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

the long nap that she had insisted she would not take, Fanis had washed and put away all the dishes and pans that he’d found in the kitchen boxes. Hearing Selin stirring, he lit a burner, roasted a cup of Mehmet Efendi coffee, and, still wearing a pink apron over his off-white linen pants, served it to her on the modernist driftwood coffee-table.

“I’ve never met anyone like you, Fanis,” she said. “You sing, you clean, you make coffee.”

“I also cook,” he proudly announced. “I make a mean chickpea pilaf.”

Selin rubbed her eyes like a child, unwittingly causing her mascara to flake. “All day I was wondering how I was going to have the strength to perform Friday night. But after that little rest, and with all your help, life seems manageable again. How can I thank you?”

Fanis sat on the sofa beside her. “Since the day we met, I’ve been waiting for you to invite me to a concert.”

“Friday, then, at Lütfi Kırdar. There will be a ticket for you at the box office. But that’s hardly enough to repay you for all you’ve done.”

“Maybe you’re right. How about a backstage visit as well, after the performance?”

“It would be my pleasure.”

“Go inspect the kitchen, then, and I’ll tackle that pile of CDs. I’m dying to see what you’ve got.”

Fanis spent the rest of the evening—as well as the following day—serving as Selin’s special helper. He sorted CDs, cleaned the bathroom extractor fan, drilled holes in the wall for hooks, ironed and hung curtains, brought breakfast, fixed the almost-broken hinges on the bedroom cupboards, and unplugged the bathroom sink with a plumbing snake. By Thursday evening, he was as exhausted as a corpse and had to take two aspirins for his aching head and put himself to bed at nine o’clock, but Selin was well worth the trouble. On Friday morning, he took his old tuxedo out of the closet and was surprised to find that it still fit him. He knew he would be overdressed, but he also knew that Selin would be in an evening gown, and he wanted to be worthy of her, even if it was only from afar.

Fanis had planned on arriving at Lütfi Kırdar early but, as he walked up Sıraselviler Avenue, he realized that he ought to buy a bouquet. So he took a shortcut down Meşelik Street, past the headquarters of the stately neoclassical building that housed the Constantinopolitan Society of Cantors, of which he was a proud member. He hurried on, but when he came to the student entrance of the Zappeion Lycée, he paused and gazed for a moment at the blackened stone gate. That was where Kalypso had gone to school. The Zappeion’s pupils were now so few that a separate student entrance was considered superfluous. The door was locked and chained. Such a shame. Fanis remembered how Kalypso would come sauntering through that gate at the end of the school day. He remembered how, after their engagement, he would often bring her a single flower: a rose, a lilac branch, a sprig of orange blossom, which she’d stick under her headband or in her ponytail. Once, during their walk home, she had pulled him into an alley and kissed him passionately. He’d given her daisies that day. They had caused him to sneeze as they kissed. So embarrassing.

And then, just as quickly as he had slipped into his reverie, he pulled himself out. He didn’t want to be late for the performance. He hurried past Holy Trinity Church, hung a right into Taksim Square, and headed toward the tents of the gypsy women who sold flowers by the Ottoman-era reservoir. When he finally settled on unconventional orange snapdragons, the fat gypsy in saggy shalwar pants tried to charge him fifteen liras for the flowers and an extra two for gift wrapping.

“Is that the tuxedo price?” Fanis snapped. “Or perhaps you’ve forgotten that your neighbors sell exactly the same flowers you do.”

The next gypsy, having noted the failure of the first, said twelve liras. The last, a pretty young lady with a baby strapped to her chest, asked for ten. Fanis nodded. As he scurried away with the bouquet, the pretty gypsy called out, “Hope Grandma likes them!” Fanis made a mental note never to buy anything from her ever again.

While waiting at the bus stop at the foot of Gezi Park, he glanced at his watch. He’d still make the performance, but there wouldn’t be time to use the men’s room. He concentrated on his bladder for a moment. Nothing there. That was a relief. Ten long minutes later, the bus arrived, and Fanis stepped up for his daily dose of humiliation. As soon as he swiped his retiree bus pass, an automated male voice said over the loudspeaker, “We thank you for giving priority to our elderly and handicapped passengers.” A young fellow—whose tight nipples were vulgarly showing through his thin T-shirt—immediately offered his seat. Fanis turned up his nose, proceeded to the middle doors, and remained standing to prove that he was not in the least bit elderly.

He arrived at Lütfi Kırdar just a few minutes before the start of the performance, collected his ticket, and made his way through the shiny granite entry hall.

“Your seat number, sir?” said an usher.

“I have no idea,” said Fanis. “It was a gift.”

The young man took his ticket and winked. “Somebody loves you then, Uncle. Follow me.”

The usher escorted Fanis to a center seat in the front row. What a treat, he thought, although he would probably come out with a stiff neck. He simpered at the middle-aged couple next to him and ignored their top-to-toe scan of his tuxedo. He had only a minute to glance at the program before the lights dimmed: the first piece was to be Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto in E minor. He strained to catch a glimpse of Selin as the string players filed in. Alas, in the front row, all that one could really