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

he pushed Kosmas out onto the iron balcony, where more lines of laundry hung above a neighboring gypsy’s garden. Kosmas took a few deep breaths and attempted to release his fears of becoming a lonely old man. Things are going well with Daphne, he assured himself. This apartment is not your destiny.

He returned inside to change the light bulb that Dimitris could not reach. Tall as he was, Kosmas didn’t even have to stretch. “Mr. Dimitris,” he said, “how have you been changing your bulbs all these years? Don’t you have a stepstool?”

“Broke yesterday,” said Dimitris. “I suppose I could’ve run out for a new one, but . . . I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”

Great, thought Kosmas. Another get-married-fast pep talk.

After they had replaced the bulb in the blue glass fixture of the living room, Dimitris cleared the old bills and other papers from the round table at the room’s center and brought a tray laden with bowls of chocolate ice cream and bottled lemonade.

“Listen, Kosmaki,” he said, “I’ve always boasted that I would remain a lifetime bachelor. Over the past year, however . . .”

“Yes?”

“You might have noticed yesterday at Antigone, or on other days . . .”

“What?”

Dimitris took a deep breath. “My feelings for a certain lady have blossomed. I think my time has finally come. How would you feel about your mother remarrying?”

“My mother?”

Kosmas had never maintained any silly notions about widows’ virtue. He teased his mother about her flirtation with their cobbler, and he had once suggested that Dimitris would make a nice boyfriend for her, but she had dismissed his idea. After fidgeting for a moment with the bottle cap, Kosmas said to Dimitris, “Well, you could ask, but you might be disappointed. Not that she doesn’t consider you a very good friend. It’s just that . . . it’s a big step, and I doubt she’d—”

“Are you sure? Because I thought that maybe, felt that maybe . . . I mean, when I come to your house for dinner, I have the impression that . . .”

Kosmas stood. “I’m really sorry, Mr. Dimitris, but I have a cake consultation in ten minutes. I’ve got to go.”

“Of course, of course. I didn’t mean to keep you from work. A thousand thanks for your help. Just forget what I said.”

Kosmas felt his head spinning. He said a hasty goodbye and was soon traversing the underpass that led out of Tarlabaşı and back to the Grand Avenue. He hardly noticed the urine stench, which usually made him want to vomit, for he was trying to understand how these old folks with one foot in the grave could have so much more courage than he did.

15

A Friend at the Door

At about the same time that Kosmas was leaving Tarlabaşı, Fanis skipped onto Kabataş Quay with the exhilaration of a prisoner just escaped from an island fortress. He felt bad for Aliki. Her attentions had been both flattering and sweet, but she wasn’t for him. At least he’d put fleas in her ears about Julien, however: now they’d be whispering to her day and night, tempting her with the possibility of romance with the professeur. Fanis hoped things would work out. Both deserved a companion.

After a five-minute taxi ride and a two-hundred-meter walk up a one-way street, Fanis turned into Faik Paşa, looked up, and saw that the windows of the blue mansion’s garret apartment were wide open. Sheer curtains were blowing through the empty frames and waving over the street in a subtle invitation. This was going to make for some delightful window watching.

“Fanis, is that you?”

He lowered his gaze to ground level. Beside him stood a man in a Panama hat and mirrored sunglasses. “Murat,” he said. “Good morning.”

“I’m on my way back from the greengrocer’s.” Murat raised a blue plastic bag of vegetables.

“Perfect timing,” said Fanis. “I’ve just returned from Antigone, and I’ve got cherry liqueur and cheese pies. Made by a friend of mine on the island. Come on up.”

“Sounds delicious, but I don’t want to put you to trouble.”

“Don’t be silly.”

As they climbed the four flights of stairs, Fanis tried to remember in what sort of state he had left the place. He always made his best effort to keep bachelor laziness from encroaching upon the feminine elegance with which his wife and his mother had graced the apartment, but every so often something escaped him. Upon opening the door, he darted inside and glanced around. Not too bad. He turned on the air-conditioning with one of the remotes from the bonbon bowl and pulled down the Elle Décoration calendar that he had taped to the kitchen door. There wasn’t time for anything else.

“The house is a little untidy,” he said, ushering Murat into the living room. “Please excuse me. Have a seat here and I’ll get us a glass of water.”

Like a good host, Fanis went into the kitchen, put a paper doily on his mother’s best silver tray, and loaded it with two glasses of water, napkins, the bottle of liqueur, and the cheese pies, properly arranged on a Kütahya plate. He returned to the living room, wished his guest afiyet olsun, good digestion, and took two silver liqueur goblets from the display cabinet that still housed his mother’s crystal. After pouring the liqueur, he begged his friend to take one of the Pavlidis chocolates whose gold foil wrapping bore the portrait of a sad Mona Lisa. “Yeia mas,” he said, in Greek, clicking his goblet against Murat’s.

“Şerife,” replied Murat, in Turkish. “I’ve always thought that one can learn the most important values of any culture through its toasts and salutations. You say to health, we say to honor. You sign letters with appreciation, whereas we sign them with respect.”

“Interesting,” said Fanis. “But ultimately no culture can get very far without all four.”

“True,” said Murat. “Magnificent liqueur, by the way.”

Fanis took a sip and swished it around his mouth. “She uses peppercorns. A sly one, that Aliki.”

“Excuse