A silver laptop and a manila folder rested on the mahogany desk. He opened the laptop. He read.
The desk phone rang. He kept reading.
The second ring sounded. His fingers hit the keys.
The third ring echoed. He pressed send.
On the fourth, he raised his head and lifted the receiver.
“Speaking.”
A hurried voice spilled from the earpiece. He let it run.
“Step by step,” he said. “Do not confuse me.”
He listened. The voice slowed.
“Alright,” he said. “We will talk about this.”
He placed the receiver back in its cradle.
The door opened. His secretary stepped in. She carried a black leather planner. She did not knock; it was precisely four o’clock.
She stopped at the edge of the desk.
“The dinner reservation is confirmed,” she said. “For your wife’s birthday.”
He looked up from the screen. He looked at the open planner in her hands, then up at her face.
“Yes.”
She held his gaze for a second. She closed the planner.
“Thank you,” he said.
She nodded. She turned. She left.
The door closed behind her. He pressed his palms flat against the mahogany. He closed the laptop.
The cabin inside the car was quiet, insulated from the traffic outside.
“The margin is too tight,” his friend said from the passenger seat. He loosened his tie. “If the quarter ends low, they will pull the funding.”
“They will not,” he said. He watched the road. His hands rested at ten and two on the leather steering wheel. “The projections are stable.”
His friend shifted. He slid down in the seat and lifted his left leg, resting the side of his shoe against the lower edge of the dashboard.
“Still,” his friend said. “It is a risk we don’t have to take right now.”
“It is a calculated shift,” he said.
He lifted his hand from the wheel. He extended his index finger. He tapped it against the side of his friend’s knee.
His friend dropped his foot back to the floor mat. He sat up.
“What did you get her?”
“It’s handled.”
“Calculated,” his friend repeated. “But they want guarantees.”
He returned his hand to the wheel.
“I will give them guarantees,” he said.
“Legacy lane in four hundred meters. Manual control will engage.”
“You’re taking the long way as usual.”
Şafak did not answer.
His hands tightened on the wheel.
The restaurant was quiet. His suit jacket hung over the back of his chair. He wore a white shirt.
He lowered his wine glass. A single drop of dark red liquid detached from the rim. It fell. It landed on his chest. The red seeped into the white cotton, expanding in a perfect, dark circle.
His wife stopped eating. She did not speak. She looked at the red mark on his chest. Then she looked up at his face. She waited.
He placed the glass on the table.
“Excuse me,” he said.
He stood up. As he walked across the dining room, a waiter stepped aside for him. Their eyes met for a second. The waiter inclined his head, almost imperceptibly. He continued toward the restrooms.
Four minutes passed.
He returned to the table. He sat down.
His wife looked at his chest. The shirt was immaculate. There was no stain. There was no damp patch from scrubbing. A single faint line ran down the center, from collar to waist.
He picked up his fork.
“The flight is booked for Thursday,” he said.
She picked up her glass. They continued talking.
He unlocked the front door. Laughter drifted from the living room. He walked down the hall. Four friends were on the sofas, holding drinks. He stopped at the threshold.
“Good evening,” he said. He nodded.
He did not wait for the conversation to resume. He turned and walked into the kitchen.
His wife stood at the stove. He took off his suit jacket and hung it on the back of a wooden chair. He unbuttoned his cuffs. He rolled the white sleeves up to his elbows. He turned on the faucet, washed his hands, and dried them on a towel. He stepped up to the counter beside her.
She hummed a low tune, tossing the vegetables in the pan with a flick of her wrist before turning smoothly to pull a stack of plates from the overhead cabinet.
He picked up a discarded garlic peel from the marble. He dropped it into the bin. He took a damp cloth. He wiped the invisible residue from the counter.
She reached across him for the olive oil, poured a thin stream into the pan, and tasted the sauce from the edge of a wooden spoon. “Almost there,” she murmured to the stove.
He turned the burner dial down by a fraction of a millimeter. He took the olive oil bottle from where she had left it. He placed it back in the pantry.
One of the men walked into the kitchen. He held a glass of red wine. He leaned against the island.
“Need any help in here?” the man asked.
She smiled over her shoulder. “No, we have it under control. Go sit.”
The man chuckled. He set his wine glass down on the marble island. He began talking about the traffic on the bridge, gesturing with his free hand.
He stood perfectly still. He listened. He looked at the base of the wine glass resting directly on the marble surface.
“Coming,” the man called out in response to a voice from the living room. He turned and walked out, leaving the half-full glass behind.
He stepped forward. He pinched the stem of the glass. He lifted it and moved it ten centimeters to the right, placing it exactly dead center on a square slate coaster.
“Plates,” she said.
She spooned the food in fluid, generous arcs. He took the plates, two at a time. He carried them into the dining room. He set them down at each place setting. The guests moved to the table. Chairs scraped against the floor.
Before he pulled his own chair out, he stopped. He looked back through the open doorway. The stove was off. The counters were wiped clean. The olive oil was put away.
He sat down. He picked up his linen napkin and placed it across his lap.
“The quarterly reports are due on Monday,” he said.
She laughed at something a guest whispered, and passed the salad bowl down the table.
Morning. The hallway was dim. He stood at the front door, briefcase in his right hand, keys in his left.
He turned to face the living room. The sofa cushions were straight. The throw blanket was folded. The coffee table was clear.
A single glass stood on the side table by the armchair. Half full. Water, by the look of it. Caught the light once as he turned.
He set the briefcase down. He set the keys down on top of it.
He walked to the side table. He picked up the glass. The silver watch slid forward on his wrist the way it always did. He carried the glass to the kitchen. He poured the water into the sink. He rinsed the glass. He placed it upside down on the drying rack.
The house was silent.
He stood at the sink. He looked at the clean glass. He reached out and tightened the faucet handle, though no water was dripping.