7. Serhat

The double door of ornate lacquered wood swung wide upon recognizing the footsteps, which opened to an opulently appointed lounge flooded with natural light.

Serhat Qusbecq stalked in and threw his black velvet suit jacket on a plush, tufted circular ottoman flanked by matching armchairs in his choice palette of deep, rich blues. Contrasting the abstract patterned rug in the same color tones that complemented the seating was an ivory coffee table, round and massive, of polished marble whose glossy surfaces caught the distorted reflection of Serhat as he paced about under an intricate, spherical chandelier made of delicate glass orbs. A few heavy books he frequently quoted but never cared to peruse were placed atop the table as minimalist décor next to the E-file. 

He folded his arms, his head hanging forward as he stroked his chin with a thumb. The file contained Lord Qusbecq's schedules for the entire election campaign. 

He got his hand on it through Guiliana Cafaro, the stunning secretary to Taylan Dinc, the Minister of Health. Initially scouted by Serhat's talent agency, Guiliana later found her aspiration for the future Caucus Speaker. In exchange for the role she played today and the one yet to play, she kept an eye out for Serhat, who kept hold of too many pleasure films of her with Boss Dinc lest she planned to default on her debt. Who had met with whom for how long? What was the beef behind closed doors? Whose wife stormed in on which day? etc. etc. If anything he had learned or thought to have learned from his stepfather, it was the value of tidings. All the insignificant, the innocuous, and the irrelevant had the potential of a snowflake that induced an avalanche. But all that he was able to receive through grapevine also set him on edge. Knowing there were opportunities somewhere between the words and behind the numbers, he couldn't quite pin it for himself. 

Must there be something he could do with so detailed a schedule?

A scoff fled through his nose. 

Ever since Lord Erhan Qusbecq was appointed the running mate by the Caucus, his only order to Serhat was to stay put and lay low. Being only a stepson, Serhat knew his place. If by any chance his name should appear in the inheritance, it would have been for his Effendi's blood that cutting him out wouldn't look good on Qusbecq. People were calling him a Lord now, but forty years ago, he was a nobody! A fucking gigolo! Whom he would have remained had it not been for Mother and the House Effendi behind her! 

Yet it was him, a noble Effendi by blood who now must bear the same fate as the gigolo's firstborn he had with some disgraceful Tamen woman from the Third World North! Lord Qusbecq made it clear to him and his stepbrother that neither of them would follow his step into politics as he needed his eldest to play defense on the periphery. While Warshond provided narcotics to the children of Qusbecq's adversaries abroad and at home, Serhat ran the largest talent agency that traded sex for favors. 

Not that he ever wanted to be in politics. Who in their right mind would anyway? To willingly spend the prime years of their youth in the shadow colluding with old prunes? For the first half of his life, Serhat had been happy, playing like a fiddle pretty young men and women who, too, boasted his vanity. Poisoned by the mirage of a demi worshiped by the commoners, by the lure of fame and the promises it seldom kept, they saw Serhat like a god and willingly put their necks into his leash. For twenty years, Serhat had lived like a god, starring in major pictures with all the knockouts he wanted to have a way with, and invited politicians to play a cameo with the thespians who gave them the boner. Little did he care about how much he helped the Qusbecq advance his career. He was having the time of his life. 

But things began to feel different as he got older. The persona of a wealthy, carefree dandy with little respect for rules and protocols he had prided himself on having crafted for all his life, one that had got him all the adulation and attention from the press, had now turned him into a subject of ridicule. He needed a change. He needed the love! To continue being the focal point of whichever room he entered! He began to understand Guiliana Cafaro so much so he even began to see her humanity beyond sex. 

He sauntered over to the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the tumbling blue of Lake Gök. Next to him, a full-length floor mirror framed in lacquered sandalwood caught his reflection, his wheat-color skin sallow. He looked as how he felt, pensive and out of his depth. Turning to his image, he stroked his stubble that took the barber two hours to trim and oil only yesterday, then ran a hand in his meticulously pomaded hair. His brow elevated. 

"Galaxy," he intoned. 

"What can I do for you today, my lord?"

"Take a photo." 

The mirror snapped, capturing him brooding with a hand about his chin. 

"How do I look?"

"You could use a bit of color," the mirror replied. 

"Do that." 

The image of himself captured in the mirror added a subtle blush to his cheek and tuned the light so his thin face looked more sculpted than gaunt. 

"Anything else?"

"We can resize the waist a little."

"Are you calling me fat?" 

"No, my lord. You asked for advice, so I offered. You could use a bit of toning." 

Serhat snorted, rolling his eyes. His hand wagged. 

"I'm sorry I didn't catch that. Was it a yes?"

"Yes!"

"Is there anything else I can do for you, my lord?"

"Put it in the background of my office," he ordered, stepping closer to the mirror as he examined closely his reflection, the grizzle and the wrinkles that defied all the expensive products and treatments he had been lavishing on himself since even before his thirtieth birthday ten years ago. "Position me before my desk stacked with scripts and files." 

"OK." 

"Then post it on my Public Square at nine p.m." 

"Got it. Photo scheduled to post on Public Square at nine p.m."

Serhat turned sideways to the mirror. Trying to suck in his belly, he furrowed his brows. All the hours he spent in the gym paid off little it seemed, and all the money couldn't buy back the youth he had possessed as if only yesterday and felt would always be in his possession. 

Eighty years give or take from womb to tomb, it dawned on Serhat that all of humanity, rich or poor, ugly or beautiful, spent only so few years sprouting into full bloom, and then the long, rest of it, toiling in decline. Had God ever been fair, it was the punishment of aging he inflicted on all men. 

Deflated with a sigh of resignation, he sneered. In his eyes was a look he had never noticed before. A sign of weathering only seen in old men. 

A knock came on the door. 

He tossed his head over the shoulder, "Yes?" he groaned.

"Sir, it's time to leave," said the housekeeper in an even tone. "Your car is ready."

Serhat outstretched an elbow. Ten to eight. Forty minutes before the Sunday meeting with his stepfather scheduled for every second week of the month. Unlike most family meetings set during brunch, Lord Qusbecq had his quirk. 

"That old creep," Serhat mumbled to himself, checking his hair in the mirror again before swinging up the suit jacket from the ottoman on his way out.