“I also noticed that . . .”
“What?”
“You take your shoes off in the house.”
Her mouth pursed like a wrinkly apple. “I don’t like dirt.”
“And the alcohol? And the pork?”
“What pork? I don’t eat meat. And why do you care so much about my father’s religion, anyway?”
“I didn’t mean to be rude, it’s just that . . . if you get involved with somebody, you get involved with the parents as well.”
“If I’d thought about it that way . . .”
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“This is ridiculous,” she said, tossing her napkin onto the table.
Kosmas took a sip of water and pushed his chair back. “Excuse me for a second. I have to check on the Vespa.”
He crossed the courtyard in two large strides, stopped in the entryway, and rubbed his eyes. Come on, he said to himself. Mother will get over the Ottoman-father thing, won’t she? It might take years, decades even, but in the end she’ll get over it. Then again, she’s seventy-two. She doesn’t have decades. Maybe it will even kill her. And maybe she’s right in the end. Daphne deceived us both. Who knows what else she could be hiding?
Kosmas opened his eyes. What was his destiny? To marry Daphne and have his mother fall over dead before the wedding? To reject Daphne and regret it for the rest of his life? To end up like Mr. Dimitris, alone in a rat hole? Kosmas leaned against a wall. It’s all right, he said to himself. Daphne’s leaving on Sunday. We’ll just have this little fling. Enjoy ourselves a bit. We don’t have to get married or even get serious. There isn’t time for that anyway. And if she ever returns . . . we’ll think about it then. He went outside for some fresh air. There was the Vespa, still chained to the overhang post. And Daphne was still inside, waiting for him, if he could just get control of himself.
Kosmas returned to the courtyard. The musicians were already on the other side of the restaurant, serenading someone else. Daphne’s eyes were glassy. He crouched at her feet and took her hand. “I’ve been a beast, upsetting you like that,” he said. “I’m so sorry. I don’t care that your father’s Ottoman. So is Uncle Mustafa, and he’s been like a father to me since mine died.”
“And your mother?”
“Let me handle that.”
“You don’t look so sure.”
“It won’t be a problem. I’m really sorry.”
“It’s partly my fault, I guess,” said Daphne. “I should have told you from the start. I wanted to, but it just seemed awkward.”
So she hadn’t meant to deceive him. He rose to standing. Half the restaurant was staring at him. The drunk women applauded. He bowed, took his chair, and said, “How about I take you to the Lily for dessert?”
The pâtisserie kitchen was more stylish than Daphne had expected: it had old-fashioned cement tile flooring, yellow cabinetry, ceramic brick backsplashes, and baroque molding framing a daring black ceiling.
“It’s the only place where I really feel at home,” said Kosmas, cracking a high window. “We redid the kitchen just a few months ago. Uncle Mustafa gave me carte blanche.” He scrubbed his hands, lit the oven, donned his double-breasted chef coat, and rolled up his sleeves. “What will it be?”
“Something from Vienna.”
“Apple strudel?”
She nodded.
Like a soldier under orders, he piled ingredients onto the central steel table: flour, apples, butter, sugar, lemons, oil, cinnamon, rum, breadcrumbs, an egg, and finally raisins. Daphne sat on a high stool and watched while he combined the dough ingredients by hand, transferred the ball to the floured countertop, and worked it with firm, rhythmic movements. He roasted the breadcrumbs in butter, cored and sliced the apples with speed and precision, and mixed them with lemon juice, a shot of rum, and a few spoonfuls of sugar and cinnamon. An hour before, Daphne hadn’t been sure if she wanted the relationship to go any further. But watching him now, she couldn’t help thinking that he was rather dexterous.
He floured a tea towel, opened the dough with a rolling pin, picked it up, and stretched it over his fists. When the circle had reached a transparent, leaf-like thinness, he transferred it to the tea towel, trimmed the rough edges with scissors, and spread the apple mixture on top. After folding a pastry edge over the filling with the care of a father covering his sleeping infant, Kosmas lifted the tea towel, causing the pastry to roll. For a second Daphne wondered if he would care for his children—perhaps their children—with similar tenderness. Then she reminded herself that this was the same guy who had just flipped out about her father’s religion.
Slow down, she said silently.
Kosmas buttered the seam, twisted, cut, and tucked the ends. Finally he transferred his creation, still swaddled in its tea-towel hammock, to a baking sheet and set it in the oven. Selin was right. Kosmas knew what he was doing in the kitchen.
“May I?” said Daphne. She amassed the trimmings into a ball and began rolling out the dough, just as their neighbor Josefina had always done with leftover bits. Kosmas leaned against the refrigerator, crossed his arms over his chest, and fixed his gaze on . . . her breasts? Or her dough rolling? She asked, “What are you looking at?”
“You’ll blush like the apples if I tell you.”
Daphne leaned even further. Kosmas’s gaze deepened, leaving no doubt. She sprinkled the dough with cinnamon and sugar, rolled it, cut it into slices, and said, “That’s what our Cuban neighbor used to make with the scraps.”
Kosmas transferred each pinwheel from the counter to a buttered baking tray, which he placed in the oven, on the shelf above the strudel. Then he slipped behind Daphne and turned off the industrial fluorescent lights, leaving the kitchen dark except for the warm orange glow of the oven. A moment later Daphne felt his hands on her hips. They caressed her lightly, almost imperceptibly, slowly rose over her back to her shoulders and neck, and finally descended to her breasts. She turned within his embrace. He entwined his hands in her hair, kissed her, and bit her bottom lip. She took a deep breath of the sweet apple-and-cinnamon steam as he pulled her blouse over her head. He lifted her onto the steel counter, beside the hot oven, and stood back to observe her. His eyes traveled over her bare chest. It was more arousing even than touch, as if he was already making love to her in his mind. He kissed her on the mouth, inhaled the scent of her neck, and kissed her mouth again. She wrapped her legs around him, locked her ankles behind his waist, and pulled him toward her.
17
The Song of the Siren
On wednesday evening, fanis opened a window to let the place air while he was at tea. Just as he was about to draw the sheer curtain, however, he heard a great tumbling of plastic. He looked across the way to the garret. So far the new tenant had kept well hidden behind half-closed shutters, but now there she was, bustling about the apartment with her hair tied up in a red bandana like a West African queen. She was shouting all sorts of profanities in a language that seemed familiar, but which Fanis could not make out.
Could it be?
Fanis remembered Selin’s card. He had not yet called because he always allowed at least seven days to pass between receiving a phone number and using it. How many days had it been? Four? Five? Six at most. She would undoubtedly think he was hungry if he called her now, and a woman must never think that. And then there was the distasteful possibility that she only liked him in a daughterly way. But what if it was her? And what if he missed the opportunity to help her settle in? Fanis decided to make a small exception to the rules of the chase. He would call. She didn’t have his number, anyway. If he heard a mobile phone ringing across the way, or if he suddenly saw the new neighbor search for something, he would stay on the line. If not, he would hang up and try again on Thursday.
He settled into the street-facing armchair in the oriel, dialed, and waited. He heard the ringing on his end, but not on hers. Steady, he told himself. The connection might take a few seconds. And then, suddenly, faintly, b
ut surely: a custom ringtone that was devilishly familiar—Witchcraft.
The beauty grabbed her phone. “Allo?”
Fanis said in Turkish, “Selin, my princess, why didn’t you tell me we were going to be neighbors?”
“Who is this?”
“Look across the way.”
Selin stuck her red-kerchiefed head into the sunlight. “Fanis?”
The informal use of his name—without the respectful “Mr.”—thrilled him. “What would you say if I brought over a snack?” he said.
“It’s a mess here right now, so I’d rather—”
“Perfect. I’ll be over in an hour.”
While brushing his teeth, Fanis thought about his telephone conversation with Gavriela earlier that afternoon. In colorful Istanbul–Greek idiom, Gavriela had conjectured that, on their date the previous night, Kosmas and Daphne had finally eaten it. “Good digestion, then,” Fanis had replied, hardly able to conceal his jealousy. After hanging up, he had devoured an entire box of bitter almond cookies as a consolation. But now, as he rinsed his mouth with saltwater and anticipated spending time with Selin, he was significantly less bothered by the defeat.
Once outside, Fanis took a deep breath of Istanbul’s polluted air and skipped off to the meatball shop, where he ordered two portions of meatballs and potatoes, and a tomato salad with plenty of parsley and absolutely no onion. He took his time climbing Selin’s stairs, for he wanted to be neither out of breath nor sweating when he knocked on her door. Selin opened in a short, strappy yellow dress, without the kerchief, and with her hair doing its crazy dance in the air current.
Fanis had always enjoyed the range of expression allowed by a simple cheek kiss. There was the air kiss, which was nothing more than a chicken-like motion of the neck; there was the perfunctory cheek tap for people you semi-liked; the full cheek press for your good friends, beloved family members, and people you hadn’t seen in a long time; and finally the true kiss with lips planted firmly on both cheeks. When Selin performed the last—and when Fanis simultaneously understood that her seductive perfume of almond-tree blossom, vanilla, and jasmine had been recently applied—he suddenly felt so lightheaded that he had to lean against the doorjamb for support.
Selin welcomed him inside. “Excuse the mess.”
“Shall we eat while it’s warm?” said Fanis, pretending not to notice the pile of scattered CD cases at the foot of a red art-deco armchair.
“Absolutely. But I’ll have to move some stuff.”
She was about to pick up the large box on the dining table when he said, “Don’t, my soul. Let me get it.” He sucked in his abs, took a deep breath, and made a tremendous effort not to show any sign of strain while transferring the box to a coffee table made from a piece of polished driftwood. He made a show of protest when Selin followed with the second box, but inwardly he thanked her for sparing him another show of prowess.
“Let me clean up the table,” said Selin, bustling off to the bathroom. “I’m so sorry, but I can’t find any of my hand-embroidered tablecloths, and I have such a nice collection . . .”
She was in a flutter over his arrival. Just a few weeks ago, her demeanor might have made him feel smug about his ability to seduce women. But now that Daphne had shown a preference for Kosmas, Fanis was feeling insecure.
Selin returned with a wet cloth and began wiping down the table. As she did so, her dress rose over the backs of her tanned thighs. Fanis lost his appetite for food. He tried to distract himself by looking at the pile of spilled CDs, but there, on top of various violin albums, was Songs for Swingin’ Lovers! He picked up the CD case. “My dear,” he said, “I heard the ringtone, but I thought it was a fluke. Are you truly a fan of the great Voice?”
“Of course.” Selin switched on the player and put in the CD. Fanis recognized his moment. He pulled out Selin’s chair, wished her good digestion, and, standing in the center of the living room, gave her a dinnertime serenade. He clapped his hands to the opening notes of the first track, just like he’d seen Frankie do in a televised concert, and then, playfully bouncing his shoulders, he sang “You Make Me Feel So Young.”
A schoolgirl smile overcame Selin’s house-moving fatigue and puckered her cheeks with dimples. She was so amused that she snapped her fingers to the beat. At a break between stanzas, Fanis had to scold her, “Eat! Eat!”
“Your voice is incredible,” she said, when the song had finished. “It’s as if Frankie’s come to visit.”
“You’re kind.” Fanis bit into a fried potato. “But it’s not difficult to sing well when one has inspiration.”
Selin flushed red. “Thanks for bringing dinner. I haven’t properly cleaned the kitchen yet, and—”
“Do you have an apron?”
“What for?”
“I’m going to tackle that kitchen while you eat, dear. I’m as titiz as any old Rum housewife. I disinfect everything.”
“You can’t be serious.”
Fanis stood, took off his navy linen jacket and watch, and rolled up the sleeves of his favorite sky-blue shirt. “Perfectly serious.”
“I can’t let you do it.”
“You eat and have a little nap,” said Fanis. “I’ll do the kitchen, and then we’ll finish the rest of the house together.”
“You’re an angel,” she said.
The word was balm. He felt his cleaning wings sprouting already. He resisted the temptation to kiss her and slipped away. While she ate and rested, he scrubbed the little kitchen so thoroughly that even his obsessive-compulsive mother would have approved. By the time Selin woke from 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.
A Recipe for Daphne Page 20