Arslan Qusbecq walked barefoot on a rug spun of jute.
Filtering through the hedgerow fencing the garden, the late afternoon sun poured generously through a large wooden-framed window. He turned his face to the sun dipping into the west. Under the woven lanterns of irregular shapes, he sat in the center of his meditation room, on a circular pouf soft and thick, his back to a wall lined by rustic jars and bows that sang when stroked with a mallet.
He lifted his chin to the warm light that danced upon his shirt and closed his eyes, his reflection playing like a film on the inside of his lids.
The debate in Enkera went well. Keiren Zaman didn't answer any questions or acknowledge any allegations. And neither did Mustafa Agca. A typical back-and-forth of fervent lip service in tautology to see who would drop the ball first.
But it went well.
Not for the voters, of course.
It went well in the sense of reinforcing the conviction of an ever-widening gulf, so profound that it was impossible to bridge, that any chance they had to survive such an overwhelming snafu, regardless of which side they took, was to fight for the other side to go extinct. And it fell on people like Arslan to make sure that it didn't happen so the fight would go on. It was division, after all, that drove action. Engulfed by the urgency born of such division, the mass of pygmies—who weren't all that different from one another—would take up a fight that was never theirs, turning themselves into fodder. All the while, they remained convinced they were serving the greater good of their own free will.
Division draws the fine line on which democracy and tyranny tango.
A sneer jerked his lips.
Don the lace top of division, tyranny imposes her will in the name of democracy.
Did he care if Zaman should win? Of course. But it wasn't because he would like to be the Deputy Premier. Who would anyway? He needed Zaman to win so he would gain some leverage over Mustafa, whose Eternal Project he had participated in since day one. And as for Mustafa, he too, needed Zaman to win this round. Only by raising a man to great heights could his fall from grace end him permanently. And when that fall inevitably came, as they lured Zaman into corruption, the people would turn to Mustafa like a messiah, while Arslan remained the invisible catalyst, nudging events wherever needed.
In this delicate game he and Mustafa had contrived for decades, nobody was his friend, and yet everyone, a game of three-dimensional chess whose art couldn't be taught, and he doubted any of his sons would appreciate the wisdom it commanded, except Warshon.
He exhaled, air hissing through his nose. News reached him about the DEA's operation the night before he touched down in Konstinbul. And Warshon had yet to reply to his message.
Of all his children, Warshon was the cleverest, scoring 144 on the IQ test while others teetered in the disappointing range of a high average. Stoic and observant, he had not once botched a job he was tasked with, and never had he complained about the difficulties. Yet the absence of the chip on his shoulder, or the appearance of the absence, worried Arslan profoundly. Capable but wild, like a dormant volcano that needed to be watched closely on the seismograph, he had Warshon watched by those around him, such as Nikita Ozal.
Most fathers would worry about their sons should a threat like this arise. But Arslan wasn't most fathers, nor Warshon any sons. A gut feeling told him it was self-inflected, the beginning of an eruption he had braced himself for all these years.
A gentle knock came on the door.
He opened his eyes with a few blinks. The sun set fast in the fall, dusking his meditation room now dimly lit by still candles on the low table. "Yes?"
"Yilmaz is here, dear," said Chiara. "And Yesfir. She brought with her the Cengiz girl."
"I'll be out in a minute," he replied, his voice soft, his gaze remained upon the orange hue hanging over his demesne.
Only when his wife's footsteps went out of earshot did he get up from the floor. Despite the absence of hunger, he had to attend the dinner with his children. Yilmaz was bringing his first girlfriend to meet them. And being a college student with nothing better to do, Yesfir wouldn't put it past her to miss the drama she even brought Ilkin Cengiz's daughter. Arslan paced the room, his head shaking. He stooped over the lush potted plant in the corner and examined the large fronds with care. A smile tugged at his lips. Since he was a boy, he had loved all things that grew in soil. The virgin bloom of an apple tree. The fresh sprouting of tomatoes. They took up what was given and blossomed to their fullest in the grace of life. Never complained.
More people should be like a plant, he lamented. Too many offer less than a plant and yet believe they should command the world.
Blowing out the candles, he exited the room. The scrollwork door slid to the side and closed in his wake. Upstairs in his bedchamber, he changed to a semi-formal white shirt he wore for meetings at home, with navy pants of single pleat and freshly ironed. His brows drew close as he faltered over the choice of footwear. Slippers were too casual, and the kids brought guests. He put on the pair of suede loafers, his class whispering in his taste.
A sigh fled his throat.
Under a chandelier that hung like a constellation untethered from the night, with interlocking loops glimmering with cold brilliance, he found his wife holding out her arms to the girl Yilmaz brought.
"Welcome, Rosario!" she said, kissing her on the cheek. "And what a beautiful name!"
"Thank you! I like yours, too!" The girl giggled.
They always bloody giggle!
"Yilmaz!" Arslan barged in as he descended the sweeping stairs. "From which poor father did you steal this gorgeous young lady?"
"Dad!" Yilmaz groaned, rolling the ocean-blue eyes he took after his mother.
"Good evening, Lord Qusbecq," Rosario made him a courtesy, her manners a good sign. "I'm Rosario Jarquin, daughter of Lord Francisco Jarquin and Lady Imelda."
Arslan turned to his son, a quizzical smirk cocking his brow. Of everything the boy had done until now, bringing home a Jarquin girl might be his first, real achievement. "Have you been a gentleman, son?"
"What do you think, old man?" Yilmaz slid past him. Holding the girl's hand, he locked his fingers with hers and looked down at her sideways, his face a display of a lopsided smirk he likely picked up from his disdainful older brothers.
The girl shied away from his gaze, her head dipping.
Only then did Arslan pay her any heed. Brown straight hair carefully combed and tucked behind small ears, revealing a square face too pudgy to please the eye. Her downturned eyes were of the same color as her hair. Between the insipid eyes was a button nose that needed work was she ever to experience the charm of life as a woman. Aesthetically, a terrible choice for a mate, which earned Yilmaz the extra points. For a young man his age, he was precocious enough to look beyond the fluff of romance, to see the truth of his future marriage, and knew the dichotomy between whom he should bring home and his dalliance. A quiet scoff slipped off Arslan's lips as he remembered the whore he had to pay off to leave Warshon several years ago. Not only did she demand the money to terminate her contract with Serhat—a considerable sum—but Arslan also had to pull quite a few strings to get her hired as a bureaucratic clerk. And with the charm of life she got to experience as a woman, the little whore had reinvented herself as the chief secretary of the Health Ministry.
Arslan took another glance at Rosario Jarquin. Like division that toed the fine line between democracy and tyranny, perhaps a blessing and a curse were the two sides of the same coin. Cursed with her plain look, Rosario might have been the most blessed of them all. Arslan brooded.
A staccato of steps ran down the stairs. Yesfir pounced on him. "Dad! I thought I heard you!"
He hugged the girl and took her for a spin. "Now, now Yesfir, we have a guest!"
"Get down!" scolded her mother not without a smile. "You aren't a kid anymore, Yesfir! You're going to hurt your father's back!"
"What can I do?" Yesfir made a moue of protest. "Both Warshon and Serhat are so busy I never get to see them at all! If they were home, Dad wouldn't have to endure me!"
Arslan laughed, stroking her sun-kissed hair. "That's alright," he said and pretend to glare at his wife. "Mom's just jealous."
Chiara rolled her eyes. "Keep spoiling her!" She turned to the Cengiz girl on the stairs. "I'm sorry, Dila, my dear, that you have to bear witness to this."
Dila shook her hands. "Yesfir is so lucky. My parents never laughed. Well, I suppose they do. They just don't do it in each other's presence."
Foolish girl. Arslan refrained from a snort. We laughed so Yesfir wouldn't prattle about her family when she visits other houses like you!
Chiara gave her a side hug. "I'm sure they both love you very much," she said, her voice warm, her words promising. A textbook response Arslan could only hope that his children would pick up on.
As they proceeded to the dinner table, a servant brought forward his earpieces. "From your office, m'lord," she said and bowed.
"Thank you, Elissha," he muttered. Putting in the earpieces, he turned away from the gathering. "Speak."
"Sir, you need to turn on the TV," said his secretary.
"I'm about to have dinner with my family."
"Apologies, Sir. But it's your son. Dr. Qusbecq is holding a joint press conference with the Ministry of Health and the Port Customs regarding the alleged virus outbreak."
"Which channel?"
"Central Six."
He hung up. Turning to the dinner table, he bent down next to Yesfir and gave the girl a peck on the head. "You guys get started. Something has just turned up I need to take care of."
Yesfir gripped his wrist. "Dad! This is my first time home this month!"
"And bring a boyfriend the next time so your mother would like you to stay longer," he japed, then winked at Dila Cengiz. "No offense, my dear."
"None taken!" Dila giggled, turning to his daughter. "Your dad is so funny!"
"Will it take long?" Yesfir ignored her friends, twisting in her seat with a hand on the backrest, her doe eyes blinking.
"I'll be back before you even finish your appetizer." He winked. Smiling at everyone at the table, he gestured for the servant to bring out the first course. As he turned on his heel, his smile froze and shattered like a sheet of ice splintering into hail. The door to his study closed.
"Turned on Channel Six," he intoned.
The TV flashed to life, casting an undulating glow across the dark room as he perched on the edge of his desk. His eyes narrowed. Stroking his chin, he glanced sideways at his reflection on the window.
For a while he suspected that Warshon had plans kept from him up in his sleeve, and not for a second had he believed that partnership with the Reyers was just helping out a college friend. The report from Nikita Ozal confirmed it. Without anyone's knowledge, Warshon built a new lab at the pharmaceutical plant as he sought to expand his client list. As for the names on the list, Arslan had yet to find out. He clenched his fists at his sides, his head low, eyes lifting. On the TV, Warshon had turned the table on the Customs security and the DEA. Everything he did was too perfect, with reasons too unassailable that Arslan wouldn't have suspected had he not been his father. So few men were as capable as Warshon, which was a reason in and of itself that warranted caution, for if he chose to turn against anyone, he could. And while Arlsan never allowed himself a moment to ponder on the past or the things he couldn't change, deep down, he knew he was guilty as a father who probably deserved his son's betrayal.
The room darkened the second he turned off the TV.
Arslan returned to the bright dining hall where his family gathered. "Sweetheart," he said to Yesfir as he took his seat at the head of the table. "Didn't you say you miss your brother? Why don't you give Warshon a call and see if he can come by tonight?"
"Warshon is coming?" Flushed by the news, Dila Cengiz gaped. The two young women clapped, hugged, and frisked about in a way Arslan would never deign to understand before they whirled for the phone.
Across the table, Chiara looked daggers. Sharp and swift was her gaze that the blood oozed and the bone fractured before the cut was even noticed.