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

her shoulder a quick squeeze. “If you couldn’t talk,” he said, “how else would you get back at a bastard sitting behind you?”

Daphne laughed as the carriage merged into the sea road. Kosmas pointed out a blue and white church surrounded by olive trees. “Saint George Karypi,” he said in a tour-guide tone. “It’s been through fires and earthquakes. Even served as an asylum for White Russians. According to Mr. Dimitris, a Russian princess lived there for a year, but I’ve never found that mentioned in any history books.”

Daphne transferred her attention from the church to Kosmas. “You read history?”

“All the time. Ancient, Byzantine, Ottoman. Everything I find about the City. My favorite is Edmondo de Amici’s 1877 travelogue Constantinople. After raving about the beauty of the City from afar, de Amici begins his second chapter by describing Constantinople—in which he had, by that time, spent five hours—as a monstrous confusion of civilization and barbarism. Which is exactly what Istanbul remains to this day.”

Daphne stared at Kosmas. He was obviously not just a casual reader.

“I read de Amici every night while I was studying in Vienna,” he said. “That’s how much I missed the City. Do you miss Miami?”

Daphne looked out over the blue Marmara toward the tall buildings of Istanbul’s Asian side. “Not yet. Eventually I suppose I’d miss my parents, my students, the public-library system, the salsa bands, the tango community. . . . No, strike that last item. Although I’d miss the dance itself, I would definitely not miss the tango tramps and showoffs.”

“Are you thinking of moving here?”

They slowed for a turn. A derelict cottage of dry boards caught Daphne’s eye. Through its glassless windows and tattered lace curtains, she glimpsed dusty, abandoned wicker furniture and a paper icon tacked to the wall. She wondered why the cottage’s owners had left without even collecting the furniture and curtains. Had they been deported in 1964? Had they been unable to endure the nationalistic pressures of the seventies?

“Maybe,” said Daphne. “But then I hear people talking about the pogrom and the deportations, and I’m not sure anymore.”

“Things are better now. It’s not like when our parents were young.”

“But you don’t know about tomorrow. My mother says Turkey is the land of surprises and contradictions.”

Kosmas leaned closer. “Perhaps Istanbul will surprise you in a good way.”

Daphne flinched when the driver swatted one of the horses with his whip. She said, “I’m not sure if I’ll fit in here.”

“Nobody does. That’s partly why we like it.” Kosmas’s face was embroidered with the shifting lights and shadows passing through the artificial flowers sewn to the carriage roof. His eyes rested on her lips for a few seconds, then darted off. “But maybe your boyfriend won’t let you move here.”

The driver took a quick turn. The carriage jolted, and Kosmas’s arm slid—partly at least—onto Daphne’s shoulders. His hand remained on the basket rim, but she could feel his skin and bristly arm hair brushing her upper back. Daphne wanted to lean into his arm, rest her head against his shoulder. But she also didn’t want to lead him on. “My boyfriend wants to come for a visit,” she said.

Kosmas tapped the driver’s arm. “Can you drop us here and wait a few minutes?”

The driver made a blowing sound with loose lips. The horses slowed to a stop.

“I thought we’d have a quick walk down to the beach,” said Kosmas.

They descended the uneven, rocky path, which was flanked by bushes, scrub, and all sorts of beach garbage: half-liter water bottles, discarded wet wipes, melon rinds, seed husks, chocolate wrappers, and even a used condom. When they arrived at the pebble beach, Daphne took a deep breath of the seaweed- and sunscreen-scented air. She looked at the water flashing between the mossy rocks. The heads of a few swimmers bobbed in the open sea. A fat old woman and a shirtless man lounged on beach chairs, sipping Coca-Cola from glass bottles and reading newspapers that still had not tired of discussing the prime minister’s victory in the elections of the preceding Sunday.

Daphne’s long black skirt felt hot against her legs. Her hair was sweaty and sticking to her neck and shoulders. “I’d give half my kingdom for a dive in the sea,” she said.

“Impossible,” said Kosmas, squinting in the bright sun. “As much as I’d like half your kingdom. We don’t have bathing suits.”

“What if we took a dip in our underwear? Over there, behind those rocks. Nobody would see.”

Daphne could hear her mother already: Put it out of your head, missy. You’re in Istanbul. Everybody’s watching, all the time. But Daphne didn’t care. She wanted to get into that water, let it close around her, let it filter out the sunlight and the tango bullshit that had caused her so much upset during the past year.

“What color?” said Kosmas.

“What color?”

“Your underwear. If it’s black, then maybe . . .”

“Beige.”

Kosmas’s eyes widened. “We’d better not. The driver’s waiting for us. We’ll come again another time.”

“Even the fat old lady over there is close to naked,” said Daphne.

“Who cares about the fat old lady? But if you go swimming in beige underwear, believe me, there will be an audience.” In four large strides, Kosmas returned to the path.

Daphne ran across the pebbles, sinking into them with each step. “Wait,” she shouted.

Kosmas stopped beneath a cypress tree and wiped his brow with an old-fashioned cotton handkerchief. “I’m sorry,” he said, raising his voice above his usual, aristocratically polite museum tone. “I know I’m just a friend. But I’m not a tango dancer, and I’m not American, and I don’t like to share.”

Kosmas continued up to the road, leaving Daphne to the metallic buzzing of the cicadas. Paul didn’t care if she danced with other men; Kosmas blushed at the thought of her being seen in wet underwear by probably no one. Paul didn’t care if she traveled across the world by herself, yet Kosmas had accompanied her to the lavatory on the ferry and