Daphne pressed her hands together like a happy child. “I love fried things! Especially little fried fish. How did you know?”
“They’re my favorite, too,” said Kosmas. He was going to beat this boyfriend after all. “Later on, I thought we’d go for dessert—”
“I have a better idea for after.”
Could it be true that American women were as forward as the four characters on Sex and the City?
“A tango lesson,” said Daphne. “It’s free at a studio not too far from here. I found it on the internet and wrote down the address.” She took a scrap of paper from her purse and showed it to him.
Without bothering to look, he said, “I can’t dance. I’ve always wanted to learn, but—”
“Now’s your chance.”
Kosmas’s fork slipped from his hand and landed on the tablecloth with a soft thud. He was terrified of making a clown of himself on their first date. “I’d rather start with something easier, like the waltz, maybe. Tango seems so difficult.”
“Please. I really want to go.”
Kosmas dished out the fried smelt.
“I can serve myself, you know,” said Daphne. She attempted a laugh, but Kosmas could tell she was piqued. It was exactly as Spyros had said: some women could mistake old-world manners for patronization.
Kosmas loosened his tie and looked over at Spyros, who was having his photo taken with a group of loquacious Italian women. “Ready for the main course?” he said.
“And the tango lesson?” said Daphne.
Spyros helped the last Italian woman into her jacket, kissed her goodbye, and returned to his post behind the cash register. Kosmas said, “Mr. Spyros, can I leave Daphne in your hands for a moment?”
“You trust me?”
“Of course. And could we have a grilled gilt-head sea bream?”
Kosmas bounded upstairs and relieved himself. As he hummed the Greek happy-birthday song, with which he always timed his sudsing, he gave himself a pep talk. Relax, you can turn this around. Maybe Gavriela forced her out, and maybe the dance lesson will be a disaster, but look at the other side of things: it will prolong the evening. And the boyfriend? He’s on the other side of the world.
Kosmas held out his hands to the attendant, received his squirt of lemon cologne, and rubbed it in while descending the stairs. “Everything okay, Mr. Spyros?” he said.
“More than okay. I’ve been looking into Daphne’s pretty eyes the whole time. Remember that when you get to be my age. No one can stop you looking into a woman’s eyes, no matter how old, ugly, or married you are. Bon appétit, kids.”
Over the next half-hour, the itinerant vendors provided so much entertainment that Daphne did not reopen the tango subject. First a man came by with a box of butterflies and a microscope. Daphne paid him fifty cents for a peek. After the sea bream was served, a lottery seller wearing a paper crown approached their table. Fortunately his attention was diverted by a news segment on the muted television mounted above Spyros’s head. In large red letters at the bottom of the screen was the headline “For a day or forever, everyone needs an escape.”
“I’d choose forever,” said the vendor. He held up his ticket roll one more time. Kosmas lifted his chin. The vendor moved on.
“Would you escape if you could?” Daphne asked Kosmas.
“Maybe. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to live in a place where nobody cares what my religion is. To go and be a foreigner somewhere for real. What about you?”
“I’ve done it. For the summer, that is.” There it was again, the sweet tone, clear, without the smallest bit of hoarseness. “Could we go to that tango lesson?”
She’d turned him into marzipan paste. No longer able to resist, he said, “All right. But after that we’re going for dessert.”
The dance studio was a two-minute walk from the restaurant. They climbed six floors through a cigarette-stinking stairwell to the penthouse studio. A small woman—the teacher, it seemed—herded Kosmas, Daphne, and the other prospective students to the room’s center. First they learned how to walk by sliding their feet across the floor, brushing one ankle past the other. Easy enough. Kosmas thanked God there was no hip motion, yet he couldn’t understand so much insistence on walking.
“Stop!” the teacher shouted. “Time to learn the embrace.”
Daphne encircled Kosmas with her left arm and spread her fingers over his back. He had no idea what to do with his right arm, so the instructor assisted by wrapping it around Daphne’s back, just beneath the shoulder blades, all the way to the armpit, and ever so close to . . . Don’t even think about it, Kosmas told himself.
“Walk in time to the music!”
Kosmas took hesitant steps lest he tread on Daphne’s feet. Soon, however, he realized that Daphne was never in his way. He moved with greater confidence, pushing the body that leaned forward to meet him, and walked straight into a wall. Renewing his efforts, he navigated a corner and experienced a brief fifty seconds of enjoyment, as if he had awakened from a bad dream. He listened to the sound of Daphne’s breath in his ear, took in the floral scent of her hair, and glanced at her low décolletage as the fabric of her dress shifted over her breasts. This must be why men learned to tango.
“Change partners!”
Daphne left Kosmas and approached the next cavalier, a Harrison Ford lookalike who was no beginner at all, but rather the obliging brother of a lady who wanted to try the dance. The music began, but Kosmas couldn’t concentrate. Getting his new partner to go anywhere was like trying to push a mountain. Worse yet, Kosmas stepped on her foot twice while trying to catch glimpses of Daphne in a close embrace with the Lothario on the other side of the studio.
“Careful,” said the woman.
“Sorry,” said Kosmas. “Can you give me a minute?”
He took a short break and observed the other couples. They seemed uncomfortable with the touch of a stranger and held each other at arm’s length, but Daphne had closed her eyes and fit her forehead into the valley of her partner’s left temple. She was obviously no beginner at all because she responded with precision and sometimes even foot adornments to her partner’s seductive directions. Still, despite his jealousy, Kosmas couldn’t help being turned on by the way her round behind moved in the tight-fitting dress. The evil-eye charm slid over her shoe strap, catching the candlelight. On turns, her skirt swirled upward, revealing a few centimeters of thigh. But she was in the arms of another man, damn it. Was Argentine tango truly an art form or just some sick kind of sadomasochism invented to torture watching partners? Just when Kosmas thought he could bear it no longer, he heard clapping. The lesson was over.
He needed a drink. While the teacher distributed brochures, Kosmas went to the studio bar, ordered a glass of wine and a bottle of water, and took them to the table where Daphne awaited him. “Having fun?” he said.
“Lots. It’s a great venue, don’t you think?”
“Definitely.” He swilled half the glass of vinegar-tasting wine. “Ready to leave?”
“Dessert?” said Daphne, following him out.
Kosmas pondered where to go. He remembered the new Saryan. The traffic along the coastal road would be terrible at that time of night. Still, it was the only place—outside of his own shop—where he enjoyed eating sweets.
“You’ll see when we get there,” he said.
They found a taxi in the boulevard behind the studio. For a few minutes Kosmas was pleased with himself for having spared Daphne further walking, but soon a truck cut off the taxi, enraging the smelly driver. He screamed out the open window, “You asshole! I’ll shit on your glasses so that you’ll see the whole world through nothing but shit!”
“Excuse me, sir, you’re completely right,” said Kosmas, “but there’s a lady present.”
The driver slammed his free hand into the steering wheel, like an axe. “Bastard ejected from the asshole of a whore while farting!”
Kosmas looked at Daphne. She was covering her mouth to hide
her laughter. “He sounds just like my father,” she said.
“Your father cusses like that?”
“Always. But only in the car. Otherwise he’s a perfect gentleman.”
“In Turkish?”
“Of course. He . . . he thinks it’s better than Greek for swearing. Turks have as many words for shit as the Inuit have for snow. You never swear?”
Kosmas hesitated. The cabbie’s fit had amused Daphne, which made him think that perhaps he should admit to his bad habit. Yet Fanis had given a stern injunction against vulgar speech, and Fanis was rarely wrong about women. “No.”
“Such a good boy,” said Daphne. “Your mother must be proud.”
A mobile phone rang. Kosmas thought it was the cabbie’s, but then Daphne opened her clutch and took out a cheap flip phone. At first her replies were curt. Her brow furrowed. Her bottom lip pursed, pushing the top one upward. If the caller was the boyfriend, he didn’t have a chance. What had Kosmas been so worried about? This guy was finished.
A few minutes later, however, Daphne’s expression softened. Kosmas heard something about beaches, dogs, and tango, but he couldn’t understand the meaning of the conversation. He wished he had paid better attention in English class. At the end of the call, he thought he heard her mumble, “Love you too.” Goddamn mobiles.
The taxi pulled up to the Saryan just after she snapped the phone shut. Kosmas handed a bill to the driver, exited, and jogged around to Daphne’s side in time to open her door. That call, he told himself, never happened.
Halfway up the pâtisserie’s staircase, the air changed. A cool mix of air-conditioning and sea breeze rushed downward, carrying the scents of expensive chocolate, ice cream, and freshly ground coffee. Kosmas took a deep breath to clear his memory of the cabbie’s onion stench, which had been even more embarrassing than his language. Now that they were at the Saryan—with its elegant chocolate-colored décor and 1960s-style circular lamps—Kosmas could be proud of his City once again.
He led Daphne through the little packs of well-dressed, quietly chatting Bosporus socialites to the balcony that overlooked Bebek Bay. They were lucky enough to find a recently vacated table, from which a waiter was still clearing half-eaten éclairs and coffee cups. Daphne sat facing north, but Kosmas knew she would have a better view from the other side.
“Sit here,” he said, pulling the chair opposite her. “That way you’ll see Bebek Mosque. It’s pretty when it’s lit up at night.”
Daphne switched chairs. “Looks old.”
“Not really,” said Kosmas. “Early twentieth-century, Neoclassical style. The newest mosque will be built just over there.” He pointed toward a high hill outline on the other side of the Bosporus. “That’s Çamlıca, where my parents used take me for picnics on May Day. The prime minister is going to build a big mosque there, a monument to his term, just like the sultans used to do.”
“It seems like that’s what he’s turning into,” said Daphne. “In the States, the president has eight years at most and he’s out.”
“This isn’t America.” Kosmas moved the prickly cactus centerpiece to the side of the table. Potted cacti—instead of fresh flowers—were the latest fashion in Istanbul.
“But his views on women, contraception, the West, even Twitter . . .” said Daphne, lowering her chin and looking up at him with an expression of disbelief.
Kosmas could see that explaining would be a wasted effort. Daphne had been a full, undisputed, equal citizen of the United States all her life. How could she understand that a politician’s ideas about condoms and social media were of secondary importance when that politician respected your long-deprived right to live, work, and be happy? Besides, Kosmas hadn’t meant to get into a political conversation when he pointed out Çamlıca Hill.
“All I want is to live in peace,” he said. “As long as I have that, I can ignore the rest.”
Without waiting for a reply, Kosmas caught the waiter’s eye and nodded. The Saryan was an old-style place in every way. Its waiters were never in a hurry to take orders and deliver checks. Only a fixed gaze and a polite nod would to bring them to your table.
“At your service,” said the waiter.
“Two teas,” said Kosmas. “And a plate of house chocolates. Two each of Mon Chéri, Plaisir, Tendresse, Amour, Désir, and Passion . . . and winged hearts, of course.”
When the waiter had gone, Kosmas turned back to Daphne, who was watching the passing ships. He listened to the wakes gulping and smacking against the sea wall. Daphne was physically in his territory, but her heart and mind, he could see, were lagging behind.
Come on. She’s still here. You can’t give up until she rejects you flat out.
The waiter served the teas and the plate of ultra-elegant chocolates.
“Uncle Mustafa and I used to play a game,” said Kosmas. “He’d make me guess the flavors. To sharpen my palate. Shall we try?”
Daphne bit into a long, narrow chocolate shaped like a short-order cook hat. “Caramel.”
“Bitter coffee and whiskey ganache,” he corrected.
“You already knew that.”
Kosmas stared at the chocolate clinging to her lips. He wondered what her mouth tasted like and how the flavor of the chocolate would change if it came straight from her lips to his. “I swear I didn’t,” he said.
“What’s your specialty?”
“I have a few. Besides mille-feuille, of course, I like doing apple strudel, Hungarian Dobos torta, profiteroles . . . but the thing I like best is cake decorating. Especially wedding cakes.”
“Isn’t that a hobby for bored housewives?”
“Not in Istanbul.” He stared at her. Could she have meant to be so rude? Had there been some cultural misunderstanding?
“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean it that way. I was just wondering why wedding cakes would interest you.”
Kosmas gazed toward the antique wooden motor launch anchored just a few meters from the sea wall. It bobbed in the current, plunging down abruptly, almost violently, then slowly bobbing up, over and over. “At first it was the aesthetic,” he said. “The marriage of architecture and food. Later, when I started baking for real couples, I realized that cakes are also expressions of joy, a manifestation of the couple’s love for each other.”
“Most wedding cakes I’ve seen were nothing but generic sugar mounds with tacky plastic dolls on top,” said Daphne.
“That’s exactly what I don’t do. I never start by showing a catalogue. I talk to the couple, look at their invitations, decorations, and outfits. I try to understand who they are, how they met, what their dreams are. I want them to remember not only the appearance, but also the taste of the cake long after the wedding is over. Maybe that memory will help them through future bitterness. Or maybe it will be something they can tell their kids about.”
Daphne put her elbows on the table and rested her chin in the hammock of her interlaced fingers. “For example?”
“Yesterday I did a cake for a florist and his assistant. He proposed to her with a bouquet of orange blossoms—the marriage flower. So I did a narrow six-tier with side icing sculpted to look like satin ribbons. Each tier was separated by invisible ten-centimeter columns. I filled the open spaces with fresh purple freesia and orange blossoms. The cake itself was flavored with vanilla bean, but I added orange-blossom water to the icing as a subtle compliment to the groom’s proposal. People told me the bride was so happy with the cake that she cried.”
Daphne absentmindedly turned the cactus’s black pot. “What kind of cake would you make for me?”
Kosmas took another deep breath. Daphne wore no perfume, but he fancied that he caught the natural scent of her skin. He closed his eyes to assemble flavors and images. When the cake had come together in his mind, he said, “For you I’d do five round tiers delicately accented with green cardamom from the Egyptian Bazaar. Butter-cream icing, without coloring, because the natural cream is understated and elegant, like you.”
&nb
sp; He paused. Car lights flashed from the rim of the bay, lighting up her face. She was smiling and looking directly at him now, as if no one else existed. He shook off the dizziness caused by her gaze and continued: “The decoration will be of the same cream color. Piped like embroidery, not stenciled. You’d never fit into a mold. The motifs will be Ottoman: foliage, tulips, carnations, hyacinths. From top to bottom, in an elegant curve, will stretch one stem of white orchids. The serving tray will be specially made to accommodate the orchid’s pot so you can keep the plant alive for the rest of your life.”
“That doesn’t sound like a bored-housewife cake,” she said.
Kosmas noticed how thin her fingers were. He wanted to kiss that hand and hold it to his forehead, like a student showing respect to his teacher, and then keep kissing, all the way up to her armpit . . .
“What will your wedding cake look like?” she asked.
“The same.”
Now he’d done it. He’d said too much. She would cut the evening short and never go out with him again. He scanned the restaurant, searching for the waiter. Where the hell was he?
“Are you getting tired?” he said. “Shall I ask for the check?”
“Not yet.” Daphne looked him in the eye for a second before transferring her attention back to the chocolate plate. She picked up one of the rectangles with swirly decorations ending in hearts and held it to her nose. “Coffee.”
“Cappuccino.”
She conceded with a coquettish side-nod. “You haven’t told me what you thought of the tango lesson.”
Would she ever give him a break?
“It was fun. By the way, what would your boyfriend think about you dancing with me?”
“He wouldn’t care.” Daphne slumped in her chair and folded her arms over her chest. “That’s how Paul and I met. Dancing.”
“I know it’s none of my business, but it seems to me that you and that guy have a strange relationship. What man would be indifferent to seeing you in the arms of other men?”
“Dance is art, not flirtation.”
“Come on. When a man and a woman snuggle up together in evening clothes, there’s always the possibility of a spark.”
A Recipe for Daphne Page 13