“And I just had my hair done,” said Gavriela. She pulled a plastic rain bonnet from her purse and tied it around her chin.
On the corner of Yeni Çarşı Street and the Grand Avenue, boys holding buckets of clear plastic umbrellas shouted, “Umbrella, umbrella! Ladies and gentlemen, come on over!”
Fanis bought one and held it over Gavriela. Then he remembered that he wanted to buy a box of cinnamon lokum. He’d been feeling dizzy lately, and sugar always seemed to help. He looked at his watch: four thirty-five. Since his trainee would be at the church, however, it wouldn’t matter if they were a few minutes late. “Let’s stop quickly at Muharrem’s,” he said. “On the way, you can catch me up on Kosmas and Daphne.”
“That crosspatch Rea is trying to break them up,” said Gavriela. “It’s not that I don’t understand her point of view. I wasn’t happy when my sister married an Ottoman. But this is different. It isn’t about religion at all. Rea just wants Kosmas all to herself.”
“I can’t say I haven’t suspected the same thing.”
“Daphne’s like a daughter to me, Fanis.” Gavriela made her characteristic hissing sound. “I had such high hopes that she might come home. But Rea’s going to ruin it for all of us.”
“Come, come,” said Fanis, as they hurried past fish tables and shop fronts illumined by single bulbs dangling into the gray Istanbul evening. “Don’t see everything black. She’s coming for Easter at least.”
“That’s just a visit,” said Gavriela, with her eyes on the cobblestones. “Only eight days. I want forever.”
They stopped beneath the awning of Muharrem’s sweet shop. With her eyes fixed now on the baklava trays in the display case, Gavriela said, “Listen, Fanis, I’m sorry about what I said at Neighbor’s House. It was such a shock for us.”
“Never mind,” said Fanis. “It’s flattering, really, that you supposed us to be a couple.”
“We’re all sorry, especially Julien. He told me to tell you so.”
“Why doesn’t he tell me himself?”
“He’s embarrassed. Especially given his record with women. But he wanted you to come to Neighbor’s House after the Salutations. He said he’d call and invite Selin.”
Fanis glanced at his watch: a quarter to five. He put his hand on the damp shoulder of Gavriela’s wool coat. “Past and forgotten. Come, let’s say hello to Muharrem and pick up the lokum. Otherwise we’ll be late to church.”
The Akathist was Fanis’s favorite service. He was overwhelmed by its melancholy exultation, its literary beauty, and its use of rhyme, assonance, bold simile, and alliteration. Upon arrival at the church, he quickly slipped on his scratchy black polyester robe—a good protection against the church’s damp, chilly air—and joined his young trainee, Pandelis, at the cantor’s stand. At the end of the priest’s apolytikion, Fanis swung the music stand toward the boy and said, “Yours, son.”
Pandelis chanted the initial troparion alone while Fanis held a drone note to enrich the celebratory melody: “I shall open my mouth and it shall be filled with the Spirit . . .”
Pandelis’s voice was sweet, but Fanis immediately understood why the Patriarchate had sent him: he was an acrobat afraid to fall. A cantor had to be a swimmer, not a trapeze artist; he had to immerse himself and swim in the notes, not jump from one to the next.
Fanis whispered to the boy, “Instead of trying to hit the right notes, settle deep within yourself and let the chant flow out.”
Apart from being Fanis’s favorite service, the Akathist was also one of the rare hymns to which the women parishioners chanted along with the cantors. And yet Fanis did not hear Gavriela joining in. He discreetly peered over the back of the stand and saw her sniffling and dabbing her eyes. Was she weeping? She had seemed fine on their walk through the Fish Bazaar. Fanis nodded to Pandelis and approached Gavriela. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Daphne called today,” said Gavriela. “I didn’t want to say anything, but . . . she was rejected by Istanbul and Boğaziçi universities. And since Kosmas hasn’t rescheduled his trip, I’m afraid she might be reconsidering her decision to move here.”
The priest finished the first set of Salutations. Pandelis chanted, “Rejoice, Bride unwedded.” His voice was more optimistic. A definite improvement.
Fanis put his hand on Gavriela’s shoulder. “But she applied to Bilgi, too, didn’t she? And things could change with Kosmas. Listen, we’ll talk later, I have to—”
“What if none of our young people return?” Gavriela sobbed. “Is this the end of our community?”
Fanis had to think of something to calm her down. “The Patriarch says we should believe in renewal. Not just hope for it, but believe in it.”
“My husband says that the Patriarch sells fairytales,” returned Gavriela. She blew her nose. “But I want to believe.”
Fanis squeezed her shoulder. “It’ll all work out, Gavriela. For Daphne, for all of us. We must have faith.”
The rain had started coming down even harder while they were inside the church. In the Grand Avenue and Yeni Çarşı Street, Gavriela and Fanis had managed to walk single-file beneath shop awnings, but, upon entering Çukurcuma, they were forced to huddle beneath the umbrella. “Aliki’s playing bridge with her girlfriends today,” said Gavriela, as they climbed the steps leading to Neighbor’s House.
“Didn’t want to see me, I suppose?”
“She will. Eventually.”
“And Rea?”
“She’ll come later with Dimitris. Aliki said they went to Holy Trinity today. To see the bishop. Νot to avoid you, of course.”
They hurried past the budding acacia trees of the mosque’s square and turned the corner to Neighbor’s House. As Fanis held the door for Gavriela, the half-comforting, half-nauseating odor of the tea garden’s factory-prepared cookies wafted out into the damp evening. Wiping his feet on the mat, Fanis realized that the piano music he heard—“La Vie en rose”—was live. Normally they played soft jazz in the indoor space, while the outdoor area was pleasantly quiet, apart from the traffic in Sıraselviler Avenue.
Fanis dropped his umbrella into the holder by the entrance and followed Gavriela to the back room. Near the door to the toilets, they found Julien playing an upright piano. Selin, wearing a red beret, was sitting on the piano bench beside him and singing along to Edith Piaf’s “La Vie en rose.”
Seeing her, Fanis felt at once blessed to have Selin as a friend and jealous of her attachment to Julien. To hide the latter, he said in Turkish, “Since when did Neighbor’s House become a concert hall?”
Gavriela carefully peeled off her rain hat. “The new manager bought the piano last week,” she said. “The professeur thinks his playing charms the ladies.”
Julien brought the piece to an early finish, stood, and held out his hand to Fanis. “Finally remembered us?”
Fanis pulled Julien close for a double cheek kiss. His friend’s skin exuded the sweet, rotting odor of whiskey. “I never forgot you,” Fanis said.
“You swear you and my kid are just friends?”
This, Fanis surmised, was Julien’s attempt at reconciliation. “I give you my word.”
They made for the tables by the window overlooking the garden, hung their coats on the wall hooks, and settled in. “On the way over here,” said Fanis, switching into Turkish for Selin, “I was thinking that we need to help poor Kosmas with that mother of his.”
“That’s gallant of you,” said Julien.
“I want Kosmas to be happy. Still, I can’t figure out what to do with Rea.”
“She needs an education,” said Selin.
“An education?” said Fanis.
A chilly draft blew into the back room. Fanis shivered: his shoes and socks were wet. He hoped he wouldn’t catch a cold. Seeing him quiver, Selin took off her wool scarf, wrapped it twice around Fanis’s neck, and said, “Rea needs to learn something about genetics. The various peoples of Turkey are not so different. Genetically, anyway.”
&
nbsp; “Where did you hear that?” said Gavriela.
“I read a study about it on the internet.”
Fanis opened an unbleached paper tube of brown sugar and dumped it into the tea just delivered by Emine. “You can’t believe everything you see on a computer screen,” he said.
“This was a serious university study,” said Selin. She took her iPad from her handbag and handed it to Fanis. With Julien and Gavriela crowding toward him, he skimmed the text, swept his finger over the screen, and came to a map of Europe dotted with pie charts. Greece and Turkey had almost identical DNA frequencies: balanced pinwheels of orange, green, red, black, and yellow.
“And?” he said.
“Look at the key,” said Selin, pointing. “The light green represents the Minoan Greek gene. The Greeks have the same amount of that as the Turks. The black is Caucasian and Greco-Anatolian. The dark green is Arab and Jewish, the yellow Mycenaean Greek. The orange is also Mediterranean, and the red represents Hittite and Armenian.”
Fanis set the iPad on the table. “Do you mean to say . . . that the Turks are almost as indigenous as we are?”
“Yes,” said Selin.
“Nonsense,” said Gavriela. “I don’t believe a word.”
Fanis stirred his tea, took a sip of its hot, sugary bitterness, and said, “Neither do I.”
Julien took the iPad and looked at the charts through his bifocals. “So the Turks aren’t Turks?”
“Depends,” said Selin. “If you define Modern Turks as the people of Turkey, then of course Turks are Turks. But that doesn’t mean everyone is a thoroughbred descendant of Central Asian nomads.”
Fanis heard a tremolo of glass and porcelain and turned to see Dimitris approaching with two teas, a third of which had already spilled onto the tray.
“Where’s Rea?” said Julien.
“Right behind me.” Dimitris set down the tray and shooed the cat from a chair.
Fanis noticed that Dimitris’s formerly yellow claws had healed into clear, neat nails—perhaps as a result of the apple-cider-vinegar treatment that Rea had imposed. Love was working miracles.
A cane snapped on the laminate floor, heralding Rea’s appearance in the passageway. Fanis was surprised by how youthful Rea looked. He almost wondered if she was doing those poisonous injections called something like buttocks.
“How’s your health, Rea?” said Julien.
Rea hung her cane on the back of the chair that Dimitris held for her at the head of the joined tables. Fanis glanced at Gavriela: she was looking out the window at the flooded garden, as if even the sight of Rea was unbearable.
“O gegonen gegonen,” said Rea, using an Ancient Greek expression. “What happened happened. But it’s not likely to happen again. The doctors say I’m not even anemic anymore, with all the liver and onions that my fiancé fries for me.”
Fanis and Selin exchanged a glance. “Thank God,” said Fanis.
“And the wedding?” said Selin.
“No rush.” Rea’s new peacock-feather barrette—miraculously untouched by the rain—bobbed as she spoke.
Selin pronounced the standard Turkish wish: “Allah bir yastıkta kocatsın.” May you grow old on the same pillow.
“I’m all for the same pillow,” said Julien. “But old . . . who wants it?”
“Speak for yourself,” said Rea. “If you could take the physical problems away—the bad knees, the swollen ankles, the illness—I’ve never been happier. I like making my own decisions. I never did that before my husband died.”
Emine delivered a plate of almond cookies on the house. Fanis smiled at her, graciously took a cookie, and said to Rea, “I went by the Lily yesterday. Kosmas said he rented an apartment. That must give you some peace of mind, Rea, knowing he’s settled, but nearby?”
Rea turned abruptly toward Fanis. Dimitris explained in a whisper, “Rea is traditional. She doesn’t think her son should move out until he’s married.”
Fanis looked to Selin, who always knew how to remedy a difficult situation. She winked at Fanis, fingered the edge of the white-work collar peeking out from beneath Rea’s cardigan, and said, “I adore your blouse.”
“It’s broderie anglaise,” said Rea. “They say I do an excellent satin stitch.”
“You did it yourself?”
Rea took a deep breath through her nose and nodded. The peacock feather bowed like a graceful ballerina. Now that a little flattery had put Rea in better spirits, Fanis slid the iPad over the table. He said, “We’ve been doing some reading about genetics.”
“Genetics?”
Fanis showed Rea the multicolored pie charts of haplotype distributions across Europe and Turkey. “It’s a little disconcerting, but . . . look at the colors. What do you notice if you compare the Greek and Turkish charts?”
The vein on Rea’s neck throbbed. “What would I know about reading charts?” she said.
“Look, dear,” said Fanis. “Just compare them as if they were cakes.”
“They’re almost the same,” said Rea.
“Exactly,” said Selin. “See the green and black? That’s Ancient Greek. The Turks have almost as much of it as the Greeks.”
“The sliver of yellow is the Central Asian element,” said Julien, raising his eyebrows as if he didn’t believe his own words. “Apparently they don’t have too much of it.”
“Your point is?” said Rea.
“The point,” said Selin, “is that, genetically speaking, nobody is any one thing.”
Rea set the iPad down. “Of course,” she said. “The Ottomans forced so many Christians to convert. That’s how they got our genes.”
“In fact,” said Selin, “many Christians and Jews converted willingly. Out of interest.”
“It’s true,” said Dimitris. “The historians say there were more Rums fighting for the Ottomans outside the City walls than there were defending it from the inside in 1453. When you get right down to it, all our conflicts and wars are really just the same sort of infighting that has been occurring since Homeric times.”
“Where are you going with this?” Rea asked.
“It’s unsettling,” said Fanis, “but it seems that when we call them ‘Ottomans,’ we’re not really talking about an entirely different race. Just a different religion.”
“But that different religion makes all the difference in the world in their eyes, Fanis. You of all people should know that.”
Fanis ignored Rea’s reference to Kalypso. He had to stay focused. “And if the religion doesn’t differ at all?” he asked.
Gavriela, who had, until then, followed the conversation with her lips pressed tightly together, now snapped her gloves on her lap and said, “And if the religion is the same? What’s the problem then, Rea?”
“The problem,” said Rea, her whole body trembling like Dimitris’s hands, “is that we’re second-class citizens. I don’t know where you found those charts Fanis, but you can’t wipe away all that’s happened to us!”
“Ι understand your feelings, Madame Rea,” said Selin. “During World War Two one of my great uncles was hit hard by the Capitol Tax against non-Muslims and sent to a labor camp in the east. He got very sick and almost died. It’s not easy for my parents to forget that.”
“They shouldn’t,” said Rea.
“But,” said Selin, “nobody under sixty participated in that stuff—neither the Capitol Tax, nor the pogrom of ’fifty-five, nor even in the expulsions and nationalistic pressures of the sixties and seventies. And not everybody over sixty participated, either. Many of them supported us.”
“She’s right,” said Fanis. “What it really comes down to is this, dear Rea. Daphne’s father had nothing to do with what happened. He wouldn’t have married a Rum if he had. So why are you holding Daphne responsible?”
“Please. Stop,” Rea pleaded. “I don’t want to lose my son.”
Fanis put his hand on her shoulder and said, “If you keep going like this, you will.”
26
; The Tomb of a Goddess
A week before daphne’s arrival, Fanis realized he was out of drinking water. He placed an order, but he knew that the service could take all day, so he put on his coat and went down to the minimart. Its Anatolian proprietress was sitting on her doorstep with her chin in her palm, probably waiting for her grandchildren, who came every afternoon to play with the balls kept in a net pinned to the shop’s exterior wall.
“Welcome, Uncle,” she said.
Fanis gritted his teeth at the respectful title, mumbled a “Well we find you,” and scanned the crates of onions, tomatoes, lemons, and potatoes lying on the sidewalk. He asked for a half-liter bottle of water.
After finishing his errand, he should have gone straight home. Instead he moved on toward the inevitable. He looked frequently over his shoulder to make sure that the next truck did not flatten him like roadkill. He turned into Ağa Hamamı Street and continued walking until he arrived at the dreaded cul-de-sac. For years his heart had been breaking whenever he unwittingly caught sight of the satellite dishes, crumbling stairs, corrugated plastic sheets installed as awnings, and other signs that the mansions of Kalypso’s street had become poor tenements. On that day, however, he received an even greater shock: the exterior of the wooden house where she had lived had been completely renovated. Its front stairs had been redone with new marble, its corroding door replaced with a steel security door painted bright green, and its shingles varnished to a shine he had not seen in over fifty years. Fanis ascended the alley. Two little girls sitting in the doorway of another house giggled. They were probably laughing at him, a short old man turning in circles and looking up at those houses as if he were lost not in space, but in time.
Fanis returned home and went straight to his mother’s room, which he maintained exactly as it had been during her lifetime. He sat down on the violet-embroidered coverlet that his mother had made before she was married. Above the headboard, in a heavy, gold-painted frame was a vista of the Bosporus lined with pine trees. On the nightstand was his parents’ wedding photograph, taken on the steps of the Panagia. He knew that if he looked into the armoire, he would find all his mother’s clothes protected by prodigious amounts of naphthalene and lavender. Since her death he had not dared open it even once.
A Recipe for Daphne Page 27