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

Now he whispered Kalypso’s name. He hadn’t pronounced it in years. He said it again, more loudly, and again, more loudly still. He couldn’t stop. There was a reason he had ended up alone: in a pinch, he always thought of himself instead of others. Even taking care of his mother was just another way of putting himself first.

“Are you all right, Uncle Fanis?” someone asked in Turkish. It had to be Samuel, the bishop’s assistant and chauffeur.

Fanis splashed cold water onto his face. “Fine, fine,” he said. “I’m coming.”

Fanis returned red-eyed and disoriented to the tea room. Everyone was laughing. He wondered if they were making fun of him. “What’s going on?” he asked, in Greek.

“Nothing, nothing,” said the bishop. “Just a little joke you missed. Ladies and gentlemen, I’m going to change. I wish you all a good afternoon.”

Fanis took advantage of the bishop’s exit to collect himself. He smoothed his flying curls and took a deep breath.

Gavriela whispered in his ear, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I suppose I have,” Fanis replied. “But never mind that. Why don’t we all go for coffee?”

Gavriela wrapped a few leftover sesame rings in a napkin. “I don’t think today’s the day. Daphne and I have other plans. But if you ever need to talk, come and see me.”

8

The Princess in the Park

Daphne was relieved to get into the shade of Gezi Park after the long walk from the church. She took a deep breath. Instead of the exhaust and hot asphalt of Taksim Square, she smelled grass, rotting leaves, and the sea. A cool breeze was blowing up from the Bosporus and rustling the plane trees, red maples, and low Australian laurels. “Where to, Auntie?” Daphne was surprised by the loudness of her voice. In Taksim, you had to shout to be heard. In the park, anything above a low murmur seemed inappropriate.

“Over there,” Gavriela said. “Do you see her?”

Selin waved from the park café that overlooked the Bosporus Bridge, a patch of silver-blue water, and the Asian side of the City. She wore a festive lime-green dress that made Daphne feel drab in her habitual black. They made their way through the tunnel of trees, kissed Selin, and sat down. “Finally I get to speak some Turkish,” said Daphne.

“Sorry we’re late,” said Gavriela, staring disdainfully at the overflowing metal ashtray in the middle of their table. Daphne knew how vile her aunt considered cigarette butts. Strict no-smoking laws were Gavriela’s favorite thing about the United States.

“No problem,” said Selin. She resettled into her molded plastic chair and pulled her skirt tightly over her legs. Daphne noticed the microscopic white and yellow flower designs on her immaculate red fingernails. She wondered how Selin managed to play the violin and always have such perfectly manicured hands.

“We used to live near a Rum church,” Selin continued. “Your liturgies are like Jewish services. They drag on forever.”

“Today was even longer than usual,” said Gavriela, already cleaning the tabletop’s scattered ashes with an antibacterial wipe. “Pentecost Sunday. Fanis chants beautifully, but he’s unbelievably slow.”

“So he really is a cantor?” said Selin. “I thought he was just showing off.”

“Absolutely,” said Gavriela. “And he’s completely in love with his own voice.”

Selin sat back in her chair. “I wonder what he was like when he was younger. He must have been handsome.”

“Selin,” said Daphne, with a wink, “are you into Mr. Fanis?”

“Not in that way. But his appreciation of Hebrew chant impressed me.”

Gavriela brushed a fallen leaf out of her bleached, curled, and hairsprayed old-lady do. “Fanis might be a catch for an old lady, Selin, but you need someone with more . . . How shall I say? Stamina?”

“I’m forty-three. Even some guys close to my age—including my ex-husband—are losing it. So what’s the difference?”

“Then I’m surprised you haven’t fixed up with the Frenchman,” said Gavriela.

“Are you kidding? It would be like dating an uncle.”

Daphne tied the straps of her bag around the chair arm so that it couldn’t be snatched. “Well, Selin, if you have taken a liking to Mr. Fanis,” she joked, “you’re going to have to fight me for him.”

“What?” said Gavriela, so disturbed by the comment that she took a second antibacterial wipe from the packet and began scrubbing the chair arms. “He could be your grandfather!”

“A grandfather with an amazing voice,” said Daphne. “But I’m not sure what to think of the Einstein hair. Is it eccentric and debonair? Or does it just need to be chopped off?”

“I’d say debonair,” said Selin. “But I never said I fancy Mr. Fanis. I just respect his openness to other traditions.”

A waiter passed with a tray of full tea glasses. Selin caught his eye and nodded. “Anyway,” she said as the waiter served three teas, “it’s been so long since my last boyfriend that anything would be a blessing.”

“Tell me about it,” said Daphne.

“What?” said Gavriela. “Not even that?”

Daphne and Paul hadn’t made love for two months. Lovemaking was probably the wrong term, anyway. Paul had sex. He didn’t make love. He had boring bedroom sex. If they did end up splitting, Daphne swore she’d never get into a relationship with a conventional missionary type ever again. “It’s just a phase, Auntie,” she said. “It’ll pass.”

Selin leaned forward. “What about Kosmas? He’s put you in the eye.”

“I doubt it,” said Daphne. “He’s got a girlfriend. Rita-something.”

“Nonsense,” said Gavriela. “If he had a girlfriend, his mother would know. And if she knew, I would. Besides, I haven’t seen anything on Face.”

“Face” was what Gavriela affectionately called Facebook. Although she couldn’t use a computer or even email, she was an adept smartphone Facebooker.

“I think your aunt’s right,” said Selin. “The other day, before you showed up at the tea garden, Kosmas was looking forward to your arrival.”

“That’s hard to believe,” said Daphne. She waved her hand dismissively, as if the information were a swarm of gnats. Secretly, however, she was flattered.

Gavriela grinned. “You should have seen him today, Selin.