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

closed his eyes to experience the full power of the explosive third movement. What he liked best, however, was the bittersweet energy of the finale, which seemed to signal that the end was not the end at all. Fanis tried to catch glimpses of Orhan the bassoonist, sitting stiffly in his chair. Sure, Orhan was handsome enough, but Fanis couldn’t believe that a man who played such a clumsy and confined instrument could possibly be the kind of lover who would satisfy Selin.

When Fanis was not spying on Orhan, he fixed his gaze on Selin and the sweat that had collected on her forehead like a diadem. He questioned if such intense playing could harm her recently operated-on heart. At one point she broke so many bow hairs that she had to stop playing and take up a fresh bow. Fanis wondered what the surgical scar on her chest looked like: would it be an ugly jagged thing or a well-healed seam? It would have to be a red line, he decided, delicate and thin. He felt his tongue run along the ridge. . . .

Selin’s voice recalled Fanis to the reality of Lütfi Kırdar: “That’s it for today.” She was standing before him and holding two steaming paper cups, one of which she held out to him. He hadn’t even noticed that the practice was over.

He took the hot cup in both his hands and said, “You were marvelous.”

“You’re kind,” she said.

“Selin . . . do you remember that thing you said about the next man who entered your heart? Last June, at the tea garden? You said that before men came and went through the hole, but that the next one was going to have to stay. Would that be Orhan?”

Selin looked at him with the sassy expression that one usually saw only on the faces of teenagers. “Orhan?”

“Yes. Maybe it’s none of my business, but sometimes, from my window, I see him come and go from your place. I didn’t want to be indiscreet and ask questions, but. . . . Where is he now, anyway?”

She sat beside him. “Gone already, but he sends his regards. He has a date with Ahmet, his boyfriend.”

Fanis flopped back into the velveteen seat. “He’s gay?”

“Are you okay, Fanis? You look a bit pale.”

Fanis put a hand over his heart. It was still beating. “Of course,” he said. “But what about that hickey?”

“What hickey?”

He pointed to the discoloration beneath her jaw line.

“And you call yourself a musician? That’s fiddler’s neck. A hazard of the profession.”

“So . . . there’s no boyfriend at all?”

“Unfortunately not. What about you? It seemed like you were interested in Daphne.”

“Oh, come on. Daphne’s all right, but I prefer a woman with a better sense of style, an ear for music, and a fuller figure.”

“That’s good. Because Kosmas is planning on proposing. As soon as his mother is better, that is. I didn’t want to tell you because I thought you might be upset.”

Fanis finished his tea and crumpled his cup. “Good for Kosmas,” he said. He didn’t mention that he had sent Daphne a Christmas card, just to keep things open on the off-chance that she changed her mind. “I always thought they’d make a nice couple. Listen, there’s something I want to talk to you about.”

Selin gave him a sidelong glance. “What?”

“Did you ever want children?” That wasn’t what he’d planned to say. But still, now that he knew she was single, it was an important question.

“Of course I did. But the years passed and now I’m forty-three with a heart condition.”

He squeezed her hand. “Another thing we’ve got in common.”

“How so?”

She was being honest with him. He had to man up and do the same. “It’s difficult for me to admit this, but . . . I have cerebral arteriosclerosis and early vascular dementia. I could have a stroke at any time.”

“Are you taking medication?”

“I burned the prescriptions in the kitchen sink.”

“That’s a relief.”

“Not really. The doctor promised imminent death if I didn’t start taking them right away. For a while I put the diagnosis out of my mind, but Rea’s fainting scared me a bit.”

“If she fainted.” Selin took his cup from him and stuffed it inside her own. “Don’t let her issues scare you, Fanis.”

“But Dr. Aydemir is a good doctor. I just wanted you to know because you’re my closest neighbor, perhaps even my best friend—”

“Your best friend?” Selin tilted her head to one side. “Really?”

“Yes, you are. I always said that friendship between opposite sexes was impossible but, look, we’re doing it.”

“I’m honored.” Selin put her hand on his forearm. Her shimmery black-painted fingernails stood out against his tan cashmere sweater, like beads of licorice. “Listen, Fanis,” she said. “Do you feel ill?”

“No.” What was he saying? Wasn’t he confessing so that she would be prepared for the inevitable? “Well, sometimes,” he said. “But not very often.”

“If you don’t feel ill, then you aren’t. But I’m here if you need me. That’s what best friends are for.”

Fanis sighed at those words: best friends. They were as bittersweet as Tchaikovsky’s concerto. But in his condition, could he possibly hope for more?

He took Selin home in a taxi, then trudged through the snow to Neighbor’s House. Upon arrival, he passed straight into the heated, mirror-walled back area, which his friends used almost as if it were their own private living room. Julien and Gavriela were sitting by the window overlooking the dim snow-covered garden where they took tea in summer.

Julien stood, as he always did out of good breeding. Yet there was something aggressive in his bearing as he pulled out an empty chair for Fanis. “So what’s this I hear about you and my kid?”

Apparently Aliki had recovered her ability to speak and put her telephone to use.

“Your kid?” said Fanis, taking his seat.

Julien crossed his arms over his fishing vest. “She may not be my biological child, but she certainly is a scholastic one.”

Gavriela raised her