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

was, ‘Why is it that you didn’t find a Rum groom? Was it because word got out that you don’t know how to keep house?’ Another time, after I’d cooked all day and prepared a feast for her, she said, ‘It doesn’t matter that you don’t know how to cook, Sultana dear, you’ll learn eventually.’ And another time I walked into her living room and found her crying. When I asked why, she said, ‘For my son. He would have been so much happier if he had married Nur Yılmaz instead of you!’ And when she found out about your name”—Sultana dropped her spoon into the soup—“do you know what that woman said? She said, ‘I wonder if the girl will amount to anything.’ Can you believe that? A grandmother about her own grandchild!”

“Sounds like a real bitch.”

“That’s just the thing. She wasn’t a bitch with anybody else. Only with me.”

“You could’ve moved to another part of the City.”

Sultana snorted. “The other side of the Bosporus wasn’t enough, my love. We needed an ocean.”

“Kosmas’s mother isn’t like that. Or . . . at least she’s not that bad.”

“Don’t kid yourself. All Istanbul mothers-in-law are demons in heels.”

“Why couldn’t we have talked about this before?”

“It’s too painful for your father. Do you think he can bear to hear his mother’s words repeated? Especially what she said about you? We wanted to protect you. From conflict, confusion. A double identity.”

“I have all that anyway.”

“At least we tried.”

Ilyas returned, straightened his blazer, and sat down to eat his soup. Daphne swallowed a few spoonfuls and said, “Baba, there’s something else. His mother fainted when she found out you’re Muslim. That’s how she ended up at the hospital.”

“Oh, a fainter,” said Sultana.

“How are things with him now?” asked Ilyas, his eyes fixed on the fried green plantain chips just delivered by the waiter.

“We talk every day. And although I’m not crazy about his mother, I admire Kosmas’s commitment to her.”

Ilyas dabbed his short mustache with his napkin. “I understand what he’s going through.”

“So do I,” said Sultana. “But whether this guy is Rum, Turk, American, Cuban, or Chinese, if he had any sense in him, he’d find someone to care for his mother and get over here. So erase him from your head, my girl. He’s not for you.”

“Mom, I know this is hard for you, but—”

“Geçti Bor’un Pazarı sür eşeğini Niğde’ye!” said Sultana, raising her voice.

Daphne understood the Turkish words—The Bor Bazaar is over, take your donkey to Niğde—but she had no idea what they meant. “Pardon?” she said.

“She means,” said Ilyas, “that it’s time to move on.”

Sultana nervously pulled her sky-blue cardigan over her shoulders to protect them from the air-conditioning. “This is all Gavriela’s doing,” she said. “My little girl would never have thought of leaving me if Gavriela hadn’t interfered.”

“This has nothing to do with Aunt Gavriela,” said Daphne. “I’m the one who wants to live in Istanbul.”

“Excuse me?”

A boy opened the restaurant door for his six-member family. A burst of hot, damp wind rushed into Versailles. Even if the storm didn’t hit land, they would still have good rain.

“I’ve applied to PhD programs in oral history at Boğaziçi, Bilgi, and Istanbul universities,” said Daphne.

“And you kept this a secret from me?” said Sultana.

“It’s not a secret, Mom. I just didn’t tell you.”

“As if there weren’t any good PhD programs in the States! Do they even know what oral history is over there?”

Daphne took a deep breath, held it for a few seconds, and exhaled. “I’m also applying for Turkish citizenship.”

“You’re what?”

“I got most of the papers together, but I need copies of your Turkish and American passports.”

“Studying there is one thing, Daphne, but citizenship . . . They won’t recognize your American citizenship, you know. If you get into trouble—”

“I’ve made my decision, Mom,” said Daphne, trying to sound certain. “Can’t you understand how at home I felt there? I love the afternoon tea, the way total strangers help you out, the sense of adventure, the warmth, the deepness of the friendships. Here everybody’s in such a hurry. Americans meet you for coffee and ditch you forty minutes later, but over there, you sit with your friends for hours. They know how to live.”

“If the government lets them live,” said Sultana.

“It’s a democracy, Mom.”

“The twilight of a democracy,” Sultana corrected.

“Whatever. Home is home.”

“And Miami isn’t home?”

“It is, Mom, but it doesn’t have Istanbul’s history. Our history. The Byzantine and Ottoman salt.”

Sultana sucked in her lips as if she were fighting back tears. Ilyas took her hand.

“I already gave my notice at the school,” said Daphne.

“You’re insane.” Sultana picked up her beer, but she was so agitated that she spilled the foam onto the table. She set it back down and said, “You’re making a sentimental decision without giving any thought to anything, not even the political situation. It’s like moving to Germany in thirty-nine.”

“Don’t you think you’re exaggerating a little, Sultana?” said Ilyas, mopping up the beer puddle with his napkin.

Both Sultana and Daphne stared at him. He rarely took sides in their arguments, and he never called Sultana by her given name. In fact, Daphne couldn’t remember ever hearing her father address her mother as anything but hayatım—my life.

“Daphne,” he said, “you have a good life here. We worked hard to give you that. What’s missing? A man? We’ll find you a better one in Miami.”

“That’s not it, Baba.” Daphne picked up a plantain chip, but it was still burning hot. She dropped it back onto the plate. “It’s the feeling when you wake up in the morning in Istanbul. Every day, you know that anything can happen. I don’t want my life to be a routine of work, gym, and shopping in generic strip malls.”

Ilyas took a long look at Daphne as if he had only just noticed that she had grown up. “It’s your choice. We don’t agree, but I’ll get the passports.” He rubbed Daphne’s back and added, “But your mother’s right about one