The Time Regulation Institute (35 page)

He looked at me for a moment. I was truly flabbergasted.

“No one ever really takes these things seriously anyway . . . without realizing it of course. Can't you see this side of the picture?”

“Not seriously. What do you mean? Then they're simply out of their minds . . .”

“Of course. They only want to lend a little emotional color to their lives with a few exceptional moments. Everyone seeks to fill the void inside them with a little sentimentality, to dress up their lives as they please, but as they understand absolutely nothing about music they can only really enjoy songs for their lyrics alone. My poor Hayri Bey, you are an unusual man indeed. Your criteria are the stuff of the past. They are, as you said earlier, like letters passed down from one master to the
next. We're no longer confined by that traditional mode. Today who would ever think of trying to distinguish the Isfahan from the Acemasiran. So tell me, which singer does she aspire to be?”

“Almost all the famous singers. But always with the same voice, the same
makam
,
and interpreted in exactly the same way.”

“That means she is a true original! It's solved. Unique and new. Pay attention here! I mean new, new in capital letters! For when it's a matter of the new, there's no need for any other talent. Now we need only choose which direction to take: folk music or classical Turkish music, or folk music with a hint of
alafranga
, or perhaps
alafranga
with a hint of folk? But of course we can't really decide on such things here at the dinner table. Yet it seems to me that, according to all you have said about her talents and skills”—here Halit Ayarcı screwed up his face and made a crinkling gesture with his fingers as if he were testing poor-quality fabric—“she would be more successful with certain local folk songs with a hint of the
alafranga . . .
Yes, that's my guess. But why doesn't she try a Turkish tango! Or there are some songs . . .”

He looked absently into my eyes.

“Yes, that's the problem. You lack entrepreneurial spirit. You're an idealist. And you fail to comprehend the reality around you. In short, you're old-fashioned. A shame, what a terrible shame! If only you had a shred of realism in you, just only so much, a wee bit. Oh, then everything would change.”

This time he'd gone too far.

“I'm not a realist? Would I have told you all I have in the manner that I did if I weren't a realist? Have I spoken to you about my sister-in-law with any inkling of hope? Have I changed anything about her for you? Have I dressed up any aspect of her? It seems to me that I am the only one who sees things for what they truly are. Indeed I am too much of a realist, I'll have you know—so much that it pains me.”

Halit Ayarcı smiled. He'd been gesturing the whole time to the people at the next table. He took a sip of rakı and turned to face me.

“Let's end this conversation and join the other table. It seems this evening might not turn out too bad after all. I might even
say promising . . . Look now, Hayri Bey, I have already decided on it. From now on we shall work together. This is why we must agree on certain things. Being a realist does not mean seeing the truth for what it is. It is a question of determining our relationship with the truth in the way that is most beneficial for us. What do you achieve by accepting reality as it is? What will that offer apart from a slew of petty decisions that are neither meaningful nor valuable on their own? You can't do anything but draw up endless lists of what you need and do not have. What difference does that make? If anything, it only leads you away from your true path. You become permanently settled in pessimism and eventually you are crushed beneath it. To see the truth as it is . . . is to admit defeat. Yes, it is the very definition of defeatism, for it is its very genesis. You, Hayri Bey, are a man poisoned by words, which is why I said you were old-fashioned. But the realism of today's man is something else. What can I make with the material at hand, with this very object and all it has to offer? That's the question to ask. For example, in this instance your greatest error is in your misperception of your dear sister-in-law's problem—in your starting with the abstract concept of music. If you were to tackle the problem from your sister-in-law's point of view, the matter would be altogether different. If Newton had considered the apple that dropped onto his head as nothing but an apple, he might have deemed it rotten and tossed it aside. But he didn't. Instead he asked himself, just what can I do with this apple? He asked just what its maximum benefit might be. And you should do the very same! My
baldız
wants nothing but to be a successful musician. So I have two factors: my
baldız
and music. As the first factor cannot be changed, I have no choice but to change the second. Just what kind of music does my
baldız
like, then? This is what you must consider. Or will you stay forever in your cul-de-sac? Why of course not.”

I thought of myself sitting on a stone in the Kamburkarga cul-de-sac just behind our home, with my sister-in-law singing her heart out as she hacked away at her oud.

“Of course not. A thousand times over, no!”

“Can you change her?”

I jumped up out of my seat.

“Not one bit! Impossible! Entirely out of the question!”

“Then you'll do what I just told you. Remember that in this day and age, and especially with matters of this sort, all you need to do is desire the change. Life goes on, Hayri Bey. As you go on your way, stymied by words at every step, life discovers something new every day. Consider how just four or five hours ago I discovered you—and now I am discovering a singer, your sister-in-law.”

“May God make it so, sir.”

What else could I do but thank him. He had discovered my
baldız
. Grace upon her! Since I was born, people have taught me to look through the wrong end of the telescope. But I simply never could. I was stubborn. Why bother? My entire life was absurd. So why wouldn't I just give this a try?

Nevertheless, I garnered my strength for one last act of resistance.

“Ah, but if you could only see her, or rather listen to her, singing there right before you like a great barrel wobbling on her crimson high heels, her sweat streaming like a fountain as she snaps along and sings, ‘If only my love would come join this joyful scene . . .'”

Halit Ayarcı looked at me warmly.

“So she snaps her fingers does she, eh? How nice. That's perfect, but, my good man, this is a success all on its own. Think about it for a minute: she won't be one of those singers who twirls a scarf around her finger while she sings, unable to ever unwind it, nor will she be one of those who tear up napkins as they go along. What more could you ask for? She'll have both hands free, she'll be able to wave to the crowd and blow kisses, and she'll receive thunderous applause in return! You possess a veritable treasure, and you don't even know it. Let's try to sum up, then: You say she's ugly, so from a contemporary perspective she's sympathetic. You say her voice is wretched, which means it is emotive and conducive to certain styles. You say she has no talent—well then, without a doubt she is an original. I will see to your
baldız
tomorrow. And soon she'll be on the stage. She'll be famous and her name will be in all the papers.”

This is as much as I can remember clearly from that night. In fact I have the vague recollection that following Halit Ayarcı's final words to me I thought something to the effect of, “You and your promises . . . You'll forget all about it tomorrow morning.” And the rest is just a blank—though toward morning I did find myself belly dancing with someone from the next table. It was a soft, gentle morning shrouded in mist. A breeze rushed through the open window, bringing with it the putter of motorboats and swaying the still-lit lamps. We carried on with our belly dance through the break of day and into the beautiful morning. I was overcome by the most blissful sensation of lightness imaginable. I still didn't know if Halit Ayarcı's promises of that evening would come true, but he had already shown me which end of the telescope I was to look through from here on in.

II

Yet Halit Ayarcı kept all his promises. Within a week, my sister-in-law began singing in a small club; both Halit Ayarcı and Dr. Ramiz attended the premiere, along with Pakize and the rest of our family. It was indeed a triumph, though I had the feeling that Halit Ayarcı provided both the venue and its audience simply to fulfill his promises of that night. Every time my sister-in-law committed an error in style, she was met with maniacal applause. With every passing moment, I sank deeper into my chair with shame, but in the end the poor girl was hailed as the star of the evening, and cries of “Brava!” were followed by hysterical screams erupting from her sisters and aunts. From time to time, Pakize turned to me with a look that said, “Didn't I tell you?” Halit Ayarcı watched the entire performance in silence. But as we left the club he said to me:

“Yes, just as I expected. The hanımefendi will be a great success indeed. You need to believe in life, Hayri Bey. But you have more belief in the Acemasiran
makam
than you do in life itself! Didn't you just see how well she was received? This is the impact a living human being can have on others. There's simply no way
on earth your classical
makams
could ever achieve such success. It's smooth sailing from now on. Oh, you'll see what she can do.”

And this wasn't all he did. It was around this time that Halit Ayarcı opened the little office that would become the nucleus of the Time Regulation Institute. One fine morning I stepped through the front door of that little office near the municipality building, wearing a suit Halit Ayarcı had sent me the night before. I was ushered inside by a wise and elderly servant. Nermin Hanım, our head secretary, who was also a relative of Halit Ayarcı's, jumped up at the first sight of me, as delighted as if she had just set eyes on an old friend. She showed me my desk. She even stopped knitting to do so. That day I learned that Nermin Hanım was always either knitting or talking; she never did anything else. Or, rather, she talked unless she was alone, in which case she knitted.

She was unlike any woman I had ever known. It took no more than a second for her to make a new friend. She had no secrets and no interest in silence. And she never held a grudge: She had even succeeded in divorcing three different husbands without resentment or rancor. Indeed she was still on rather good terms with them. She launched right in:

“The suit looks good. From what Halit Bey told me about you, I figured it would be perfect on you. But really, your shoes do need shining. And you must find another barber. This one seems to have no idea how to cut hair. I can't tell you how happy I am to have found a friend like you here. I did worry a bit when my uncle first asked me to stay on here. The idea of an office can be so unappealing. I said to myself, if anything, there'd be all sorts of strangers there, and I wouldn't know what to do. But I felt much better when he said we'd be together, especially after he told me what you were like. We're about the same age, so I knew we'd be good friends. And my husband's not a jealous man. Besides, in this day and age a wise husband's never jealous of his wife. Today's family is an institution founded on friendship—though the men in this country haven't reached that level of maturity. Oh, but I'm tired of it all. In the past it was such a cinch getting divorced, but now it's so difficult. The judges keep trying to get you reunited, and they stall
the trials. I divorced my first husband without even really knowing how it all happened. For the second one, the trial lasted a year, and then they wouldn't allow me to marry for a whole year after. Then, the third time, it was practically impossible. Anyway, we're no more than secretaries, you and I, but once my uncle has the organization all stamped and approved, you'll be assistant director and I'll be head secretary! My uncle Halit is a great organizer. And he's already organized this whole exciting project. We live nearby, in Sisli, so I'll be bringing my own lunches, and if you do the same, you won't waste any time going out for lunch. But, then, come to think of it, there's no need for you to bring lunch. I can bring yours too. My mother-in-law's a wonderful cook. And she'll make us tray upon tray of all sorts of food just to make sure she doesn't have to see me. But to tell you the truth, I was trying to get her to work here as a secretary too. But my uncle said it wouldn't do. This is a modern institution, he said, and we need young women. But, then again, you never know who's young or old anymore. You shorten your skirt and cut your hair short and, well . . . And then if you wear a beret . . . One of my friend's husbands was a little too interested in young girls. The poor thing didn't know what to do. Finally I had to intervene. I said, ‘Sister, all you have to do is throw on a middle school uniform and get one of those caps.' At first she said, not a chance, but now the silly man never leaves home. Oh, it's so nice to have you here . . . I thought maybe you wouldn't be able to find the office this morning, and I was just about to send a car for you. Then I was worried I might disturb Mrs. Irdal, so I changed my mind. My uncle said you are quite good at reading coffee grounds. Oh, I was so excited when I heard that! You'll read my grounds every day, won't you?”

That was Nermin Hanım. The most surprising thing of all is that she was the one who wanted to divorce each of her three husbands, whereas—considering the monologue she'd just delivered—one would have imagined it would be her unfortunate ex-husbands who were desperate for divorce. Indeed she was the kind of person who spent all twelve waking hours chattering.

The office consisted of two adjacent rooms. My desk was in the first, directly opposite Nermin Hanım's desk; and this room led to Halit Ayarcı's office.