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?
Though I had spent my entire life in the company of timepieces, I have always been most fascinated by the pocket watch, and this must be why I had been searching for the secret of the building in such a form. First I imagined a round building very much like a pocket watch, with twelve pavilions, representing the twelve different hours of the day, circling this hall. But once I’d tried to work out the idea on paper, I came to see it was impossible. Then I began thinking about how the watch might stand vertically. Stairs would provide access to a solid structure resembling a fat, swollen pocket watch mounted on four block pillars. Naturally the watch would have to have faces on both the front and the back, and windows would run down the sides of the building. So on each face of the building would be giant hands indicating the time, and in the middle of the facade would be a large door, accessed by stairs running up through one of the structural pillars.
But I had to give up on this idea as well, for Pakize was much too fond of it. I must admit that Pakize’s taste had become a sort of gauge for me. I had begun to question everything for which she expressed interest or enthusiasm. And, truth be told, the final idea did in a way come from Pakize. When I told her about my first idea, she responded with her usual carefree smile:
“I already know about it. Last night I had a lamb sacrificed for the Blessed One. Its spiritual powers have come to our aid.”
Initially I was taken off guard.
“Which Blessed One?” I asked. “What are you talking about?”
She calmly replied:
“Ah, my dear husband, you know—the Blessed One! Our prophet of a clock. You know it’s in your aunt’s house now! The one who comes to us in our hour of need!”
At first I thought I’d strangle her in a fit of rage, but then I suddenly embraced her. She had reminded me that the building didn’t have to be constructed in the shape of a round timepiece, that the world had timepieces of all shapes and sizes—that the building could easily take on a rectangular shape, like any other building worthy of its name.
“My dear wife,” I said. “I owe every success in my life to you. And now, thanks to your intercession, the Blessed One has come to our rescue. How can I express my gratitude?”
In fact it wasn’t at all difficult to design a long rectangular space in the shape of a grandfather clock. There was nothing we had to do, save place structures representing the hours of the day along the sides of the courtyard. The central hall would no longer be harnessed to the startling and indeed impossible height of my initial idea of the pocket watch. At the top of the courtyard would be a round, clock-shaped construction representing twelve o’clock. Then four small pavilions on each side would lead down along the courtyard to the pavilion representing six o’clock, which would have three floors. It would really be quite easy to suspend walkways above the strips of lawn between the pavilions. The large central hall would be enclosed in glass. And on the face of each pavilion a Roman numeral would be displayed, from one to twelve, moving, from right to left, in a large ring, just as it would be on a clock. In the end I decided that instead of using the number twelve, I would make the front-gate pavilion, occupying that numeral’s position, slightly larger than the others. To be sure to give the impression of a clock, I designed the front gate to resemble a dial. That said, my efforts to give a six-meter gate the appearance of a dial were truly exasperating. I would achieve nothing by putting yet more numerals along the sides of a normal rectangular shape. I needed a new idea. To this end I traveled as far afield as Bursa and Konya. And I visited all the mosques in Istanbul, looking closely at the many shapes of their doors, but they offered me nothing in return. Though all were beautifully crafted rectangles, they couldn’t help me with my problem. Then one night the idea came to me when I spied a curtain hanging in the door to one of the smaller mosques in Istanbul: I would use curtains to represent the hour and minute hands! After this it was simply a question of deciding what time I wanted these curtains to indicate over the top of the entrance. It was easy to manage such details once I could envisage a door with two curtains pulled halfway open, like wings.
It was summer. As usual Ahmet wanted to spend his vacation at a summer school. But at my insistence he agreed to stay at home to help me. He knew that I was under pressure, but it was also the sort of project that appealed to him. After seeing me struggling for hours on end, he didn’t have the heart to leave me stranded, even though he didn’t quite understand what I was
up to—or perhaps simply found it too absurd for words. For the first time since Emine’s death, I felt truly happy. My son had not just forgiven me—he had undertaken to help me. I was overjoyed to have him working by my side, giving deep consideration to each and every possibility, and wrestling with matters that had no bearing on his life, just for the challenge. It was a true representation of the virtue we know as hard work.
Work makes us pure and beautiful; it is our bond with the outside world and makes us who we are. But work can also take possession of our souls. No matter how meaningless and absurd the job, we unwittingly become its prisoner: from the moment we accept responsibility for its proper execution we can never escape its grip. Herein lies the greatest secret of man’s fate and indeed the history of mankind.
In our first father-son discussion, we decided that the minute and hour hands shouldn’t be positioned at the same height, which would create an overly simplistic and classic symmetry.
So father and son sat together for hours on end, fiddling with watches, searching for the position that would best suit the curtains that would serve to represent the hour and minute hands by the angle at which they hung to either side. We wanted an angle that would seem natural at first glance but also out of the ordinary. A person rushing in would be sufficiently struck by the originality of the design to want to turn around and examine—if only for a moment or two—the large bronze numbers set into the white marble border around the door. If nothing else, he should think, “Oh yes, I really must have a look at that on my way out.” We finally decided on forty-two minutes past four. In so doing we cleared the space for a six-meter gate. And then, a meter and a half above the lintel, we fixed two stone curtains at different heights, depending on the time we had selected. The empty space on the left would be slightly higher, but both sides, even the point closest to the stone curtain’s edge, was just high enough for an average person to clear. To give a clearer indication of the hour and minute hands, we would place two thick, straight rods of engraved copper, or perhaps a copper-steel amalgam, in the folds of the stone curtains. A large pendulum would hang above the point where the curtains parted. This too would be forged of metal and sturdily affixed; as it swayed back and forth, it would represent the idea of regulation. And the awning over the door would create enough shade to bring out the richness of the green lintel, the white marble, and the burnished copper. Or so Ahmet thought.