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

him to come into her embrace so that she could fill him up with kisses. Although he was two years older than Kalypso, Fanis blushed. It was true that he had wanted a demure bride, and she was far from demure. Moreover, he had never fancied girls who put their elbows on the table, as she did. He had said that a woman should not laugh too much, and Kalypso was always laughing. But he realized on that day that perfection belonged only to angels and he wanted a woman, this enchanting young woman, and not an angel.

When Kalypso decided it was time to leave, she grasped her red saucer hat so that it wouldn’t fall, sprang forward, and—so quickly that Fanis didn’t have a chance to react—kissed his ear lobe. She was out the door in a second. Fanis was left sitting there, paralyzed by the sensation of her kiss: he hadn’t known that the ear was an erogenous zone. Over the months to come, her ear-lobe kisses progressed to nibbles, licks, and bites. Fanis had never before experienced such intense pleasure. After Kalypso’s death, he never let another woman touch his ears. That part of his body belonged to Kalypso.

“At your service.”

Fanis looked up at the waiter. Then he looked at the other customers. Everyone was dressed badly, which meant, of course, that it was still 2011. “Four cherry-jam-filled surprises and a tea,” he said.

“Right away.”

Fanis turned his attention to the street and saw a young woman walking so quickly that she was almost skipping. Her long hair bounced against the small of her back. Without thinking, he jumped up and knocked on the glass. She turned and waved. “Come in,” he said.

Daphne came over to his table. “I’m meeting Selin,” she said, between cheek kisses.

Daphne’s outfit lacked the joy of Kalypso’s polka dots, but it had an ethnic sort of elegance: an ankle-length black dress and a long necklace with a silver pendant that looked like . . . the hand of Fatima, daughter of the Prophet Muhammad. Did Daphne have tendencies toward the other side?

“What’s that?” Fanis asked.

Daphne picked up the pendant. “This? My favorite necklace.”

“I’m not talking about it as jewelry,” said Fanis, “but as a symbol.”

“It’s Fatimah’s Hand for Muslims, Solomon’s Hand for Jews, and the Mother of God’s Hand for Christians.”

“How lovely,” said Fanis, relieved. “My favorite Turkish word is hoşgörü, which means looking pleasantly upon other people and their ideas. So much better than tolerans, isn’t it, which really just means that you’ve decided begrudgingly to put up with others? That hand, as you’ve explained it, Daphne dear, is a symbol of hoşgörü.”

“I love that,” said Daphne.

“Do you know what I love?” said a woman.

Fanis turned and beheld cherry-red fingernails clutching a drawstring duffel. God, he thought, I must start coming to Neighbor’s House earlier in the day.

Selin sank into a chair beside Fanis and answered her own question: “I love that Istanbul is the biggest city I’ve ever lived in. Bigger than Paris, and yet I still manage to run into someone I know almost everywhere I go. Isn’t that wonderful?”

“Certainly,” said Fanis. “It must be because we’re always out.”

“Unfortunately we can’t stay long,” said Selin. “There’s something we have to do.”

“Something important?” said Fanis.

“Yes.” Selin took a Chinese fan from her purse and aired her perspiring face. “A secret.”

“You’ll have a tea at least.”

Daphne hugged her unbleached-canvas schoolbag to her chest. “We have an appointment.”

Fanis sighed. Selin shifted an ear toward one of the wall-mounted speakers, exposing the left side of her neck. There it was: the persistent hickey. She definitely had a boyfriend.

“Do you hear that?” said Selin. “It’s Ella Fitzgerald’s ‘It Don’t Mean A Thing.’ I just love the Stuff Smith violin solo.”

Fanis closed his eyes and sang along.

“Your voice is extraordinary,” said Daphne.

“That’s kind of you to say, dear,” said Fanis, “but it’s Ella’s rhythm that’s extraordinary, not my voice.”

“I must hear you chant sometime,” said Selin.

“I must hear you play sometime,” said Fanis.

“Perhaps you will.” Selin crossed one meaty leg over the other. “Mr. Fanis, do you mind if I ask an indiscreet question?”

“That’s the only kind I like.”

“How old are you?”

“How old do you think I am?”

Daphne twisted her beautiful long hair over one shoulder. “Sixty-five.”

“Sixty-two,” said Selin. “Come on, tell us. And don’t lie.”

“I don’t know how to lie,” said Fanis. He removed his identity card from his wallet and displayed the birth date. “March 27, 1935. Seventy-six. Would you have guessed it? And I have no one in the world, neither children nor relatives.” He looked Daphne in the eye. “My future wife will inherit everything: my apartment, my antiques, even my illustrious Byzantine surname.”

Fanis hoped that this might tempt Daphne, but it was Selin who responded, “Surely, Mr. Fanis, a man like you doesn’t need to entice women with an inheritance.”

Who was this siren, this enchantress, set on preventing him from marrying one of his own kind? Then again, Fanis reasoned, was not his goal, in a larger sense, to perpetuate old Istanbul, and was not Selin, a Sephardi whose family had lived in the City since 1492, a part of old Istanbul? He couldn’t deny it. As lovely as Daphne was, those comfy sandals and untrimmed cuticles might grow tiring. Yet Selin—with her kitten heels, her flawless maquillage, and her artsy spunk—was already overworking his old heart.

“We need to get going,” said Daphne.

“But you haven’t had tea,” Fanis protested.

He didn’t even have a chance to stand. Selin leaned over and kissed his cheeks, paralyzing him with the scent of her perfume—Yves Saint Laurent, Cinéma?—and a peek at her dark décolletage. “Goodbye, Mr. Fanis,” she said.

“Have fun, girls,” he heard himself say, but he was unable to move. As soon as they were out of sight, he glanced downward and noticed, right in front of him on the table, a business card. In white letters on a blue background were the words “Selin Kerido, Violinist” and . . . her