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

while listening to the great Sinatra after his visit to the barbershop, but it was pleasant enough. At the open-air restaurant, Aliki chose a table beside the pine trees that had once sheltered impromptu dances, and in the course of the evening they ate more grilled lamb ribs and drank more house wine than their doctors would have approved. Just after the waiter had cleared the table, Aliki looked over the blackness of the sea, toward the glowing lights on the Thracian shore, and said, “I’m so glad you stayed. Sometimes I get a little lonely.”

“I’m glad you invited me,” said Fanis, smiling as convincingly as he could. The truth, however, was that he couldn’t stop obsessing about how things had gone with Daphne. He had certainly scored points with the dance number, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that she preferred his rival. She had faced Kosmas squarely whenever he spoke, carelessly—and somewhat rudely—turning her back to others in the process. That wasn’t a good sign.

Aliki took out her pink pill box, opened the Sunday Evening compartment, and swallowed its contents with a gulp of water. “You don’t take anything?” she said.

Fanis recalled the embers of Dr. Aydemir’s prescriptions hovering above the sink, like fireflies. Thank God he had burned those nasty threats of living decomposition. He should never have accepted them in the first place. The box of blue pills dispensed by Pharmacist Sözbir, on the other hand, had been a pleasure from the moment Fanis’s fingers had touched the precious cardboard. He had placed it like a trophy on its own private shelf in the medicine cabinet, confident that, with its help, he would be able to beget a son to carry on the Paleologos name.

“What would I need pills for?” said Fanis. He took a sip of the deep red wine and held it in his mouth for a moment, savoring the hints of dried fruit, fig, and oak. “Illness can’t get you if you refuse to acknowledge its existence. Just the other day I read something about a goiter sufferer who was doing just fine until they made him do a biopsy. He died three days after seeing the C-word on paper. They said his body had dealt with the cancer for years and years, but the mind couldn’t handle it for more than a few hours. So I say to Hell with doctors.”

“But you wouldn’t ignore symptoms, would you? If you had them?”

“Of course I would. Most of them are in our heads anyway.”

Aliki met his gaze. Their table’s only lighting was a string of holiday bulbs woven into the vine trellis above their heads, but Fanis saw well enough to recognize the worry in her fading blue eyes. “Is there something you’re not telling us?” she said.

“No,” said Fanis. It wasn’t a lie. It was a Greek Truth: something that had to be said to avoid problems.

“That’s a relief,” said Aliki. “Anyway, you’re still a fabulous dancer. Do you remember the rumba we danced here?”

Fanis fumbled: “Eh . . . sure.” He had danced so many cha-chas, waltzes, and rumbas with so many girls. It was, of course, probable that she had been one of them.

“You were the best dancer back then. All the girls wanted a turn with you. How could you remember us all?”

“Of course I remember,” said Fanis. He took a deep breath of the sea air. “You had on that dress . . .”

Aliki grinned. “The pink organza! You do remember. God, could you wiggle those hips. That’s why we loved dancing with you so much.”

“You were quite good yourself,” said Fanis. “Good timing, soft hands.”

“Afterwards,” said Aliki, “you went straight back to your fiancée. I was jealous of Kalypso because she was such a good dancer. I was even a bit jealous of Daphne this afternoon. I wish I could still move about like I used to.”

“Ka—” said Fanis, but he couldn’t complete the name. It choked him. Although they had been taking tea together for at least a decade, neither Aliki nor Rea had ever tried to dig up the past by mentioning Kalypso. He had always been grateful for their tact.

Fanis remained silent for a while. Aliki praised Kalypso’s beautiful dancing, her singing, and her intricate embroidery, which Aliki had never been able to match, try as she might. She reminded him that his fiancée had once broken a heel after failing to follow one of Fanis’s fancy moves. As a result, both Fanis and Kalypso had fallen onto the pine needles.

“I miss those days,” said Aliki. “I miss Kalypso, as well as my parents, my husband, and all who have gone. Do you miss your wife?”

It must have been the wine that made Fanis reply, without any of his usual artifice, “Not at all.”

“Do you miss Kalypso?”

“Terribly. It’s as if I’ve gone through life without my right arm.”

He finished his wine. He felt that she was near. He could hear her laughter, the laughter of all those nights on the island, the laughter of all those young men and women. He tasted the saltiness of Kalypso’s skin after she had lain on the beach, baking like a lobster. He felt her lips brushing the tip of his ear. He heard her singing one of Roza’s songs. It was a party tune, playful and upbeat, but the voice was lachrymose and dark. It whispered in his ear, “Let’s go home.”

Fanis echoed her: “Let’s go home.”

“All right,” said Aliki.

The response startled Fanis. He hadn’t realized that he was speaking out loud. Damned vascular dementia. Now he was talking to himself. He wondered if Aliki could feel Kalypso’s presence, but he didn’t dare ask. Instead, he thanked her for the evening and asked for the bill.

“But you’re my guest,” said Aliki.

“Impossible,” said Fanis.

“Always such a gentleman.”

“Someday we’ll all be dancing again,” he said, picking at a piece of honeydew melon to avoid meeting Aliki’s gaze. “You’ll see. When we finally cross over to the other side, there will