Read Online A Mind at Peace by Ahmet Hamdi Tanpinar - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ahmet Hamdi Tanpinar
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life. Almost every line was repeated a few times in an unskilled cursive: “To our guide in pilgrimage to Holy Mecca, the Water Bearer Esseyd Muhammet Elkasimi Efendi.” Later on, the address became more detailed: “To His Excellency Esseyd Muhammet Elkasimi Efendi, one of the caretakers of the Sacred Kaaba, son of Jeweler Mesut Efendi of Bâbünnebi in Holy Mecca.”
And a few pages farther, beneath a rather extensive register of expenses, appeared the following: “Being the date of His Excellency the Benefactor Naşit Beyefendi’s appointment as fifth secretary of the private royal chambers ...” And farther on: “On this morning, His Excellency the Benefactor Naşit Beyefendi, whose appointment to fifth secretary of the private royal chambers has been announced by imperial writ, bedecked in the uniform of the office, embarked toward the imperial palace for the sake of initiating his obligations. May Allah, Exalted and Almighty, forthwith bestow His glorious divine guidance and assistance.” A full musical ensemble from the mid-nineteenth-century reign of Sultan Abdülmecit blared within Mümtaz’s mind. Farther down the page, in a very thick pen and in a hand that couldn’t quite keep control of itself, appeared a couplet:
Where is the rose, where is the nightingale? The petals of the rose do scatter and pale.
Next came a magick potion prepared by boiling in the middle of the night the shell of a baby turtle, the water of seven springs collected in a glass bottle on the fifteenth of the month, forty pomegranate arils, saffron, and black pepper; the concoction was to be stirred with a freshly cut cherry twig while reciting an incantation, before letting it sit under the sun for forty days. And after that, he read an incantation meant to be recited forty times for forty days to enable one to wander about unseen.
On the facing page appeared six words in crimson ink that didn’t belong to any recognizable language: “Temâgisin,” “Begedânin,” “Yesevâdin,” “Vegdasin,” “Nevfena,” and “Gadisin.” An explanation below stated that repeating these words seven times before bed would cause one to dream of an object of desire. And further down the page was a long description of the pronunciation of Keldanî script. Mümtaz muttered: “Temâgisin, Begedânin, Yesevâdin, Vegdasin, Nevfena, Gadisin.”
It saddened him that he wouldn’t be explaining these absurdities to Nuran. Mümtaz was Nuran’s purveyor of esoterica. He loved to bring her resolute skepticism and steadfast rationalism face to face with odd anecdotes he’d culled from here and there. Had it been last year, Mümtaz would have told her how he’d opened his mind to forces from beyond regarding some or another issue, then he’d have gone on to describe the dream that came to him after having repeated this incantation seven times. In conveying such nonsense, Mümtaz was forced to maintain complete sincerity without a smirk or guffaw. The charade would continue in all seriousness to the end amid Nuran’s demure smiles and expressions of astonishment, and eventually, annoyed, she’d either put a swift end to the joke – opening up a delicious horizon of remorse sometimes lasting for hours – or else she, too, would simply join in the game.
Thinking this now verged on the pathetic.
He suddenly stopped at a juncture in his thoughts. Why am I mocking these people? Is my anguish preferable to their lives, filled with countless opportunities for escape? But did such means of escape actually exist as he’d assumed? Were they living the wealth of possibilities described in these books and others like them? Even if this were the case, wasn’t he himself escaping? Wasn’t merely sitting in this shop at this hour an escape? Amid a widening web of troubles, he did indeed want to steal this hour, and he’d stolen it in plain sight from İhsan and his family. Granted, Mümtaz hadn’t been living a regular life since the beginning of
And a few pages farther, beneath a rather extensive register of expenses, appeared the following: “Being the date of His Excellency the Benefactor Naşit Beyefendi’s appointment as fifth secretary of the private royal chambers ...” And farther on: “On this morning, His Excellency the Benefactor Naşit Beyefendi, whose appointment to fifth secretary of the private royal chambers has been announced by imperial writ, bedecked in the uniform of the office, embarked toward the imperial palace for the sake of initiating his obligations. May Allah, Exalted and Almighty, forthwith bestow His glorious divine guidance and assistance.” A full musical ensemble from the mid-nineteenth-century reign of Sultan Abdülmecit blared within Mümtaz’s mind. Farther down the page, in a very thick pen and in a hand that couldn’t quite keep control of itself, appeared a couplet:
Where is the rose, where is the nightingale? The petals of the rose do scatter and pale.
Next came a magick potion prepared by boiling in the middle of the night the shell of a baby turtle, the water of seven springs collected in a glass bottle on the fifteenth of the month, forty pomegranate arils, saffron, and black pepper; the concoction was to be stirred with a freshly cut cherry twig while reciting an incantation, before letting it sit under the sun for forty days. And after that, he read an incantation meant to be recited forty times for forty days to enable one to wander about unseen.
On the facing page appeared six words in crimson ink that didn’t belong to any recognizable language: “Temâgisin,” “Begedânin,” “Yesevâdin,” “Vegdasin,” “Nevfena,” and “Gadisin.” An explanation below stated that repeating these words seven times before bed would cause one to dream of an object of desire. And further down the page was a long description of the pronunciation of Keldanî script. Mümtaz muttered: “Temâgisin, Begedânin, Yesevâdin, Vegdasin, Nevfena, Gadisin.”
It saddened him that he wouldn’t be explaining these absurdities to Nuran. Mümtaz was Nuran’s purveyor of esoterica. He loved to bring her resolute skepticism and steadfast rationalism face to face with odd anecdotes he’d culled from here and there. Had it been last year, Mümtaz would have told her how he’d opened his mind to forces from beyond regarding some or another issue, then he’d have gone on to describe the dream that came to him after having repeated this incantation seven times. In conveying such nonsense, Mümtaz was forced to maintain complete sincerity without a smirk or guffaw. The charade would continue in all seriousness to the end amid Nuran’s demure smiles and expressions of astonishment, and eventually, annoyed, she’d either put a swift end to the joke – opening up a delicious horizon of remorse sometimes lasting for hours – or else she, too, would simply join in the game.
Thinking this now verged on the pathetic.
He suddenly stopped at a juncture in his thoughts. Why am I mocking these people? Is my anguish preferable to their lives, filled with countless opportunities for escape? But did such means of escape actually exist as he’d assumed? Were they living the wealth of possibilities described in these books and others like them? Even if this were the case, wasn’t he himself escaping? Wasn’t merely sitting in this shop at this hour an escape? Amid a widening web of troubles, he did indeed want to steal this hour, and he’d stolen it in plain sight from İhsan and his family. Granted, Mümtaz hadn’t been living a regular life since the beginning of
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