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

nodded and began sticking prepared lilies into the dowel-enforced green florist foam at the base of Mr. and Mrs. iPhone’s cake. He nestled some flowers close to the foam while allowing others to extend slightly over the black-rimmed plate. Another masterpiece. He was going to get that next-door shop space. And he was going to find the Balkanik as well. It was simply a matter of perseverance.

Kosmas folded the protective box flaps up and over the cake and suddenly realized he hadn’t given any thought to where he would take Daphne that evening. It had to be something special. Things were going well, better than he could have expected, but every time he hinted that Daphne should stay past Sunday, she changed the subject. He loaded the cake into the refrigerated delivery truck, returned to the kitchen, and picked up his cell phone. Just as he was about to push the call button, he heard a knock at the back door. He opened and found Daphne wearing dark sunglasses even though the sun had already slipped behind the buildings of Sıraselviler Avenue. He wrapped his hands around the base of her neck and pulled her toward him. “This is a pleasant surprise,” he said.

“I gave Paul the road, as my aunt says. We broke up.”

“Are you okay?”

Daphne took off her dark sunglasses. Her eyelids were swollen. “I’m fine. I was just a bit shocked when I found out that he’d taken up with somebody else. A putana. Literally.”

Kosmas felt as if his chest were being wrung out, like a towel. What was wrong with him? This was what he wanted, but . . . Plan B. That was it. He wanted Daphne, but not if he was her second choice now things hadn’t worked out with the American.

“My aunt said I shouldn’t tell you because it would lower me in your eyes,” said Daphne, “but I can’t help it.”

“Nothing would ever lower you in my eyes,” said Kosmas. He bit his bottom lip. There was no longer a rival, he repeated to himself. This was no longer a fling. But she’d been crying for another man. He felt a burning sensation in his stomach. He released Daphne and grasped the counter.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“It’s probably just indigestion . . .”

“I’ll get you a glass of water.”

And to think that today he’d been going to tell her he loved her.

She grabbed a glass and filled it from the demijohn. “Here,” she said, handing it to him.

He set the glass on the counter without even taking a sip. “I don’t want to be your Plan B.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? I was going to break up with him anyway. I’m upset because my pride was hurt, not because he broke my heart.”

Kosmas stepped backward. They had to leave that kitchen, breathe some fresh air, get some perspective. Otherwise he might say something he’d regret. “Wait here,” he said.

He hurried into the lavatory and put on the blue dress shirt his mother had ironed for him that morning, after he told her he would be going out on his last date with Daphne directly after work. Upon hearing the word “last,” Rea had recovered from the knee pain that had prevented her from ironing that week. She had gone straight to her board, ironed a blue shirt with perfect arm creases, and said, “Tell Daphne I wish her a wonderful trip!”

Returning to the kitchen, Kosmas took Daphne’s hand. “Come on. I want to show you something.” They rode the Vespa to Galata and parked outside a tourist shop that sold hammam towels, soap, and evil-eye charms. He led her through the tower square, which was frustratingly crowded. Western tourists and bohemian Turks sat in the cafés, loitered on benches, took photos, and smoked profusely. They rounded the corner of the old Genoese wall and found themselves at the foot of the nine-story, cone-capped tower whose solidity had always impressed Kosmas. He hadn’t been inside it in years, but he remembered the feeling of pride and certainty that its view had given him as a schoolboy. Up there, he knew that the City belonged to him just as much as he belonged to it. He could look down on the place where his ancestors had lived for centuries and know that, whatever obstacles stood in his path, he could always rise to the occasion. Perhaps Daphne might feel the same way.

They climbed the outer steps, bought their tickets, and took the elevator to the fifth floor, from which they climbed another two flights up a narrow medieval staircase. Kosmas led Daphne along the narrow and crowded observation deck to the side facing the Old City. From there one could observe the Golden Horn, the low tourist boats sliding under the Galata Bridge, the Ottoman palace of Topkapı nestled in the trees of the Byzantine peninsula, the dome of Hagia Sophia, the Blue Mosque with its six minarets, and the sun descending through the pollution haze. Seagulls swooped, dove, and squawked. Horns honked on the busy streets of Lower Galata. The wind, now salty, clean, and unmixed with cigarette smoke, lifted and tangled Daphne’s hair.

She pointed toward a row of old Ottoman houses at the foot of the tower. “Look at all those beautiful oriel windows. I wonder if I’ll ever get mine.”

“You will if you move here,” said Kosmas, embracing her from behind so that the tourists wouldn’t jostle her. He wouldn’t say how much he wanted her to remain in Istanbul. That was her decision now. She had to make it without his help.

Daphne remained silent. An especially strong gust rushed up from the Bosporus. A seagull on its way past the tower hovered before them, unable to advance despite the energetic flapping of its wings. “I’m in love with the City,” said Daphne.

“Love isn’t a little of this and a little of that,” said Kosmas.

“What are you talking about?”

Kosmas felt the burning in his stomach again. “It’s total and complete,