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

recliner’s footrest released with a popping noise that startled Kosmas. Andonis struggled to his feet, hobbled down the hall with his hand on his lower back, and rapped on Daphne’s door. “Put on a pair of pants, girl. You’re going to have an adventure tonight.” Returning to the living room, he said to his wife, “Now let’s have some tea while the boy and I watch the game.”

“Evil hour,” murmured Gavriela. She huffed off to the kitchen.

“Women.” Andonis winked at Kosmas and made a patting motion in the air, as if to say, ‘Don’t worry, it’s all settled now.’

Kosmas nodded in thanks and tried to make himself comfortable, but he was sinking deeper and deeper into the little cavern between the back of the sofa and the seat. Soon Gavriela returned with the tea. Daphne followed, wearing a broad American smile and a pair of tight-fitting jeans. She leaned on the doorjamb, lifted one foot as if she were practicing yoga, and strapped on a three-inch-heeled silver sandal—significantly sexier than the black pumps she’d worn on the first date. While she buckled, Kosmas noticed something turquoise on her ankle. She must have guessed his foot fetish.

Gavriela set the tea tray on the rust-stained lace of the central coffee-table. “Do you at least have a helmet for her?”

“Don’t worry, Madame Gavriela,” said Kosmas, threading his way out of the furniture maze. “I’ll bring her back safely.”

“But you haven’t had your tea!”

“Another time.”

The Vespa was waiting for them on the sidewalk outside Gavriela’s door. Daphne ran her fingers over the front grille slots, the white piping on the leather saddle, and the dark, satiny finish of the delivery compartment at the rear. She imagined her legs straddling Kosmas, the rumble of the motor, Kosmas stopping in some deserted back alley. . . . He handed her an immaculately cleaned and polished vintage helmet and helped fit the chin strap through the buckle. “We’re going to Tatavla,” he said, as he climbed onto the bike.

“Really? I asked my aunt to take me, but she always says it’s ruined and not worth a visit.”

“Tatavla isn’t as picturesque as Antigone,” said Kosmas, “but since it’s where your mom grew up, it’s at least worth a visit.” With both feet on the ground, he rocked the heavy bike backward to gain momentum, then forward to retract the kick stand. They threaded through the tight two-lane traffic of Sıraselviler Avenue, emerged into the madness of Taksim, and whizzed past exhaust-spewing buses, taxis, and trucks. The sudden swerves and a near collision with another motorcycle terrified Daphne, yet left her wanting more. She wrapped her arms all the way around Kosmas, resting her chest against his back. She knew this wasn’t the way he usually drove. She’d seen him motor by Neighbor’s House on the Vespa two or three times that summer, driving as carefully as if he had a baby on board. Now he was accelerating quickly, braking abruptly, and taking risks.

“How are the pegs with your heels?” he asked, after stopping at a traffic light. He picked up her right foot, adjusted its position on the peg, and playfully spun the charm on her anklet. “Nice.”

Daphne had worn that anklet at least a dozen times without Paul’s ever having said a word. But nothing escaped Kosmas. “Thanks,” she said.

The light changed. They turned off into a neighborhood where laundry lines of ghostlike sheets drooped between rotting oriels. With expert skill Kosmas dodged automobiles, piles of rubbish set out for the nightly collection, formidable gangs of young men, and herds of girls dressed for Carnivale. Was this really the same Kosmas who fulfilled his mother’s every wish? The same meticulous chef who had won the Pfeifenberger competition?

They climbed a steep hill and came to a stop before a low, dreary white shack with a corrugated aluminum roof—the restaurant, apparently. Daphne took off the helmet. “That was better than a rollercoaster.”

“Glad you enjoyed it.” Kosmas carefully chained the Vespa to one of the posts supporting the building’s brown awning. Daphne sighed. Although his driving skills indicated that he might have hidden talents, only a conventional type would tuck his scooter in like that. “Ready,” he said, taking the helmet from her.

They followed the host into a courtyard where ivy dangled between the branches of whitewashed citrus, mulberry, and black poplar trees. At the oilcloth-covered tables sat a few couples, two large men-only parties, and a pack of gabby ladies. The street view was completely blocked by a red wall, but at the far end of the restaurant, the opening between a wooden sun shelter and waist-high shrubbery allowed a glimpse of ceramic roofs and navy blue sky.

The host indicated a table that was marked as reserved with an empty wine bottle. He pulled a chair over the dull blue and yellow floor tiles, offered it to Daphne, and wished them good digestion. A few seconds later, a waiter set plates of honeydew melon and feta cheese on their table. “To drink?” he asked.

“Water,” said Kosmas. He placed the Vespa’s helmet on an empty chair beside him.

“No raki?” said the waiter.

“No, thanks. We’re not drinking tonight.”

When the waiter had gone, Daphne said, “You don’t have to do that.”

“It’s okay. I’m afraid it might throw me off course later on.” Kosmas paused and flashed Daphne a playful smile. “I’m driving the Vespa, remember?”

She rested her chin on her hands and wobbled her head mischievously. “Just how far off course can one go with a Vespa?”

Kosmas, who seemed surprised that she had both caught his wordplay and matched it, remained silent. Daphne let him savor the momentary awkwardness before she asked, “So what’s this place called?”

“Madame Kyveli’s.”

The name sounded like something straight out of her mother’s stories. “I think my dad used to bring Mom here. He’d request a special song, something like . . .” Daphne shut her eyes and breathed in the faint scent of musty wood, but she couldn’t recall the title of the song her father used