Translation Review - The University of Texas at Dallas

The Academy (Gümüşlük Akademisi)
Latife Tekin
translated by Saliha Paker and Mel Kenne
At winterʼs end, the Atlantis Group from Gümüşlük
Academy arranged a symposium on “Meaning: from the
traditional to the electronic.” Along with the top names
in the electronic and print media, the organizers invited a
group not so well known and at odds with those circles. In
this group was Yasemin Buenanoche, a young semanticist
who had cut herself off from the university and research
centers. She started out for Gümüşlük three days in
advance of the symposium, drawn there by the secret she
harbored of the lost documents concerning the Academyʼs
beginnings.
It was the fi rst week of February, and Buenanocheʼs
long and tiring journey, interrupted often by heavy
snowfall, inevitably turned into an inner odyssey. The trees
that appeared to be sketched in black clusters on the snowcovered
plains reminded her of her childhood. Thoughts
fi zzled out and a whisper fl oated up from the depths of her
soul. SNOW. A white animal with its fur of trees.
Buenanoche had kept an eye on the Academy from
a distance, continuing to inquire and think about it even
during the years she spent abroad. Her thoughts would
always be overcome by the image of a vast, silent garden
hedged in by the light of her memories. This rather
frightened her.
She had the same feeling when she picked up the
documents from where they had been left — to be
forgotten — and, on a last-minute impulse, rushed through
them. Photographs, pages of philosophical comment,
architectural drawings, minutes of meetings — everything
led toward a strange argument that seemed magical to her.
If she hadnʼt been invited, she thought, she could never
have visited the Academy.
Yet she felt elated as she sailed through the snow
toward a different climate, into the slowly approaching
spring and the fragrance of unfamiliar fl owers.
On the fi rst day, at the communal lunch, Buenanoche
became the focus of attention. Her radiant eyes sparked
off a vibrant aura. Her face, mellowed by her inner
journey and fl ushed as though she were having a dream,
took on a solitary look. Her words, spoken in a voice that
echoed from far away, were gratefully received. While
the air still hummed with the bewilderment stirred by her
ideas, Buenanoche made the following notes in the guestbook:
“Meaning is inherent in the fl esh. It can dazzle only
when fl esh is visible. Itʼs pointless to look for meaning in
for Gürel Yontan
words. Meaning is in our palate, our throat, in our hands
and eyes.”
Buenanoche loved to fall asleep to the sound of the
hammer from the sculpture workshop that spread out over
the valley, to look at the morning sky so marvellously
wide in the blue distance that met the sea, and to watch
the clouds scudding over the mountains. As she strolled
among the trees, breathing in the fragrance of tangerines,
she was struck by the feeling that she could live in this
garden forever. She delayed her return and stayed on for
the workshop on “Virtual Spaces” that was to take place at
the Academy in a few days.
Buenanoche spent those days half-transformed, in a
strange, breezy atmosphere, as if her soul trembled between
the pages of the documents she had been keeping — as if
powerful thoughts and sensations might invade it and shake
her very being. She walked blindly in the twilight, her arms
spread wide like someone with no fear of death, wandering
over the hills until she reached the little spit on the artifi cial
lake. There she waited — a stone, a fl ower, or a mushroom
in her hand — to watch the sun rise.
Mornings, the Academyʼs director had seen her
perched on the edge of the amphitheaterʼs wet steps,
watching birds. He lent her his binoculars and gave her an
illustrated book, created by the childrenʼs workshop, about
the birds that inhabited the Academy garden. He also gave
her a map to help her fi nd mushrooms. She was pleased
when he warned her about the dangerous attraction of
poisonous mushrooms and when he reminded her politely
that the binoculars had once belonged to his grandfather.
The questions they exchanged led to quiet conversations.
They were now able to whisper to each other things
that couldnʼt so easily be said out loud. They toured the
Academy museum, which was still under construction,
and the arts workshops happily buzzing with activity. They
talked about all the things that interested them, but most of
all about the spirit of the Academy.
The image of the vast, silent garden that had veiled her
thoughts began to fade from Buenanocheʼs mind. Watching
a painterʼs shadow glide quietly from one courtyard to
another in the hazy moonlight, a tired sculptor tread
heavily on the stones glistening in the grass, or a silent
writer trying to break away from the clamor of words
— witnessing these moments of fl esh-felt beauty, she felt
renewed by fresh intuitions. But time passed too gently.
Translation Review 39