A Recipe for Daphne Nektaria Anastasiadou (the rosie project .TXT) 📖

top of the minaret,” he said to Daphne. “Now those damn loudspeakers make him sound as if his balls are being squeezed in a vise.”

“Watch your mouth,” said Gavriela. “You made me think of back then, and you know how much I hate it when you do that.”

Andonis scratched his mustache. “Didn’t you just say that life goes on?”

“It does, but in a way no one would have chosen. If all that hadn’t happened, Daphne would have grown up near us. We could’ve been present at her baptism.”

“Would she have been baptized at all? That’s the question.”

Gavriela glared at her husband. “Well, she could’ve served us sour-cherry liqueur on her birthdays, at least.”

“I’m not entering into that discussion of lost opportunities, but what I would like to know”—he winked at Daphne—“is whether she’s going to stay.”

“Of course she is. We’re going to find her a groom. One of our own.”

“Did you decide that or did she?”

“Are you done?” Gavriela buttered a piece of bread and placed it on Daphne’s plate. “At least let us see you as a bride,” she said. “But not with some language-less American.”

“You two need to get out more,” said Andonis.

“For once he’s right about something.” Gavriela set her knife across her tea saucer with a rude clink. “This week, as soon as the weather improves, we’ll have tea with the gang at Neighbor’s House. After your classes, of course.”

“You mean with the widows, the old Casanovas, and the baker?” said Daphne.

“Exactly. And the baker is a gentleman, by the way, a hard worker who wins international prizes and has his own business. In other words, a two-pocket man!”

Daphne thought of Kosmas’s business card in the trash can and felt a tiny pinch of regret.

4

A Hero’s Garb

Fanis was standing on the landing with his garbage bag in hand, about to knock on the neighbor lady’s door. Her husband had recently passed away, and, although she was not the least bit attractive, Fanis had made a habit of taking out her garbage: one had to be courtly with widows. Just as he raised his fist, however, his phone rang. He quietly reentered his apartment and picked up.

“Allo?”

“Mr. Fanis? It’s Kosmas. I wanted to ask if we could meet for coffee, just the two of us, outside the neighborhood. I wanted to discuss a private matter.”

“What?” said Fanis, staring at Dr. Aydemir’s crumpled prescriptions, which he had left on the sideboard. He opened a drawer and threw them inside.

“Women,” said Kosmas.

Fear of past sins gripped Fanis. “Has your mother been talking to her friend, the one who lives on my street? Whatever she said isn’t true. I never cheated on my wife as long as she lived. And certainly not with the woman with whom they say I did—”

Kosmas interrupted: “It’s not that. It’s about me. I need your advice.”

“Why didn’t you say so from the beginning?”

They made an appointment for five o’clock on Wednesday evening at a muhallebici pudding shop in Taksim where they wouldn’t chance upon any of their acquaintances.

*

Fanis arrived first and chose a table upstairs. He glanced briefly at a newspaper someone had left on a nearby table: on the front page was a photo of the prime minister in shirtsleeves and sunglasses, clapping his hands at a campaign rally somewhere on the other side of Istanbul. Fanis hated politics, but at election time he was obliged to take an interest. His views were aligned with those of the secular Republican People’s Party, but it was a secularist party that had organized the pogrom of 1955. The prime minister and his Islamist party, on the other hand, had treated the Rum community and its churches with respect. Moreover, the economy was booming, and negotiations for full accession to the EU were under way. Still, everyone knew that the Rums got a knife in the back every ten years, regardless of which party was in office. Fanis didn’t know whom he could trust. Which was why, he always said, it was better for Christians and Jews to keep their mouths sewn shut.

When Kosmas arrived—twenty-five minutes late—Fanis complained: “I’ve been waiting for years.”

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Fanis. Α sugar sculpture broke and I had to remake it. I would’ve called your mobile phone if you had one.”

“Oh, never mind. What will you have? Coffee? Pudding?”

“Just coffee.”

“Come on, now. Have a sweet.” Fanis had been looking forward to a pudding, and he hated it when others didn’t indulge with him.

“Mr. Fanis, I’m a pâtissier. I make that stuff all day.”

Fanis curled his lip and ordered two coffees and a sweet chicken pudding without cinnamon, which, he insisted, was very bad for the liver. Again he asked Kosmas what else he would have, hoping that the added pressure of the waiter’s presence might sway him, and again he was disappointed. The waiter displayed the compassionate smile that Turks reserve for idiosyncratic old folks—which rankled with Fanis even more—and sped off to fill the order.

First they talked about the rain and the latest gossip. When the shredded chicken pudding and coffee arrived, Fanis examined both cups for jealousy bubbles: Kosmas’s had none, whereas his had a persistent bead near the edge of the glass. “An evil eye,” he said, “and foam at the center. That’s money. Probably the stipend I’ll collect in a couple of weeks.” He took a sip. “The eye still didn’t break! It’s obstinate jealousy, the worst kind.” Fanis broke the jiggling white roll with his spoon and ate with childlike pleasure. A chicken thread dripped onto his chin. Wiping it with his napkin, he asked, “What did you want to talk about?”

Kosmas ate the chewy Turkish delight served with his coffee, summoned the waiter, and ordered a dried fruit pudding.

“Well?” said Fanis.

Kosmas folded his hands on the table. “I need help with the girl who looks like Semra Sar.”

Fanis’s mouth curled into a mischievous smile. “Daphne?”

“Daphne! I was so fucking nervous I forgot her name.”

“I’ve never heard you speak like that before,” said Fanis,