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

enraging the smelly driver. He screamed out the open window, “You asshole! I’ll shit on your glasses so that you’ll see the whole world through nothing but shit!”

“Excuse me, sir, you’re completely right,” said Kosmas, “but there’s a lady present.”

The driver slammed his free hand into the steering wheel, like an axe. “Bastard ejected from the asshole of a whore while farting!”

Kosmas looked at Daphne. She was covering her mouth to hide her laughter. “He sounds just like my father,” she said.

“Your father cusses like that?”

“Always. But only in the car. Otherwise he’s a perfect gentleman.”

“In Turkish?”

“Of course. He . . . he thinks it’s better than Greek for swearing. Turks have as many words for shit as the Inuit have for snow. You never swear?”

Kosmas hesitated. The cabbie’s fit had amused Daphne, which made him think that perhaps he should admit to his bad habit. Yet Fanis had given a stern injunction against vulgar speech, and Fanis was rarely wrong about women. “No.”

“Such a good boy,” said Daphne. “Your mother must be proud.”

A mobile phone rang. Kosmas thought it was the cabbie’s, but then Daphne opened her clutch and took out a cheap flip phone. At first her replies were curt. Her brow furrowed. Her bottom lip pursed, pushing the top one upward. If the caller was the boyfriend, he didn’t have a chance. What had Kosmas been so worried about? This guy was finished.

A few minutes later, however, Daphne’s expression softened. Kosmas heard something about beaches, dogs, and tango, but he couldn’t understand the meaning of the conversation. He wished he had paid better attention in English class. At the end of the call, he thought he heard her mumble, “Love you too.” Goddamn mobiles.

The taxi pulled up to the Saryan just after she snapped the phone shut. Kosmas handed a bill to the driver, exited, and jogged around to Daphne’s side in time to open her door. That call, he told himself, never happened.

Halfway up the pâtisserie’s staircase, the air changed. A cool mix of air-conditioning and sea breeze rushed downward, carrying the scents of expensive chocolate, ice cream, and freshly ground coffee. Kosmas took a deep breath to clear his memory of the cabbie’s onion stench, which had been even more embarrassing than his language. Now that they were at the Saryan—with its elegant chocolate-colored décor and 1960s-style circular lamps—Kosmas could be proud of his City once again.

He led Daphne through the little packs of well-dressed, quietly chatting Bosporus socialites to the balcony that overlooked Bebek Bay. They were lucky enough to find a recently vacated table, from which a waiter was still clearing half-eaten éclairs and coffee cups. Daphne sat facing north, but Kosmas knew she would have a better view from the other side.

“Sit here,” he said, pulling the chair opposite her. “That way you’ll see Bebek Mosque. It’s pretty when it’s lit up at night.”

Daphne switched chairs. “Looks old.”

“Not really,” said Kosmas. “Early twentieth-century, Neoclassical style. The newest mosque will be built just over there.” He pointed toward a high hill outline on the other side of the Bosporus. “That’s Çamlıca, where my parents used take me for picnics on May Day. The prime minister is going to build a big mosque there, a monument to his term, just like the sultans used to do.”

“It seems like that’s what he’s turning into,” said Daphne. “In the States, the president has eight years at most and he’s out.”

“This isn’t America.” Kosmas moved the prickly cactus centerpiece to the side of the table. Potted cacti—instead of fresh flowers—were the latest fashion in Istanbul.

“But his views on women, contraception, the West, even Twitter . . .” said Daphne, lowering her chin and looking up at him with an expression of disbelief.

Kosmas could see that explaining would be a wasted effort. Daphne had been a full, undisputed, equal citizen of the United States all her life. How could she understand that a politician’s ideas about condoms and social media were of secondary importance when that politician respected your long-deprived right to live, work, and be happy? Besides, Kosmas hadn’t meant to get into a political conversation when he pointed out Çamlıca Hill.

“All I want is to live in peace,” he said. “As long as I have that, I can ignore the rest.”

Without waiting for a reply, Kosmas caught the waiter’s eye and nodded. The Saryan was an old-style place in every way. Its waiters were never in a hurry to take orders and deliver checks. Only a fixed gaze and a polite nod would to bring them to your table.

“At your service,” said the waiter.

“Two teas,” said Kosmas. “And a plate of house chocolates. Two each of Mon Chéri, Plaisir, Tendresse, Amour, Désir, and Passion . . . and winged hearts, of course.”

When the waiter had gone, Kosmas turned back to Daphne, who was watching the passing ships. He listened to the wakes gulping and smacking against the sea wall. Daphne was physically in his territory, but her heart and mind, he could see, were lagging behind.

Come on. She’s still here. You can’t give up until she rejects you flat out.

The waiter served the teas and the plate of ultra-elegant chocolates.

“Uncle Mustafa and I used to play a game,” said Kosmas. “He’d make me guess the flavors. To sharpen my palate. Shall we try?”

Daphne bit into a long, narrow chocolate shaped like a short-order cook hat. “Caramel.”

“Bitter coffee and whiskey ganache,” he corrected.

“You already knew that.”

Kosmas stared at the chocolate clinging to her lips. He wondered what her mouth tasted like and how the flavor of the chocolate would change if it came straight from her lips to his. “I swear I didn’t,” he said.

“What’s your specialty?”

“I have a few. Besides mille-feuille, of course, I like doing apple strudel, Hungarian Dobos torta, profiteroles . . . but the thing I like best is cake decorating. Especially wedding cakes.”

“Isn’t that a hobby for bored housewives?”

“Not in Istanbul.” He stared at her. Could she have meant to be