Now he whispered Kalypso’s name. He hadn’t pronounced it in years. He said it again, more loudly, and again, more loudly still. He couldn’t stop. There was a reason he had ended up alone: in a pinch, he always thought of himself instead of others. Even taking care of his mother was just another way of putting himself first.
“Are you all right, Uncle Fanis?” someone asked in Turkish. It had to be Samuel, the bishop’s assistant and chauffeur.
Fanis splashed cold water onto his face. “Fine, fine,” he said. “I’m coming.”
Fanis returned red-eyed and disoriented to the tea room. Everyone was laughing. He wondered if they were making fun of him. “What’s going on?” he asked, in Greek.
“Nothing, nothing,” said the bishop. “Just a little joke you missed. Ladies and gentlemen, I’m going to change. I wish you all a good afternoon.”
Fanis took advantage of the bishop’s exit to collect himself. He smoothed his flying curls and took a deep breath.
Gavriela whispered in his ear, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I suppose I have,” Fanis replied. “But never mind that. Why don’t we all go for coffee?”
Gavriela wrapped a few leftover sesame rings in a napkin. “I don’t think today’s the day. Daphne and I have other plans. But if you ever need to talk, come and see me.”
8
The Princess in the Park
Daphne was relieved to get into the shade of Gezi Park after the long walk from the church. She took a deep breath. Instead of the exhaust and hot asphalt of Taksim Square, she smelled grass, rotting leaves, and the sea. A cool breeze was blowing up from the Bosporus and rustling the plane trees, red maples, and low Australian laurels. “Where to, Auntie?” Daphne was surprised by the loudness of her voice. In Taksim, you had to shout to be heard. In the park, anything above a low murmur seemed inappropriate.
“Over there,” Gavriela said. “Do you see her?”
Selin waved from the park café that overlooked the Bosporus Bridge, a patch of silver-blue water, and the Asian side of the City. She wore a festive lime-green dress that made Daphne feel drab in her habitual black. They made their way through the tunnel of trees, kissed Selin, and sat down. “Finally I get to speak some Turkish,” said Daphne.
“Sorry we’re late,” said Gavriela, staring disdainfully at the overflowing metal ashtray in the middle of their table. Daphne knew how vile her aunt considered cigarette butts. Strict no-smoking laws were Gavriela’s favorite thing about the United States.
“No problem,” said Selin. She resettled into her molded plastic chair and pulled her skirt tightly over her legs. Daphne noticed the microscopic white and yellow flower designs on her immaculate red fingernails. She wondered how Selin managed to play the violin and always have such perfectly manicured hands.
“We used to live near a Rum church,” Selin continued. “Your liturgies are like Jewish services. They drag on forever.”
“Today was even longer than usual,” said Gavriela, already cleaning the tabletop’s scattered ashes with an antibacterial wipe. “Pentecost Sunday. Fanis chants beautifully, but he’s unbelievably slow.”
“So he really is a cantor?” said Selin. “I thought he was just showing off.”
“Absolutely,” said Gavriela. “And he’s completely in love with his own voice.”
Selin sat back in her chair. “I wonder what he was like when he was younger. He must have been handsome.”
“Selin,” said Daphne, with a wink, “are you into Mr. Fanis?”
“Not in that way. But his appreciation of Hebrew chant impressed me.”
Gavriela brushed a fallen leaf out of her bleached, curled, and hairsprayed old-lady do. “Fanis might be a catch for an old lady, Selin, but you need someone with more . . . How shall I say? Stamina?”
“I’m forty-three. Even some guys close to my age—including my ex-husband—are losing it. So what’s the difference?”
“Then I’m surprised you haven’t fixed up with the Frenchman,” said Gavriela.
“Are you kidding? It would be like dating an uncle.”
Daphne tied the straps of her bag around the chair arm so that it couldn’t be snatched. “Well, Selin, if you have taken a liking to Mr. Fanis,” she joked, “you’re going to have to fight me for him.”
“What?” said Gavriela, so disturbed by the comment that she took a second antibacterial wipe from the packet and began scrubbing the chair arms. “He could be your grandfather!”
“A grandfather with an amazing voice,” said Daphne. “But I’m not sure what to think of the Einstein hair. Is it eccentric and debonair? Or does it just need to be chopped off?”
“I’d say debonair,” said Selin. “But I never said I fancy Mr. Fanis. I just respect his openness to other traditions.”
A waiter passed with a tray of full tea glasses. Selin caught his eye and nodded. “Anyway,” she said as the waiter served three teas, “it’s been so long since my last boyfriend that anything would be a blessing.”
“Tell me about it,” said Daphne.
“What?” said Gavriela. “Not even that?”
Daphne and Paul hadn’t made love for two months. Lovemaking was probably the wrong term, anyway. Paul had sex. He didn’t make love. He had boring bedroom sex. If they did end up splitting, Daphne swore she’d never get into a relationship with a conventional missionary type ever again. “It’s just a phase, Auntie,” she said. “It’ll pass.”
Selin leaned forward. “What about Kosmas? He’s put you in the eye.”
“I doubt it,” said Daphne. “He’s got a girlfriend. Rita-something.”
“Nonsense,” said Gavriela. “If he had a girlfriend, his mother would know. And if she knew, I would. Besides, I haven’t seen anything on Face.”
“Face” was what Gavriela affectionately called Facebook. Although she couldn’t use a computer or even email, she was an adept smartphone Facebooker.
“I think your aunt’s right,” said Selin. “The other day, before you showed up at the tea garden, Kosmas was looking forward to your arrival.”
“That’s hard to believe,” said Daphne. She waved her hand dismissively, as if the information were a swarm of gnats. Secretly, however, she was flattered.
Gavriela grinned. “You should have seen him today, Selin. So attentive. He kept asking Samuel to top up her tea glass. He picked up her napkin when it fell and asked if she was cramped sitting in the corner.”
In order to cut her aunt’s momentum, Daphne said, “Don’t tell me you didn’t see the way he raised his eyebrow sarcastically every time he spoke to me.”
“He fell off his bicycle when he was six and knocked his forehead. It’s a scar, not an expression.” Gavriela slapped a hand onto her crumpled antibacterial wipe before the wind took it. “And a gentleman is always attentive.”
“Fine,” said Daphne, rueful of her hasty judgment. “But he probably wouldn’t consider me a real Rum.”
“Because you’re American?” said Selin.
Daphne had slipped. She remembered her mother’s warnings: Don’t tell Gavriela’s friends that your father is Turkish. They won’t trust you. For a second she considered telling the truth: after all, Selin was Jewish and wouldn’t care that Daphne wasn’t a thoroughbred Rum. But then Selin might tell the others, and that would create a strange situation. Gavriela’s friends would wonder why Daphne hadn’t been up-front from the start.
“Boş ver,” said Gavriela, covering for Daphne in her moment of hesitation. Give empty. This was one of her—and Daphne’s—favorite Turkish phrases, meaning something like, “Never mind, drop it.”
“Well,” said Selin. “The Lily makes the very best baton salé. And when a man knows what he’s doing in the kitchen, he usually knows what he’s doing elsewhere. I’d go for Kosmas myself if he were five years older, but I’ve never been into younger men.”
“Did you hear that, little mama?” said Gavriela. “Or are you listening with your ass?”
“Yes, Auntie, I heard. And by the way, you forgot to hide your cross.”
Gavriela looked down at her chest and dropped her gold crucifix inside her blouse.
“On second thought,” said Selin, “getting involved with Kosmas would probably be a bad idea. He’s never leaving the City, at least not while his mother’s alive, and you’d be crazy to leave America and come here.”
“Don’t be so sure,” said Daphne. Seeing her aunt’s expression brighten, she clarified: “I didn’t mean that in relation to your friend’s son, Auntie. I just meant that things aren’t as perfect in America as you might think.”
“How so?” said Selin.
“For one, I’m a language teacher, and Americans don’t care about learning languages.”
“All the more reason for you to move here,” said Gavriela, raising her voice above the sea-like sound of the wind blowing through the leaves.
“How about some toasted sandwiches?” said Daphne.
“Cheese and sausage?” said Gavriela.
Selin put her hand over her heart in polite refusal. “I’m fine with the tea.”
“Cheese only for me,” said Daphne.
“No sausage?” said Gavriela.
This again? Why did her aunt refuse to remember that she didn’t eat meat?
“Just cheese, please.”
Gavriela flagged the waiter, who was already carrying a heavy tray of used glasses and plates. “Three mixed cheese and sausage sandwiches,” she said. “With plenty of butter. We don’t like them dry.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said the waiter.
“And could you take this dirty ashtray?”
“I’ll be back for it in a minute, ma’am.”
Gavriela clicked her tongue in disapproval. “He’s going to forget.”
Just then a strong burst of wind scattered more dirty ashes over the table. Gavriela took out another wipe.
“What’s Miami like?” asked Selin.
“Colorful, fun, and predictable,” said Daphne, shielding her eyes from the sun escaping through the tree leaves. “You can easily make your life there, but there’s little history and no decay, no domes and minarets, no craziness, no secrets. In Istanbul you never know what’s around the next corner.”
“It could be a policeman in riot gear, or a teargas canister, or a bombed synagogue or bank,” said Selin.
“At least people aren’t walking into primary schools with guns here. Terrorism is everywhere. I don’t get why people think Turkey’s more dangerous than anywhere else.”
“Prejudice,” said Selin.
“Still,” said Gavriela, “you have to admit that America is easy. Nice roads, automatic bills, systems that work, space, parks, no smoking. Not that I’m trying to convince you to stay.”
“Sure it’s nice,” said Daphne. “But it’s lined with cotton wool. I don’t know if I want to live in such an insulated place. I don’t know if it’s the home of my soul.”
The wind picked up and rattled the almost empty tea tulips. Selin steadied hers. “Of course, if you’re thinking about moving here, you also have to think about how much you value free speech. If you talk about the Armenian matter, for example—”
“Hush, girls!” said Gavriela. “That’s not a good subject.”
Daphne tried to take a deep breath of the acacia-scented air, but she inhaled a cloud of cigarette smoke instead. She looked to her left: the men at a neighboring table had just lit up. Aunt Gavriela was right about America’s no-smoking policies. She turned to Selin and said, “Why did you come back?”
“Because of my parents—I want to be near them during their last years. And because Istanbul’s home. The place I grew up. No bombs—”
“Girls!” Gavriela made a zipper motion over her mouth. “Enough of the B-word. Half the people in this park are plainclothes cops. They might think you’re terrorists.”
Daphne watched her aunt fidget with the pack of bacterial wipes, opening the sticky flap and closing it again, opening and closing. Everything was always hush-hush with Gavriela. It was as if she were stuck in the oppressive atmosphere of the fifties and sixties.
“This isn’t talk for the park.” Gavriela nodded toward the children skipping around the stone fountain. “When I was sixteen, we went to the Sunday buffet they used to have just over there. One evening, a young man asked Grandma for permission to dance a waltz with me—”
“Uncle Andonis?”
“No. Kostas. My first husband. I fell in love with him for his dancing.”
“Your first husband?” Daphne had never heard anything about a Kostas.
“So you’re divorced, too?” said Selin.
“Yes, dear,” said Gavriela, speaking offhandedly to Selin about a topic that she had kept secret from Daphne for decades. “It’s not a pleasant thing to go through, but sometimes you’ve just got to realize that some clothes are so badly wrinkled they can’t be pressed.”
Selin nodded in agreement. “I know exactly what you mean.”
“Kostas was dashing at first,” said Gavriela, “but as soon as we married he stopped taking me out and made me quit my job. And then he continued gallivanting alone. I couldn’t get used to being cooped up. So I divorced him.”
“Good for you,” said Selin. “That’s why I don’t date guys from here. To them women are nothing but—pardon my English—fucking machines.”
Gavriela lifted her dark glasses. “What does fakin mashinz mean?”
“Baby machines who stay home and take care of the house.”
“But they seem so chivalrous,” said Daphne. “Then again, when I think of our Cubanos in Miami, it’s the same. All roses and mi reina, and then one day they just turn off the switch and want their shoes shined so they can go out with their girlfriends.”
“Exactly,” said Selin. “They’re all like that. Except, maybe, for Kosmas. You can tell from the way he takes care of his mother.”
“She’s a racist,” said Daphne.
“Don’t talk like that,” snapped Gavriela. “You don’t understand where Rea’s coming from. We’ve been through a lot.”
Daphne’s mobile sounded the generic Turkcell ringtone. The caller ID read PAUL. She glanced at the Bosporus, flashing like thousands of little mirrors in the afternoon sun. She wanted to hear his voice, but she didn’t want to interrupt the conversation with Selin and Gavriela. Later, she thought. She pressed the red button.
“Who was that?” said her aunt.
Daphne put the phone back into her pocket. “You know.”
“The mayonnaise has separated,” said Gavriela.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Gavriela shook her finger as if she were scolding a child. “If the mayonnaise separates, you’ve got to throw it away and start over.”
Daphne waved another cloud of smoke from her face. “He’s a boyfriend, not a condiment.”
The waiter served the toasted sandwiches. Gavriela picked up one with a napkin, examined it, and grumbled, “Dry, just as I feared.”
Daphne removed the sausage from her sandwich.
“Little mama,” said Gavriela, “what are you doing?”
“I’m pescatarian. I don’t eat meat.”
“Pesca-what?” Gavriela hissed, like a snake. “Oh, why didn’t you remind me?”
The waiter returned with the second round of tea. “No, no,” said Gavriela. “We’ll have three medium coffees instead. And could you please take this stinky thing?”
The waiter sighed and took the ashtray.
Staring at the pile of round sausage slices on Daphne’s plate and at the two bites Selin had taken from her unwanted sandwich, Gavriela said, “You girls need to get married.”
“You find a man who understands musical culture and who respects my all-day practices, nighttime performances, and trips—and treats me like a queen,” said Selin, “and I’m ready.”
“I’ll work on it,” said Gavriela. She put down her toast, raised her palms to the sky, and
said, “May I see you both brides, here, in our City, with beautiful dresses, flowers in your hair, and lots of tulle.”
“İnşallah,” said Daphne, using the Turkish phrase for God willing. It was always the easiest answer to bridehood wishes, especially if one wanted to avoid an argument.
“İnşallah,” Selin repeated. “Minus the tulle.”
9
The Long Shadow of Old Sins
The following friday, just after the midday call to prayer, Fanis entered Neighbor’s House, grabbed a home-decorating magazine from the rack, and sat at a table in the indoor area. The magazine issue’s theme, unfortunately, was ultra-modern décor, which Fanis found more boring than the hot weather. He tossed the magazine aside and began reminiscing about the Contesse, the tea salon that had occupied the same plot half a century ago. Fanis liked Neighbor’s trendy wood and white brick theme, but it was a far cry from the Contesse’s rich wainscoting, art-nouveau light fixtures, giant mirrors, and tile portraits of the nine muses.
Kalypso had lied to her parents the first time they met there. Once or twice per week she would pass by Mr. Yorgos’s antiques shop. Fanis would wait for her inside his doorway with a rose in hand, present it with a bow, and say, “Pour vous, mademoiselle.” After he had given her a few dozen roses, she informed him in a letter that on the coming Thursday, at four o’clock in the afternoon, she would pass by the Contesse, and if she saw him in the window, she would join him. Fanis arrived early on the appointed day and secured a table by the window. True to her word, Kalypso entered at four o’clock sharp, sat down at his table, and adjusted her red saucer hat to prevent her face from being seen from within the pâtisserie’s salon. Fanis drew the curtain that screened the lower part of the vitrine. Thus shielded, there wasn’t too much danger of Kalypso being recognized and tattled upon.
Fanis could still picture her, down to the last detail: the complexion smooth as a spring leaf, the peep-toe shoes she displayed by crossing her long legs, the nylons that made her calves look smoother than they were, the point at which her knees disappeared beneath her full, red-and-white polka-dot skirt, the matching handbag she placed on the table with the confidence of a princess, the voice with its harmonious range of middle tones that were never too high or too low, and the laughter. Her careless laughter.
A Recipe for Daphne Page 10
