The Time Regulation Institute (51 page)

Just as we arrived at the door of my aunt's office, Halit Ayarcı grabbed my arm.

“And we've found a job for the musician as well. Macit Bey, isn't it? The one who always dreamed of conducting? Oh yes, and a hall that fits a hundred—all the young girls poised at their typewriters, and towering above them on a pedestal with his baton in the air will be their maestro! They'll all work under his baton, pounding out their
A
s and
B
s and
C
s in perfect time! My dear, things seem to be shaping up after all. Just think, a moment ago you were bemoaning the fact that you had chosen Asaf Bey. But consider the sheer originality of this idea—consider it a gesture of consolation. Yes, all our secretaries will work together in one tremendous hall, save of course our personal secretaries. Modern work for modern times!”

When we arrived at the house we found the foyer and both salons bustling with people. I had never seen such a crowd before in my life. Milling alongside our friends and acquaintances were foreigners from all four corners of the globe—from north and south, the Far and Middle East. For the first half hour, it was either Halit Ayarcı or my aunt with a tight grip on my hand, whisking me from here to there to introduce me to our international guests. And before long nearly everyone knew who I was. At one point I managed to sneak off to a corner. That was when I realized every wall in the house had been decorated with slogans and charts pertaining to our work at the institute. Toward eight o'clock the lights went off and a short film was shown. The official opening of our very first regulation station was officially announced! And so everyone there had the chance to watch yours truly, Hayri Irdal, standing before a ribbon, a pile of papers in his hand, first to deliver a speech before a great and distinguished audience, and then to
shake a lovely young lady's hand. Oh Lord, what a sweet smile she had! Why hadn't I ever noticed? After the inauguration of the institute, there was a second film. But this time I was in Halit Ayarcı's shadow. Had anyone of import neglected to attend? No—everyone who was anyone was there. How to explain, then, why Halit Ayarcı outshone them all that evening? No sooner had the lights come on than our guests began dashing between Halit Ayarcı and myself. Unbeknownst to me, Halit Bey had arranged the evening so that everyone of consequence was there to meet me. All the most important presences in my life—the Serbetçibası Diamond, Seyit Lutfullah, Ahmet the Timely, the Blessed One, and Nuri Efendi—rained down on me like confetti. With every glass of champagne, they showed more curiosity and enthusiasm for our work.

That night I spoke more than I had in perhaps my entire life. I told almost everyone in attendance almost everything I knew, and whenever I found myself with someone who spoke a foreign language, I found a translator muttering mysteriously just behind me. Halit Ayarcı had thought of everything. At one point I signed almost one hundred fifty good-sized photographs of grandfather clocks. A little later I realized why. In the other room I found my aunt introducing guests to a grandfather clock; it was rather larger than our old clock, and, although replete with rococo flourishes, it had at some later date been bordered on all four sides with ivory panels adorned with Arabic script. The odd thing was that everyone seemed to be marveling at the clock as if they knew it. Hundreds of eyes were upon it, bespectacled and otherwise, as if in anticipation of an official introduction. This was one of the rare grandfather clocks made in Germany at the beginning of the eighteenth century, the golden age of mechanics and automatism; a tall, finely crafted, stately clock, which—if it were properly set and maintained by an experienced master—would reveal its full range of capabilities. But the crowd was so vast, and the ceremony so bizarre, that the clock itself was hardly visible.

My aunt looked more outrageous than ever, with lace rippling over the front of her low-cut black gown and a black
shawl thrown over her shoulder; her hair was dyed, and her face heavily made up, and she shimmered with diamonds and pearls; brandishing her cane in one hand, she used the other to introduce the imposter to guests passing by, first giving the name of each newcomer before grandiloquently announcing, “And this is the Blessed One, our family clock,” and then adding something to the effect of, “He's staying with us for the time being.”

At one point the clock began to chime. I think it must have been the quarter hour. Though it was a sound far more beautiful than that of the actual Blessed One, there was such a commotion in its wake that I could hardly hear it: The door on the front of the clock swung open, and an old Sufi dressed in dervish attire, a character right out of one of
Osman Hamdi's paintings, leaped out of the clock and cried, “Welcome!” before disappearing back inside; and without batting an eyelid, my aunt introduced him to the crowd:

“Sheikh Ahmet Efendi the Timely!” she declared.

And the room fairly roared with applause and cries of surprise and admiration. The strangest and indeed most ludicrous thing to behold was the puzzled look on Dr. Ramiz's face as he marveled at how much the Blessed One had changed, for of course the doctor knew the clock all too well, having spent whole days in its company, and he was only too aware that I had sold it. Unable to bear his agitation any longer, he pulled me into a corner to whisper:

“My good man, the Blessed One seems very much changed. How can I put it . . . He seems far too done up!”

I handed him my glass of whiskey.

“You're right!” I cried. “Money, prosperity, the drive to earn more and more—it's changed us all.”

“But there seems to be more to it than that!” he said. “He was much more beautiful, and pure. Couldn't you have a word with your aunt and get her to stop?”

“There's simply no way. There's nothing we can do now, and we shouldn't . . . I've tried giving my advice on the matter, but she won't listen.”

“But we must find a solution. If nothing else, we should convince her to have that medal removed from his chest!”

“You can try if you like. She says Sultan Abdülaziz gave it to her, and that's all she'll say. Haven't you seen my aunt? Are those the kind of clothes a woman her age should wear? That's our family for you—the older we get, the more depraved we become. But, then again, he is part of the family. To tell you the truth, I don't have all my wits about me.”

But my dear friend reassured me.

“No,” he said. “You have nothing to fear as long as I'm here by your side! And besides, I was the one who cured you.”

Before I could thank my friend, I was again surrounded by my aunt's guests. A woman adorned in nearly as many evil eyes, bells, chains, and rings as a pack mule (and nearly as old as the Blessed One itself) asked me if our ancestors were descended from Ahmet the Timely or the Blessed One. I turned to the interpreter and said, “Please tell the madam that the Blessed One is our grandfather!” Another woman asked me if the Blessed One often changed places, visiting each family home in turn. I told her that visits of this sort were naturally quite rare and possible only with the doctor's permission. So they asked me who the doctor was.

“Well, of course a man of his ripe old age has more than one doctor, but our current doctor is Dr. Ramiz,” whereupon I pointed to my dear friend.

I was quite sure that the doctor would be more than pleased to carry on from there, and as the crowd descended upon him I wiggled out to the entrance hall.

How strange it all was. We were all puppets, with Halit Ayarcı pulling the strings. He brought us to just the place he wanted us to be, and then we acted our parts from memory. I had such mixed feelings for the man: my anger and even my rage were tempered with admiration.

Seated on a large sofa to the left of the entrance was Zehra, holding court amid the billowing skirts of her new dress, swinging a glass in the air as she conversed with the young gentlemen gathered around her in a language she didn't know—or perhaps in the one language they all knew only too well. The
granddaughter of Ahmet Efendi the Some Timer was truly beautiful that evening, and those around her looked awestruck. As I watched her little hands darting here and there, I admired her finely etched chin; she looked genuinely happy. She was the image of her mother. One of the young gentlemen handed her a plate of food; holding it on her lap, she began to pick at it daintily. It cheered me to see that our changed circumstances had caused her to forget one particular family tradition. As recently as two years ago, that was just how we'd eaten our dried bread.

Then Pakize came over to see me. She too was finely dressed. I hadn't the foggiest idea when she'd had all these dresses made, but I seemed to recognize the fabric. As I cast my eyes over her brightly colored scarf and her little handbag and that smug smile on her face, I couldn't help but wonder which movie star she thought she was that night. Still beaming, she took my arm and said:

“Ah, Hayri, if you only knew how happy I am! I only expected so much when I chose you as my husband.”

“How nice of you to say—though I do believe I was the one that chose you, or have the customs changed?”

“The moment he sees me, he reverts to his old ways. In any case, I'm happy now. And when I saw the Blessed One here—oh, I cannot begin to tell you how very pleased I was! You know how much I love him. I'd always go to kiss his hand every holiday”

“So you're enjoying all this, are you?”

“How could I not? This is just what I've always wanted. And you wanted to postpone it!”

Standing behind my wife, I noticed a brute, the spitting image of a bulldog, holding two drinks and making no secret of his eagerness to take my place the moment I moved away.

“Who in God's name is that insolent creature there?” I asked. “Couldn't you find anyone better?”

“He's a member of my fan club. He keeps asking after you. It seems he's a journalist!”

Then she whispered:

“This evening's a resounding success . . .”

Then she noticed that I was studying the fabric of her gown and she said:

“You recognize it, don't you? You remember, we never could sell it because no one would give us anything for it. It's the outer lining of your father's fur coat, dear! I had the moth-eaten sections repaired. Oh, but it was frightfully expensive.”

So those golden stars glistening on that green fabric were once moth-eaten pieces of fur.

As the bulldog interjected—“May God make it so!”—I left my wife in his charge, thinking, “Well, one thing's for sure, at least. He can't devour her whole.” Just near the front door I heard someone say hello, and I turned to see my younger sister-in-law. Dressed in an unbecoming scarlet gown, she was teasing the men around her, like a dagger nearly drawn. She wore heavy steel earrings thick as horseshoes, and for a moment I regretted all the broken ones we'd thrown away in the army. What a fortune we could have made, pandering to today's fashions! She abandoned her admirers to come to my side, leaning up against me with all her weight to say:

“You are the most handsome man here tonight, my dear brother-in-law!”

Pakize's sister had recently developed a penchant for excessive flattery. It was most likely a by-product of the treatment she was receiving from Dr. Ramiz.

Slowly detaching myself, I said, “Enough of all that. Run off and have fun! But next time try another perfume!”

Without taking the slightest offense, she brought her little kerchief to her nose, and after naming the perfume—I couldn't say what it was and I doubt I could have done so even if my life depended on it—burst into laughter.

My other sister-in-law was sure to make an appearance any time now. Her performance at the club finished around eleven. And the moment she arrived she would no doubt feel obliged to sing a few of the songs that had made her a star. I went back into the living room and then stepped into the back room, where it was relatively quiet. Seher Hanım, Sabriye Hanım, Nermin Hanım, and a coterie of gentlemen had gathered around a handsome wood-burning stove of the type you used to see in
old houses, and—just as Dr. Ramiz had taught them, as if they were participating in some kind of
Bektasi ceremony—they toasted one another and sipped their rakı,
covering half of the glass with one hand. They shoved a glass into my hand. I told them I didn't drink rakı; I only drank whiskey, and the Blessed One didn't allow for it to be any other way. A young man almost Ahmet's age staggered to his feet, swaying to the left and to the right, and handed me a flask he'd managed to retrieve from his back pocket. I couldn't help but think of my son. “The poor fool,” I muttered under my breath. “Who knows how much the poor child is suffering, fighting for his integrity under a dim light at school. If only such integrity were possible! If only he could learn to accept that we all must make concessions! But was this ever possible?” I returned the bottle to the young man. It smelled like carbolic acid. With a barely audible “But where are you going?” uttered from behind an old crone who had collapsed into his lap, Dr. Ramiz sent me on my way.

Meanwhile servants were busy shuttling back and forth with enormous platters laden with a meat pilaf and wooden spoons. Scrambling in the wake of these great platters was a horde of men and women bearing smaller plates of pudding. A courteous Frenchman smiled at me and uttered a few words, perhaps assuming that we must understand each other, being more or less the same age. And indeed it wasn't too difficult to make out what he had said: “Attack the pilaf!” I looked aghast at this miserable creature who seemed so ignorant of modern times. But he misread my surprise; pointing instead to the bar where they were serving champagne. Arm in arm, we walked across the room. “Perhaps this will help,” I said. Sooner or later someone in this crowd will do me some good, and after that I'll have no trouble blending in. I had no choice but to adapt to my surroundings. I could bear life in no other way.