Muharrem put his index finger to his chin. He scanned first the chocolate case and then the glass jars with satiny candies of every flavor—ginger, mint, sesame, cinnamon, quince, fig, sour cherry. “No,” he said. “Anything else will ruin the taste of the cinnamon lokum.”
Dimitris conceded: “You’re the expert.”
“When will the wedding be?” asked Muharrem, while filling a half-kilo box with powdery lokum cubes.
“Soon, inşallah.”
“Inşallah,” Muharrem repeated. “Will I be invited?”
“Of course. How could I get married and not invite you?”
With his package of cinnamon lokum smartly wrapped in cream paper with gold moons, Dimitris set out for Rea’s neighborhood. He bought a dozen red roses on the way and was soon sitting in Rea’s living room, beside the barred window that she despised. Through it, they could see the park and its trees dusted with snow, as well as children attempting to build miniature snowmen. With that view, over coffee and cinnamon lokum, Dimitris said, “Rea, I need to speak with you.”
“About what?”
Dimitris felt a sense of panic. He had focused so much on working up the courage to ask that he hadn’t thought of how he would ask. “Do you think that getting married in one’s seventies makes one a laughing stock?” he said. Where had that come from? Dimitris mentally pinched himself.
“Sometimes.” Rea stuck a lokum into her mouth and took a sip of coffee to melt it. That was always the way she ate candy. Otherwise the sugar bothered her teeth.
Dimitris continued: “So, if you were giving advice to a widow friend, you’d tell her not to remarry? Out of fear of what people would say?”
“I might have a few years ago. But then I heard something interesting: you shouldn’t let your actions be controlled by what others say, because they will say it no matter what you do. And I heard on a talk show that it’s never too late to change your life. Not even at seventy.”
“That’s modern.”
“Just like me,” said Rea.
It was time. Dimitris pushed himself off the sofa, knelt on his good knee, and took the black velveteen box from his pocket. “Will you be my wife?”
Rea covered her mouth with her hand. Her eyes glassed. She looked out the window, toward the children who were now sticking carrots in the faces of the snowmen. “I . . . I . . . ”
He had misjudged. She didn’t want to marry after all. He had upset her. “Don’t worry, Rea, I didn’t really think—”
“I thought you’d never ask,” she said. “Of course I will.”
She leaned down to him, cupped his cheeks in her palms, and gave him the open-mouth kiss of which he had been dreaming for years. When his knee began to ache, he sat beside her on the sofa and asked the even bigger question: “But will Kosmas give his permission?”
“Why in the good world would I need his permission?” said Rea. “I’m over seventy. Can’t I make my own decisions?”
“And your widow’s honor?”
“To hell with widow’s honor,” she said.
24
Intervention
“Better,” said perihan, the tango instructor. She was so short that she didn’t even reach Kosmas’s chest. “An improvement, but . . . ”
This was the part of the Sunday lesson that Kosmas hated most. Every Tuesday evening he participated in a group tango lesson, and every Sunday evening he did a private with Perihan. Both took place in the penthouse dance studio at which Kosmas had attended his first milonga with Daphne. So far, he had mastered the walk, the embrace, turns, and basic pivots. At the end of each private session, Perihan would choose one of her favorite songs and order Kosmas to lead her. A thorough critique followed.
They were standing in the middle of the dance floor. Perihan slid her pointy tortoiseshell glasses up her nose and said, “That sacado was nice the first time. Beautifully executed. But then you did it three more times. You see, tango is like dating.”
Kosmas had already learned to expect outrageous statements from Perihan.
She put her hands on her hips. “When a man does something once, it’s nice. But four times? Boring!”
He protested: “But you said I had to dance to the end of the song. I’m just a beginner. I don’t know enough moves not to be repetitious.”
“I guess we need to keep working,” said Perihan.
Kosmas changed out of his new suede dance shoes, thanked Perihan, and hurried down the stairwell. Before he reached the door, his phone began ringing with a Skype tone. Daphne appeared on his little screen. He could tell that she had just washed and styled her hair: it shone in the sunlight of her balcony. “Congratulations,” she said. “They make the perfect couple.”
“You know already?”
“My aunt just called. Apparently the news is a few days old. I’m surprised you didn’t tell me yourself.”
She was right. He should have told her. But he had been avoiding any thought of his mother’s engagement. “It’s been a little overwhelming. I haven’t really digested the whole thing.”
“You’re not happy for her?”
“Of course I am. Dimitris is a good guy. But I’m even happier that you called. How are the Valentine roses? Holding up?”
“Still beautiful. Thanks again.” Daphne took a sip from a big American mug. “My aunt also said that Mr. Fanis is having a fling with Selin.”
“Mr. Fanis does have a certain reputation,” said Kosmas.
“That’s Istanbul gossip for you. Selin says he’s been a perfect gentleman. He hasn’t even tried to flirt with her. She’s almost starting to feel unattractive.”
“How about you? Do you miss flirting?”
The screen froze. Damned Skype. It always chose the worst moments to malfunction. “There is a problem with the call,” the message said. “Hang on while we try to get it back.” The little white dots bubbled, and then Daphne reappeared, holding up her passport. “I’m a Turkish citizen now.”
The stress and exhaustion brought on by the lesson, as well as the sudden good news, overwhelmed Kosmas. He sank onto the stairs. “That’s so exciting. Congratulations.”
“Thanks. How’s the Balkanik coming along?”
Between caring for his mother and working, Kosmas had managed to translate the recipe into something he could use. He now understood the general construction: the Balkanik was a long hollow pastry with a consistency that fell somewhere between that of an éclair and a sponge cake. It was filled with lightly flavored creams: chocolate, vanilla, cardamom, rose, pistachio, saffron, mastic gum, orchid root. The creams were piped one beside another, but not mixed. Finally, the filled pastry was glazed, carefully coiled into a snail-shell shape, and reglazed. The replication, however, was not easy. The wheat of the early 1900s was not the wheat of 2011, as Fanis often said. Hamdi’s measurements were inexact, his cooking times nonexistent, and a few terms escaped Kosmas’s comprehension. Even so, Kosmas was getting close.
“Super,” he said, trying to sound confident. “I’m sure I’ll have it perfected soon. And I’ve got more good news. After Easter we’re taking over the next-door shop space. We’re going to double the Lily’s size.”
“Hayırlısı,” said Daphne. May it turn out for the best. Then she added, “What about Easter? Are you finally going to use your ticket?”
“I’m trying, my love. I’m even interviewing assistants, but I haven’t found anyone yet.”
“You know, I was thinking about something you said when we were at the Galata Tower. You said our love had to be steadfast, and you were completely right. I was an idiot for crying over Paul. But now I’m wondering if the issue is more than work. Perhaps it’s still your mother.”
How could she have hit that back at him?
“Absolutely not,” said Kosmas. “Believe me, I’m trying hard to find another pâtissier to help out. It’s just that my standards are high. You know that.”
“Tamam.” She blew him a kiss and waited. Kosmas also waited. Daphn
e hadn’t said it first in a week, but he desperately wanted to hear it: the first “I love you,” not just the reply.
“Have a good night, then,” she said. “We’ll talk in the morning.”
He started to say “I love you,” but she had already hung up.
On February 25, Kosmas readied a box of macaroons, asked one of Fanis’s neighbors to allow him in when the doorbell went unanswered, climbed Fanis’s four flights of stairs, and knocked at the apartment door.
“Who’s there?” Fanis asked.
“It’s me, Kosmas.”
Fanis opened. He wore an old-fashioned navy smoking jacket belted at his waist. “Ah, Kosmaki . . . come in. What are you doing here?”
Kosmas held out the box of pastries. “I thought you might like a visit.”
“Perfect! I just made a pot of tea. Have a seat!”
While Fanis bustled about in the kitchen, Kosmas noticed a men’s corset that had been carelessly thrown onto a side table. Well, well. Apparently Fanis hadn’t shared all his beauty tricks.
Kosmas sat down in the oriel just before Fanis returned with the tea. “Aren’t you engaged yet?” Fanis asked.
“Excuse me?”
Fanis poured the tea into gold-rimmed porcelain cups. “I’m a gracious loser.”
“Selin seems more your type, anyway,” said Kosmas, glancing at the corset.
“Selin is a friend.”
“Sure, Mr. Fanis. Whatever you say.”
Fanis sighed and shook his head. “How’s the professeur?”
“Still a bit angry, but he’ll get over it.”
“And the ladies?”
“Aliki will probably need some time.”
“Tell me about Daphne, then.”
Kosmas cracked his thumb. “Things have cooled down a little . . . because of my mother.” He took a tissue from his man bag and wiped the sweat on his forehead. Ever since Rea’s crisis, Kosmas had been having more and more of these moments. His heart raced. He sweated excessively. For a few minutes, he would feel like he had entirely lost control of his life, and then, slowly, he would regain his perspective, but the fear of losing Daphne never left him.
“I’d do anything for her, Mr. Fanis,” he said. “Anything. I’ve even been taking Argentine tango lessons so I can surprise her, and I’m looking for an apartment, but still, if she and my mother can’t get along, none of it will help.”
Fanis sighed. “Mothers.” His eyes wandered over his eclectic antique furniture and settled on the corset. He sprang to his feet and threw it into the sideboard cabinet. “Excuse my untidiness,” he said.
Pretending not to have noticed, Kosmas said, “Did Selin tell you that Daphne’s father is Ottoman? It doesn’t bother me, but my mother—I’m worried.”
Fanis reassumed both his seat and his philosopher’s expression. “You get over your mother, and she’ll get over the Ottoman father. I know what I’m talking about. You see, I was in love with a girl once. At a crucial moment, my mother convinced me not to go see her. I think my mother’s motives were good, but of course I shouldn’t have listened. That mistake cost me dearly.”
Kosmas downed half his tea, almost as if it were raki, and made a second confession: “Mr. Dimitris is moving in next week.”
“You see? Rea gets over you quite quickly when she wants to. Bravery and brass: that’s what life requires, son. You’ve got to stand up to your mama, no matter how much she faints.” Fanis leaned over the arm of his chair. “Listen. I’ll tell you a little secret, even though I swore not to tell anyone. Daphne is coming for Easter. She’s arriving on her name day.”
“Palm Sunday?” Kosmas stood. “But just last week she was asking if I’d go to Miami.”
“Perhaps she gave up on you. Anyway, her father bought her a ticket so that she could visit again and see how she feels before she gives up everything there. Selin said I wasn’t to tell anyone, but I’ve never been very good at keeping secrets. Of that nature, at least. Now drink your tea and let’s talk about something else, like your tango lessons. Maybe I’ll give it a try.”
“Don’t,” said Kosmas. He retook his seat, but his right foot began tapping nervously. “It’s absolutely excruciating. It takes hours and hours just to learn the tiniest thing. The couples argue, and the singles are all looking for dates or at least a cheap feel—”
“Really?” said Fanis, widening his eyes. “Even the women?”
“Even the women.”
Fanis bit his lower lip and raised his shoulders. “So it’s like wife-swapping, but with your clothes on?”
“I guess you could put it that way.”
“Sounds like great fun.”
“No, Mr. Fanis. It’s like wearing a starched shirt—stiff and annoying as hell. I’m doing it for Daphne.”
“There’s only one thing that you need to do for her.”
“Thanks for the tea. With your permission . . . I’ve got to talk to my mother.”
“With my blessings,” said Fanis.
Kosmas rushed home. As he was chaining the Vespa to a lamppost opposite his mother’s barred window, he heard a familiar voice say in Greek, “Just in time for tea!”
Kosmas looked up. Dimitris was standing on his doorstep with a bag of groceries. “What’s up, son?” he said. “You look like you’ve been hit by a storm.”
Kosmas tried to swallow, but his throat was too dry. “Has my mother said anything to you about . . . Daphne’s father?”
Dimitris placed his hand on Kosmas’s forearm. “What? That he’s Ottoman? Son, I’m a journalist. It’s my job never to forget a name or a face. I’ve known all along, and I can tell you that Ilyas Badem is a fine man.”
“You knew?” Kosmas couldn’t believe it. And yet . . . hadn’t Daphne said something about Dimitris and her father when they were at Madame Kyveli’s?
Dimitris winked. “I usually try to stay out of this stuff, but—if you’d like—I’ll put in a good word.”
“Yeia sto stoma sas, Mr. Dimitris.” Health to your mouth.
Kosmas followed him inside the apartment. In the kitchen, they found Rea already mixing coffee and water in a copper pot. A plate of chocolates sat in the middle of the two-seater linoleum table: she had obviously been expecting her fiancé. “Mama, I need to talk to you,” said Kosmas, nervously snatching a chocolate. “About Daphne.”
Rea turned to Kosmas while stirring the coffee briskly with a metal spoon. Kosmas could almost hear the damage to the pot’s tin lining.
“I thought we’d settled this,” she said.
Kosmas put the chocolate in his mouth and mumbled, “She’s coming for Easter.”
Rea tossed the spoon into the sink. Behind her, the already lit gas burner hissed. “I thought you didn’t eat sweets at home,” she said.
“Tatlı yiyelim, tatlı konuşalım,” said Kosmas, in an effort to lighten the mood. It was one of his mother’s favorite Turkish expressions: Let’s eat sweets and speak sweetly.
“Is that even possible?” said Rea, staring hard at Kosmas. “With this subject?”
Dimitris pushed past Kosmas, forcing him back to the doorway. There wasn’t enough room in that kitchen for three. Dimitris kissed Rea’s cheek with a loud smack, just as one did to make babies laugh. The kiss had a similar effect on Rea: she smiled despite her annoyance.
“Love of my life,” said Dimitris, “you know I don’t like squeezing into your relationship with Kosmas, but there’s something you should know. Have a seat.”
Rea set the coffee pot on the burner, pulled a creaky kitchen chair all the way to the door, and sat. Kosmas had to take a step into the hallway so that he wasn’t hovering directly above his mother.
Dimitris continued: “In 1963, when I was a young reporter and things were heating up in Cyprus, I used to go to the Hilton regularly for tea. Ilyas Badem always took care of us. One evening some nationalist bastard—who had obviously been drinking—walked into the tea room, grabbed me by the collar, and called me a filthy Rum instigator.
I hadn’t even been covering Cyprus then. So you see how ridiculous the whole thing was.” Dimitris glanced at the coffee. “Anyway, Ilyas called two of his doormen and threw the guy out. He gave instructions never to let the man into the Hilton again, and later he apologized to me.”
Dimitris served Rea and Kosmas their coffee and began mixing a third for himself. “What I’m saying,” he said, “is that you should be proud your son is in love with the daughter of Ilyas Badem.”
Rea lifted her cup from the saucer and mopped up the coffee that had spilled on the way from the counter to the table.
“I know it’s hard,” said Dimitris, “but sometimes you’ve just got to let go. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to use the bathroom. Kosmaki, you’ll mind my coffee, won’t you?”
As soon as Dimitris had gone, Kosmas set his coffee on the table and sat in the empty chair opposite his mother. “Mama,” he said, “I congratulated you when you got engaged.”
Rea ran her fingers over the leaves of the new African violet that Kosmas had bought her as a get-well gift. It was almost as if she was seeking solace in their softness. She said, “It’s not the same thing.”
“Mama, please.”
Rea looked up at Kosmas. Her eyes were full of tears. Kosmas understood the battle going on inside her, the struggle between identity and humanity. Knowing that he was the cause of that turmoil broke his heart.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know.”
25
Bride Unwedded
For a few weeks after their falling-out, Fanis did not see or speak with Julien or Aliki, and his communication with Gavriela was confined to brief small talk at the supermarket or in the Panagia’s narthex. When Gavriela called one morning in early March and asked if she could accompany him to the Salutations to the All-Holy Mother—the first of the five Lenten services—Fanis decided it was time to forgive. After all, how would he take Holy Communion at the Easter Resurrection service if he were still angry with his friends?
The following Friday afternoon, as Gavriela and Fanis climbed Yeni Çarşı Street, it began to drizzle. “Good heavens,” said Fanis. “The weather report said nothing of rain.”
A Recipe for Daphne Page 26