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

of rejection . . .” Uncle Mustafa didn’t finish his sentence, but Kosmas knew how it would end.

Kosmas took his phone from his pocket, scrolled through to Gavriela’s number, and pressed the green circle. When Gavriela answered, he twisted his left index finger in an apron string and said, “Good afternoon, Madame Gavriela. It’s Kosmas.”

“Kosmaki! What a charming voice you have. Almost like a pilot’s. I never noticed until now.”

“Thanks. Listen, Madame Gavriela, I want to ask Daphne out to dinner tonight. Could I talk to her?”

“Just a minute.”

Kosmas heard a rubbery pulling sound, a tapping, and a muffling that did not serve its purpose. The apron string had cut off his circulation and his index finger was going numb, but he was too nervous to release it. Uncle Mustafa gave him an encouraging nod. Finally, Gavriela said, “She’d love to.”

“I’d like to speak to her if I could—”

“What time?”

“Eight?”

“Perfect. Give your mother my regards. See you soon. Ciao-ciao-bye-bye.”

Kosmas ended the call, grabbed Uncle Mustafa’s floury hand, and kissed it.

“That’s my boy,” said Uncle Mustafa, gently smacking Kosmas’s cheek. “By the way, does your sudden interest in the Balkanik have something to do with Lady Daphne?”

“Maybe.”

Uncle Mustafa winked. “Okay, son. I’ll clean out the storage room as soon as I’m done with these cheese pies. And if it’s not there, I’ll search every cupboard and drawer in my flat.”

“Thanks, Uncle Mustafa.”

After work Kosmas went home and locked himself into the bathroom with the Turkish GQ magazine that Fanis had absentmindedly left at Neighbor’s House. Rea’s cleaning lady had scoured the bathroom with bleach that day. The lingering odor would probably give Kosmas a headache, but he needed absolute privacy. He sat on the fuzzy pink toilet lid cover and flipped through the magazine. He noticed that the models wore black shirts and jeans in the photographs that were supposed to represent romantic trysts. Kosmas wouldn’t be able to manage the flat abs or sexy biceps, but at least, thanks to Fanis, he could duplicate the outfit. He stuffed the magazine through the swing top of the rubbish bin and turned on the shower.

Rea knocked on the door as soon as she heard the running water. “Take a clean towel from the cabinet,” she said. “And dry your head off well so you don’t catch cold.”

“It’s summer, Mother,” said Kosmas, stripping.

“Doesn’t matter. The worst colds are the summer ones.”

He scrubbed himself down in the narrow shower, shampooed twice to get rid of the bakery smell, and put on the Armani shirt and jeans that his mother had washed in lavender-scented soap, ironed, and hung in his closet.

“Where are you going dressed like that?” she said, when he came out of his room.

“To dinner,” he said. “With Daphne.”

“Daphne? But I made lamb shanks today, your favorite, and I never make lamb shanks!”

“It was a last-minute idea, Mama. Besides, you’re always saying that I should find a Rum girl and get married. I thought you’d be happy.”

“Not about her,” murmured Rea.

“Mother. We talked about this.”

“If you must go out, you can’t go dressed like a hooligan. Why don’t you wear your gray pants and the orange and black shirt I bought for your name day?”

Kosmas had the good sense to disobey, but he didn’t want to look like a hooligan. His only other option was the tailor-made brown suit. Rea became so emotional when she saw him in it that she shed tears of joy. “You look just like your father did when we were dating. Where’s the camera? I have to take your picture.”

“It’s not my first day of primary school,” said Kosmas.

Rea air-signed a cross to ward off the evil eye. “I don’t know how Daphne and I will get along,” she said, “but at least she’s one of ours.”

Kosmas checked to make sure his wallet was in his pocket. Then, noticing that the mold on the living-room wall had crept up the room’s corner almost to shoulder height, he said, “Could you call Mr. Ahmet about that? I keep forgetting.”

“I’ll have someone paint over it.”

“You know painting doesn’t work. Call Mr. Ahmet, will you?” Kosmas kissed his mother and fled the apartment before Rea had time to object.

After a brisk walk down the hill, he arrived at Gavriela’s building and climbed the dark, twisting stairway to the third floor.

Gavriela opened the door. “Kosmaki!” She popped her soapy-smelling mastic gum. “Come on in, my child. Have a seat.” She pointed to the leather-upholstered foyer armchair and brought him a glass of water, which he downed in seconds. “I’ll go and tell her you’re here.”

While waiting, Kosmas examined the various evil-eye talismans stuffed behind the water pipe above the door: thistles, horseshoes, holy water, a bunch of wheat, walnut leaves, a ceramic plate with the Arabic word ‘Allah,’ and a pair of scuffed white baby shoes. Gavriela had no children, which meant that the shoes were probably Daphne’s.

“Just a few more minutes,” said Gavriela, returning.

“Am I early?” Kosmas looked at his watch. It was ten minutes past eight.

“No. But you know us women. We primp for hours and hours.” Gavriela lowered her voice to a whisper: “Especially when we’ve put the gentleman in the eye.”

“Sure, sure,” said Kosmas. “Might I have another glass of water?”

As Gavriela bustled about, Kosmas replayed the telephone conversation in his mind. Maybe Daphne hadn’t agreed to go out with him at all. Maybe her aunt had said yes for her without even asking. Maybe this was all an imposition. But he couldn’t back out now.

“There you go,” said Gavriela, handing him the glass. She seemed a bit too cheerful. Something was definitely going on.

But just as Kosmas was finishing the second water, Daphne stepped into the entryway in a sleeveless, low-cut, calf-length black dress that flared at the knees. Her wavy chocolate hair hung loose, like the never-cut tresses of honor that one used to see dangling down the backs of unmarried women. She wore hardly any jewelry—just a thick black bracelet and a turquoise evil-eye anklet.