thing happen? No, there was definitely something else.”

Then she fixed her eyes on mine.

“Who knows how much pain and trouble it has caused you.”

“Don't worry yourself about that,” I said. “Everything's fine now. Don't worry about me. There's no need to make an issue out of it. In fact forget about our offer. Perhaps he would be displeased to see us together. I would hate to inconvenience you!”

Selma Hanım rummaged about in her purse for a tissue.

“I'm already inconvenienced!” she whimpered.

Such is fate. No one can remain a star forever. It is sure to descend from its place in our imagination and find a new one among the masses.

“All the same, I'm very pleased we were able to meet again. As for the job, let's think it over. I'll call you.”

We walked down the stairs together.

Outside she said: “It's just so surprising. How can anyone tell so many lies?” And she left.

Surprising indeed.

III

Two months after the mayor's visit to our office, a far more important and powerful figure—I might go so far as to say an absolute power—paid us a visit. But we were no longer in the old office: we had relocated to larger and more comfortable premises.
And our staff had expanded. Nermin Hanım, Zehra, and Ekrem Bey, and I made up the core staff, and we had more work than ever. Halit Ayarcı came every morning and dictated all sorts of things to Nermin Hanım or Zehra. My daughter's poor typing didn't seem to bother him at all, and he was slowly getting Ekrem Bey used to the idea of the institute having a business plan.

The unexpected visit didn't fluster Halit Ayarcı in the least. On arriving, he spent a few minutes at the entrance, detailing the institute's fundamental aims for the mayor and the esteemed personage who accompanied him. But there was a clear difference between this visitor and the mayor: At first the esteemed personage did not speak but only listened with his eyes fixed firmly on your own, and if necessary, he approved what you had said by lowering his lashes. After the briefing he asked to have a look around. He was charmed by the maxims posted on the wall, declaring that they should be distributed, not just across the city, but throughout the country. In response to his suggestion, Halit Ayarcı only said, “We are planning to do just that, sir.”

But the mayor gave a different answer:

“Above all else there's the matter of funding. Such a thing is just not feasible, considering the institute's present financial state, even if we were to consider the entire budget for this fiscal year. But Halit Bey is doing all he can.”

Strangely enough, our roles had changed. I was now Halit Bey, while the mayor had become Halit Bey. I was the fourth man down the ladder. Yet Halit Ayarcı wasn't going to leave me in the shadows. His questions to me were crystal clear, and clearly shaped to indicate the expected answer, which he fielded with his own particular style.

The esteemed personage turned to the mayor.

“Naturally,” he concurred, “but not everything depends on money alone. Human willpower can overcome material limitations.”

Oh, how much I prayed for him to carry on speaking just then. If I could only learn the secret behind this matter of willpower, everything would fall into place. But he stopped there. Clearly he expected us to solve this knotty problem on our own.

The mayor had no objection whatsoever. Thus bearing this
accepted truth in mind—for he too seemed to have been able to overcome material restrictions through the application of willpower alone—he continued to remind the esteemed personage, in the most amenable manner possible, always acknowledging his interlocutor's ideas as true, that a project as expensive as this could never be realized without financial support, and that, as it was willpower to be expended in the process, it would be a very expensive project indeed. In my opinion the mayor was right. When unemployed, I'd had to spend so much of this prized commodity—that is to say, my willpower—just to get by, so much so that my reserves had long since gone dry. Perhaps this explains why for months I was like a football bouncing around Halit Ayarcı's feet.

Halit Ayarcı remained detached throughout this exchange. Perched on the corner of his desk, he looked about the room with calm indifference, as if taking pity on the time wasted in such frivolous debate. I never knew that boredom could be so lofty and noble. He waited for the conversation to finish as another might wait for a cloud of dust blown up by a gust of wind to settle. His look seemed to say, “I know just when to intervene. But first you'll have to decide for yourselves! I can't help you overcome your personality flaws. I can but sit here hopelessly and find a way to tolerate them. In any case, you'll eventually come around to where I've been all along.” No one could have displayed such patient understanding with greater poise.

At last the esteemed personage made his decision:

“There's no need to worry about the finances. We have already taken the first steps, and now we must make all necessary sacrifices. I would only like to emphasize the importance of being as economical as possible.”

The mayor thanked the great man for his simple wishes with a sentence that observed the meandering rituals we had first noted in his exchange with our own leader on the occasion of his first visit. Halit Ayarcı chose this moment to rise from his desk, abandoning his role as observer to say:

“When we do attain greater capacity, we plan to publish a very important work that is already written!”

Oh no, there was no way I could ever be like this man! There was no way I could ever attain such mastery.

“So you have something ready for publication? So fast!”

“First, we have quite a substantial study. A book my friend Hayri Bey has devoted most of his life to. It is a source of great happiness to us!”

The quick-thinking mayor took this opportunity to introduce me properly.

“No one knows more about the history of our watchmakers than our friend Hayri Bey. He has a capital understanding—not just of timepieces but of the philosophy that underpins them.”

Now all eyes were on me. By any legal definition, this was a classic case of deliberate misrepresentation. Caught red-handed at the scene of the crime . . . Oh, good God! If only I could escape. But why? Never before had I been the subject of such rapt attention.

“What is your book called, Hayri Beyefendi?”