A Recipe for Daphne

by Nektaria Anastasiadou

  Daphne removed the coffee cup and sugar bowl from the soiled runner.

  “What . . . ?” said Sultana. “Coffee on my favorite piece? Oh, don’t bunch it up and make it worse. I’ll take care of it.”

  “I’m leaving,” said Daphne.

  “One last thing. I don’t want you listening too much to my older sister while you’re staying with her. She’s always giving advice, like she’s better than everyone else.”

  “And you never give advice, do you, Mom?”

  “Üf!” said Sultana, jamming her half-smoked cigarette into the silver ashtray. “It’s an evil hour when you open your mouth! You’re just like your aunt.”

  *

  On Daphne’s first Sunday in Istanbul, three days after her arrival, she lazed in bed, looking through the window at the dark, flat clouds covering the sky. She thought of the Sunday brunches that Paul always prepared while she enjoyed her last hour of sleep: omelets and quiches, crêpes, coffee cake, cappuccino, fresh orange juice. . . . There was nothing he didn’t do. Perhaps going to Istanbul alone had been the wrong decision. Perhaps what they needed wasn’t time apart, but time away together.

  Aunt Gavriela knocked softly on the bedroom door, tiptoed inside, and kissed Daphne on the forehead. “How about I make a good Turkish breakfast?”

  Daphne followed her aunt to the kitchen, which was really no more than a closet with an oven, a sink, and a small barred window that opened onto an air shaft. She inhaled its distinctive scent: Turkish coffee, cinnamon, garlic, and naphthalene. As much as Sultana and Gavriela pretended to be different from one another, their kitchens smelled exactly the same.

  Gavriela took a pot from the squeaky cupboard and began pumping water into it from the nineteen-liter plastic demijohn that took up half the kitchen’s narrow walking space: a necessity since Istanbul’s tap water was “full of rust and chlorine,” as Gavriela had explained when Daphne first arrived.

  “Can I do anything?” said Daphne. She felt like she was moving through a thick gray cloud of semi-sleep, but her mother had taught her always to offer help in the kitchen.

  “Go get the eggs from the refrigerator,” said Gavriela. “Then we’ll chat.”

  Daphne turned the corner of the L-shaped hallway and entered a small, dark room. In one corner was the household iconostasis with its holy images, photos of dead relatives, and an always-lit vigil lamp that seemed a rather risky thing to have in a country plagued by earthquakes. In the opposite corner was a large 1960s American refrigerator. Daphne took the eggs from the middle compartment and brought them to her aunt.

  “I can’t understand that room,” she said. “What’s the point?”

  “The maid’s room, from back when the apartment belonged to a Jewish family.” Gavriela pointed to the red plastic stool in the kitchen doorway. “Now have a seat.”

  Daphne leaned her jet-lagged head on the kitchen door. Gavriela turned on one of the burners and pulled the trigger of the handheld gas igniter. The blue flame encircled the burner with a soft ripping sound. “A good house had everything,” she said.

  “Including a closet-sized kitchen? Why don’t you knock down the wall and combine the two rooms?”

  “What for? In those big American kitchens you have over there, nobody makes a damn thing worth eating, if they ever use them at all. It’s not the space that matters. It’s the hands. Didn’t my little sister teach you anything?”

  “She didn’t have time. Not with working six days a week in the fabric shop.”

  Gavriela combined coffee, sugar, and water in a small bronze coffee pot and set it on the burner. “We can fix that,” she said. “You drink Turkish coffee, don’t you?”

  “Only when Mom makes it. For me it’s too much trouble.”

  Gavriela clicked her tongue in disapproval. “Because you’re my niece, I’ll tell you my secret, but you can’t tell anyone, not even your mother.” She ceased her relentless chewing of mastic gum and lowered her voice: “I mix Turkish Mehmet Efendi and Greek Loumidis. Mehmet’s too dark and Loumidis too light, but together they’re divine.”

  “Half and half,” said Daphne. “Like me.”

  “That’s why you’re both so tasty,” said Gavriela, pinching Daphne’s cheek. “You have to hover over the pot while it’s heating, always on low flame. The second you look away it will boil, and then you’ve got to dump it into the toilet. Look there it goes, foaming up.” Gavriela whisked the pot from the flame, poured the contents into a demitasse cup, and handed it to Daphne. “Lots of bubbles. That means money. Or jealousy.”

  “Which one?”

  “Whichever you want.”

  After waiting for the coffee to settle and cool, Daphne took a tiny sip and leaned her head back on the door. Although she didn’t like the fuss, she had to admit that her aunt’s brew was far smoother—friendlier, homier even—than the Cuban espresso she brewed at home in a moka pot.

  “What’s that ringing?” said Gavriela.

  The muffled electronic tune was coming from the pay-as-you-go phone Daphne had bought at the airport. She set her coffee on the counter and rushed to the foyer, where she had left it. “Hello?”

  “Hey, babe,” said Paul. “How are you?”

  Daphne felt the warmth of their first days together. Maybe the relationship crisis was all in her head. Maybe he did love her, after all. “Still jet-lagged,” she said.

  “You’ll get over it soon.”

  “I was thinking, maybe you’d like to come here.”

  “Hmm . . . maybe. I changed all the pipes in the garage today. We’ll never have to worry about the bathroom clogging up again. I installed special filters that are super-easy to change.”

  Daphne sank into the foyer armchair. Paul always made her feel so secure about the house and daily problems. If only he did the same on an emotional level. “Thanks. You’re the best. But you didn’t answer my question.”

  “The cat misses you.”

  “And you?”

  “You only just left. How are things there? Are you having a good time?”

  Daphne felt a surge of annoyance. “You were the one who wanted space. Are you having a good time?”

  He sighed. “Needing space doesn’t mean I don’t want you.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “I just enjoy my alone time. I can blast the music, do my house jobs, get back to my pottery.”

  Paul’s second hobby, after tango, was potting. He’d made all their dinner ware, coffee mugs, and plenty of objets d’art, including the ceramic pomegranates on Gavriela’s entryway coffee table. “My aunt says thank you for the pomegranates,” she said.

  “My pleasure. You know, I’m really glad you’re going to do those Turkish classes. I want you to realize your goals—even if that means a few sacrifices for me. Go all the way, Daph. Apply for those PhD programs as soon as you get back.”

  “Thanks,” said Daphne. Yet she was unable to strangle her irritation.

  “You know, I missed dancing with you tonight.”

  For a moment Daphne allowed herself to remember Paul’s clear and gentle lead, as well as his keen musicality, weaving itself into the song. He was one of the rare cavaliers who danced both rhythm and melody equally well. “Where did you go?” she asked.

  “La Porteñita. Everybody was asking about you. They all say hello: Helena, Lillian, Steve, Luciana—”

  “The Brazilian? Did you dance with her?”

  “Just once.”

  “Just once?” Daphne tried to keep her voice down so that Gavriela wouldn’t overhear. “You’re ruining tango for me. It used to be our th—”

  “Daph, please. If something was going on, would she be sending her regards?”

  “You know how I feel about her.”

  “I danced with her. I didn’t screw her.”

  Daphne took a deep breath and released it. “I have to go. I’m cooking with my aunt.”

  “You cook?”

  “I do now.”

  “Call me t
onight.”

  “If I can.”

  “Love you, babe.”

  Love you. Not I love you. She wasn’t even worth a complete sentence.

  “Me too.” Daphne snapped the flip phone shut, replaced it in her purse, and noticed the business card Kosmas had given her the day before. In the upper left corner was the pâtisserie’s logo, a flamboyant lily. Beneath the name was a list of degrees, followed by his culinary institute title, a German word she couldn’t pronounce, and a gold symbol that looked like a falling cake, but which was probably an abstract chef’s hat. Impressive. But why had he given it to her? He obviously wasn’t interested in her or he would have asked for her number. Perhaps he was just overly enthusiastic about advertising his business. Daphne returned to the kitchen and stuffed the card into the tiny white plastic trash bin that her aunt kept on top of the counter.

  “Who was that?” said Gavriela.

  Daphne finished her coffee. “My boyfriend.”

  “You have a boyfriend?”

  “Paul.”

  Gavriela turned down the flame beneath a pot of boiling eggs. “Rum?”

  “American.”

  “American-American?”

  “American-American. English only.”

  Gavriela grunted, took a bunch of parsley from the vase of cut herbs, and said, “You’d be better off with a Rum.”

  “Are you trying to reclaim me?”

  “That’s not what I meant. It’s just better to find someone who shares your language and religion, that’s all.”

  Daphne began washing her coffee cup. “And where would I find him? Most are in the Baloukli Nursing Home already.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” said Gavriela. She opened the oven and took out a baking tray covered with bright green papery things. “Celery-root leaf. You dry it in the oven and then grind it up to season your soups and stews. Did your mother teach you that?”

  Daphne sat back down on the stool and toyed with the tiny icon of the Holy Mother dangling from a door handle. “No.”

  “Tell me more about this Paul.” Gavriela tossed the celery leaves into a mini-blender. “What does he do?”

  “He’s a math teacher.”

  “A teacher? Now I know your mother didn’t teach you anything.”

  “He’s a nice guy. He takes care of everything in the house, cooks, brings me flowers—”

  “Flowers? Flowers you can buy yourself. You need a man who puts both hands in his pockets for you, little mama, not just one. A teacher isn’t going to do that.”

  Daphne suddenly felt defensive. She had always admired Paul’s dedication to his students. Once he had stayed up half the night messaging with a boy who was having an anxiety crisis over a final English exam. “Money isn’t everything,” she said.

  “It isn’t everything, but it’s a big thing.” Gavriela emptied the blender contents into a jar. “Stinginess kills a woman.”

  “Paul isn’t stingy.”

  Except when it came to their joint tango lessons. He insisted that Daphne pay half, even though his salary was twice hers. And he also expected her to pay for dinner every other time they went out. But Daphne thought it best not to confess this to her aunt.

  “Fine, maybe he’s not stingy,” said Gavriela, “but is he a worker? What does he do in the summer? You don’t want a man in the house all day, little mama. When your uncle retired, I thought I was going to go insane. Then he went out and got another accounting job. That’s the kind of man you need. Does this Paul work with you?”

  “No. I’d never date someone from the same school.”

  “At least you know not to shit in your own kitchen.” Gavriela tucked the ends of her housedress into the bottom of her underwear so that they wouldn’t catch on the plastic bags and cardboard boxes at the foot of the cupboards. “I hate it when my dress gets in my way,” she said. “How does he treat you?”

  “Very well. Most of the time.”

  “Most of the time?”

  “He likes dancing with other women—”

  Gavriela stored the celery-powder jar on a shelf. “You let him dance with other women? Are you crazy? You shouldn’t even trust your best friend close to your man.”

  “I told him how I felt recently.”

  “Told him how you felt? Christ! A man should know you from here down, little mama”—Gavriela crossed her arm over her waist—“and from here up he shouldn’t know a thing. Don’t tell him how you feel.”

  “That’s a strange philosophy.”

  “My grandmother’s,” said Gavriela. “Anyway, you know best.” That was Greek for: I’m not going keep arguing with you, but you’re still full of shit. She took the plates, napkins, and silverware from the crowded kitchen counter and handed them to Daphne. “Now go set the table.” She followed her niece into the living room with the breakfast tray and shouted, “Ready!”

  Uncle Andonis, still wearing his baby-blue pajamas, emerged from the master bedroom and joined Gavriela and Daphne at the table. “You always wake me from the best dreams,” he grumbled.

  Gavriela placed her mastic gum in a dainty ceramic dish and covered it with a lid. To save for later, apparently. “What did you see?” she asked her husband.

  “Yüksek Kaldırım Street.” Andonis poured Daphne’s tea and then his own. “And the women’s behinds jiggling as they went up and down those steps, just like they used to—”

  “Andonis!” snapped Gavriela.

  “What? You’d prefer I think of Cobblestone in ’fifty-five? Or after all our people left? When there are better things to remember about the place?”

  “Life goes on,” said Gavriela. “We don’t have to talk about any of that.”

  The call to prayer buzzed from the local mosque. Andonis clicked his tongue. “The call to prayer was beautiful when the muezzin still had to climb up to the top of the minaret,” he said to Daphne. “Now those damn loudspeakers make him sound as if his balls are being squeezed in a vise.”

  “Watch your mouth,” said Gavriela. “You made me think of back then, and you know how much I hate it when you do that.”

  Andonis scratched his mustache. “Didn’t you just say that life goes on?”

  “It does, but in a way no one would have chosen. If all that hadn’t happened, Daphne would have grown up near us. We could’ve been present at her baptism.”

  “Would she have been baptized at all? That’s the question.”

  Gavriela glared at her husband. “Well, she could’ve served us sour-cherry liqueur on her birthdays, at least.”

  “I’m not entering into that discussion of lost opportunities, but what I would like to know”—he winked at Daphne—“is whether she’s going to stay.”

  “Of course she is. We’re going to find her a groom. One of our own.”

  “Did you decide that or did she?”

  “Are you done?” Gavriela buttered a piece of bread and placed it on Daphne’s plate. “At least let us see you as a bride,” she said. “But not with some language-less American.”

  “You two need to get out more,” said Andonis.

  “For once he’s right about something.” Gavriela set her knife across her tea saucer with a rude clink. “This week, as soon as the weather improves, we’ll have tea with the gang at Neighbor’s House. After your classes, of course.”

  “You mean with the widows, the old Casanovas, and the baker?” said Daphne.

  “Exactly. And the baker is a gentleman, by the way, a hard worker who wins international prizes and has his own business. In other words, a two-pocket man!”

  Daphne thought of Kosmas’s business card in the trash can and felt a tiny pinch of regret.

  4

  A Hero’s Garb

  Fanis was standing on the landing with his garbage bag in hand, about to knock on the neighbor lady’s door. Her husband had recently passed away, and, although she was not the least bit attractive, Fanis had made a habit of taking out her garbage: one had to be courtly with widows. Just as he raise
d his fist, however, his phone rang. He quietly reentered his apartment and picked up.

  “Allo?”

  “Mr. Fanis? It’s Kosmas. I wanted to ask if we could meet for coffee, just the two of us, outside the neighborhood. I wanted to discuss a private matter.”

  “What?” said Fanis, staring at Dr. Aydemir’s crumpled prescriptions, which he had left on the sideboard. He opened a drawer and threw them inside.

  “Women,” said Kosmas.

  Fear of past sins gripped Fanis. “Has your mother been talking to her friend, the one who lives on my street? Whatever she said isn’t true. I never cheated on my wife as long as she lived. And certainly not with the woman with whom they say I did—”

  Kosmas interrupted: “It’s not that. It’s about me. I need your advice.”

  “Why didn’t you say so from the beginning?”

  They made an appointment for five o’clock on Wednesday evening at a muhallebici pudding shop in Taksim where they wouldn’t chance upon any of their acquaintances.

  *

  Fanis arrived first and chose a table upstairs. He glanced briefly at a newspaper someone had left on a nearby table: on the front page was a photo of the prime minister in shirtsleeves and sunglasses, clapping his hands at a campaign rally somewhere on the other side of Istanbul. Fanis hated politics, but at election time he was obliged to take an interest. His views were aligned with those of the secular Republican People’s Party, but it was a secularist party that had organized the pogrom of 1955. The prime minister and his Islamist party, on the other hand, had treated the Rum community and its churches with respect. Moreover, the economy was booming, and negotiations for full accession to the EU were under way. Still, everyone knew that the Rums got a knife in the back every ten years, regardless of which party was in office. Fanis didn’t know whom he could trust. Which was why, he always said, it was better for Christians and Jews to keep their mouths sewn shut.

  When Kosmas arrived—twenty-five minutes late—Fanis complained: “I’ve been waiting for years.”

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Fanis. Α sugar sculpture broke and I had to remake it. I would’ve called your mobile phone if you had one.”