A Recipe for Daphne

by Nektaria Anastasiadou

  10

  The Tango

  Over the past few days, Kosmas had managed to lock his keys into the house, lose his public-transport card, drop a tea tray on his mother’s favorite rug, and fold salt instead of sugar into the batter for Hungarian Dobos torta. Fortunately, Uncle Mustafa was working beside him at the time and caught the mistake. “Yemek çok tuzlu olursa,” he said in Turkish, “aşçı aşıktır.” If the food is too salty, the cook is in love.

  Kosmas leaned against the giant stainless-steel refrigerator and ran his palm over his forehead. “If things go on like this,” he said, “my life is going to fall apart.”

  The corners of Uncle Mustafa’s mustache rose into a smile. “Name?”

  “Daphne. Every time I’m near her it’s like the whole world fades into darkness. All I can see is her.”

  Uncle Mustafa continued piping cheese onto the dough rounds that would become mini cheese pies. “I assume you haven’t called her.”

  “Am I that predictable?”

  Uncle Mustafa raised his thick black eyebrows and set down the pastry bag. “Son, there’s only one remedy. Call her and ask her out. If you don’t get over your fear of rejection . . .” Uncle Mustafa didn’t finish his sentence, but Kosmas knew how it would end.

  Kosmas took his phone from his pocket, scrolled through to Gavriela’s number, and pressed the green circle. When Gavriela answered, he twisted his left index finger in an apron string and said, “Good afternoon, Madame Gavriela. It’s Kosmas.”

  “Kosmaki! What a charming voice you have. Almost like a pilot’s. I never noticed until now.”

  “Thanks. Listen, Madame Gavriela, I want to ask Daphne out to dinner tonight. Could I talk to her?”

  “Just a minute.”

  Kosmas heard a rubbery pulling sound, a tapping, and a muffling that did not serve its purpose. The apron string had cut off his circulation and his index finger was going numb, but he was too nervous to release it. Uncle Mustafa gave him an encouraging nod. Finally, Gavriela said, “She’d love to.”

  “I’d like to speak to her if I could—”

  “What time?”

  “Eight?”

  “Perfect. Give your mother my regards. See you soon. Ciao-ciao-bye-bye.”

  Kosmas ended the call, grabbed Uncle Mustafa’s floury hand, and kissed it.

  “That’s my boy,” said Uncle Mustafa, gently smacking Kosmas’s cheek. “By the way, does your sudden interest in the Balkanik have something to do with Lady Daphne?”

  “Maybe.”

  Uncle Mustafa winked. “Okay, son. I’ll clean out the storage room as soon as I’m done with these cheese pies. And if it’s not there, I’ll search every cupboard and drawer in my flat.”

  “Thanks, Uncle Mustafa.”

  After work Kosmas went home and locked himself into the bathroom with the Turkish GQ magazine that Fanis had absentmindedly left at Neighbor’s House. Rea’s cleaning lady had scoured the bathroom with bleach that day. The lingering odor would probably give Kosmas a headache, but he needed absolute privacy. He sat on the fuzzy pink toilet lid cover and flipped through the magazine. He noticed that the models wore black shirts and jeans in the photographs that were supposed to represent romantic trysts. Kosmas wouldn’t be able to manage the flat abs or sexy biceps, but at least, thanks to Fanis, he could duplicate the outfit. He stuffed the magazine through the swing top of the rubbish bin and turned on the shower.

  Rea knocked on the door as soon as she heard the running water. “Take a clean towel from the cabinet,” she said. “And dry your head off well so you don’t catch cold.”

  “It’s summer, Mother,” said Kosmas, stripping.

  “Doesn’t matter. The worst colds are the summer ones.”

  He scrubbed himself down in the narrow shower, shampooed twice to get rid of the bakery smell, and put on the Armani shirt and jeans that his mother had washed in lavender-scented soap, ironed, and hung in his closet.

  “Where are you going dressed like that?” she said, when he came out of his room.

  “To dinner,” he said. “With Daphne.”

  “Daphne? But I made lamb shanks today, your favorite, and I never make lamb shanks!”

  “It was a last-minute idea, Mama. Besides, you’re always saying that I should find a Rum girl and get married. I thought you’d be happy.”

  “Not about her,” murmured Rea.

  “Mother. We talked about this.”

  “If you must go out, you can’t go dressed like a hooligan. Why don’t you wear your gray pants and the orange and black shirt I bought for your name day?”

  Kosmas had the good sense to disobey, but he didn’t want to look like a hooligan. His only other option was the tailor-made brown suit. Rea became so emotional when she saw him in it that she shed tears of joy. “You look just like your father did when we were dating. Where’s the camera? I have to take your picture.”

  “It’s not my first day of primary school,” said Kosmas.

  Rea air-signed a cross to ward off the evil eye. “I don’t know how Daphne and I will get along,” she said, “but at least she’s one of ours.”

  Kosmas checked to make sure his wallet was in his pocket. Then, noticing that the mold on the living-room wall had crept up the room’s corner almost to shoulder height, he said, “Could you call Mr. Ahmet about that? I keep forgetting.”

  “I’ll have someone paint over it.”

  “You know painting doesn’t work. Call Mr. Ahmet, will you?” Kosmas kissed his mother and fled the apartment before Rea had time to object.

  After a brisk walk down the hill, he arrived at Gavriela’s building and climbed the dark, twisting stairway to the third floor.

  Gavriela opened the door. “Kosmaki!” She popped her soapy-smelling mastic gum. “Come on in, my child. Have a seat.” She pointed to the leather-upholstered foyer armchair and brought him a glass of water, which he downed in seconds. “I’ll go and tell her you’re here.”

  While waiting, Kosmas examined the various evil-eye talismans stuffed behind the water pipe above the door: thistles, horseshoes, holy water, a bunch of wheat, walnut leaves, a ceramic plate with the Arabic word ‘Allah,’ and a pair of scuffed white baby shoes. Gavriela had no children, which meant that the shoes were probably Daphne’s.

  “Just a few more minutes,” said Gavriela, returning.

  “Am I early?” Kosmas looked at his watch. It was ten minutes past eight.

  “No. But you know us women. We primp for hours and hours.” Gavriela lowered her voice to a whisper: “Especially when we’ve put the gentleman in the eye.”

  “Sure, sure,” said Kosmas. “Might I have another glass of water?”

  As Gavriela bustled about, Kosmas replayed the telephone conversation in his mind. Maybe Daphne hadn’t agreed to go out with him at all. Maybe her aunt had said yes for her without even asking. Maybe this was all an imposition. But he couldn’t back out now.

  “There you go,” said Gavriela, handing him the glass. She seemed a bit too cheerful. Something was definitely going on.

  But just as Kosmas was finishing the second water, Daphne stepped into the entryway in a sleeveless, low-cut, calf-length black dress that flared at the knees. Her wavy chocolate hair hung loose, like the never-cut tresses of honor that one used to see dangling down the backs of unmarried women. She wore hardly any jewelry—just a thick black bracelet and a turquoise evil-eye anklet. Her makeup was almost invisible. Because Kosmas was used to over-jeweled Istanbul women and over-painted Athenians, he found Daphne’s minimalism odd . . . but elegant. He offered silent thanks to Fanis for his fashion tutelage: it would have been a shame to escort a woman like that in a horizontally striped shirt.

  “It’s a beautiful evening,” he said.

  “Thank—” Daphne stopped, as if she didn’t know how to complete her sentence. “Thank God. It was hot earlier, wasn’t it?”

  A positive sign, thought Kosmas. She’s just as nervous as I am.

  The taxi
dropped them off at the bottom end of the crowded Balık Pazarı, the former fish market of Pera. They passed fruit stalls, cheap jewelry and trinket stands, and tourist shops with shelves of boxed lokum and Turkish honey. Beneath bulbs hanging like full moons, a few holdout fishmongers sold mackerel and sea bream with gills painted to look fresher than they were. The alleys between the shops were so full of tourists and locals that Kosmas was not sure whether he should let Daphne precede him, which meant they would hardly advance behind the knapsacks of gawking Americans, or whether he should push ahead and risk losing her in the crowds. Before he could decide, they were jostled by a pack of Greek tourists, and she momentarily took his arm. For the first time in his life, Kosmas thanked God for the self-absorption of his Hellenic brothers.

  He paid no attention to the young men attempting to harass passersby into looking at their menus. Instead he led Daphne—who kept a disappointing distance as soon as they broke away from the crowd of Greeks—straight to the only restaurant with an owner too proud to beg for clients. A familiar waiter shook Kosmas’s hand and ushered them to two free places at a long common table. Kosmas pulled out Daphne’s chair and waved to Mr. Spyros, the bald nonagenarian owner, whose bushy brows loomed over his eyes, like the restaurant awnings in the street outside.

  The old man rose from his desk, wove through the waiters coming and going from the cold meze case, and approached their table. “It’s been ages,” he said in Greek. “Why don’t you come more often?”

  “Daphne,” said Kosmas, “this is Mr. Spyros, one of my father’s old friends.”

  A wide smile spread between the old man’s flabby ears. “How is it possible that I’ve not met this beautiful young lady before now?”

  “She lives in America,” Kosmas replied, hoping he would soon leave them alone.

  Spyros pulled up an extra chair. “Do you speak Greek, young lady?”

  “Of course,” said Kosmas. “She’s one of ours.”

  “Are you going to let her talk for herself? Or are you afraid I might steal her away?”

  Daphne shot the old man a sweet smile that almost made Kosmas jealous. “Thanks. Could you tell me where the ladies’ room is?”

  Spyros pointed to the upper floor. “Top of the stairs, on your right.”

  Kosmas watched her go. The clothing that she had worn on other occasions had prevented him from fully distinguishing her lines. The slim black dress, however, allowed him to make out her breasts: they reminded him of the first oranges of December. Her bare legs were pale, as if neither the sun nor another man’s eyes had seen them in years.

  “Always one of the highlights of the evening, isn’t it?” said Spyros.

  Kosmas pulled himself out of the trance. “Sorry?”

  “The moment when a woman goes to the powder room. She must like you. Since she dressed up like that, I mean.”

  Kosmas realized that Spyros was only trying to be encouraging. “I doubt it,” he said.

  “You did tell her that she looks beautiful, didn’t you?”

  “No. I didn’t want to overdo it. It’s better to be discreet at first, isn’t it?”

  Spyros shook his head. “Son, you’ve got to say that every time you go out with a woman, even after you’ve been married for fifty years, and even if she looks like an old rag. Women don’t feel beautiful unless a man says so, and if they don’t feel beautiful, you’re through.”

  “Is it too late now?”

  “Of course not. But wait until you’ve had something to drink. You’ll know when.”

  A waiter brought a tray of cold appetizers in rectangular white dishes. Everything was fresh, impeccable, and tastefully decorated with red pepper slices, lemon wedges, olives, and minced parsley. Kosmas wondered what Daphne would like best. He ordered mussels stuffed with cinnamon-flavored rice, smoked eggplant salad, cod roe spread, and salt bonito in oil.

  “And after the cold appetizers,” he said, “we’ll have fried smelt and picarel.”

  “To drink?” said the waiter.

  “A small raki.”

  “And fried potatoes,” said Spyros. “She looks like the kind who likes fried potatoes.” When the waiter had gone, Spyros said to Kosmas, “Another thing, son.”

  “Yes?”

  “Give her a little room, let her talk for herself. I’ve met a lot of European and American women. They like the chivalry. They love it when I get up and help them with their coats, but they can be touchy, too. They don’t enjoy being treated like children.”

  Kosmas determined to make up for his earlier faux pas. “Anything else?”

  “Relax. Enjoy yourself and remember that it’s all in the hands. If she lets you hold her hand, you’re in. If she doesn’t, she’s not ready or not worth the trouble.”

  Daphne returned, followed by a trail of lemon cologne. Spyros winked at Kosmas, shot a flirtatious two-eye scrunch at Daphne, and shuffled off to visit other tables. The waiter served the appetizers, a 20-cl bottle of raki, and a little bucket of ice.

  “Looks like you ordered,” she said.

  “We can get something else. Maybe some liver, or lamb ribs, or . . .”

  Daphne pushed her hair away from her face. “It’s just that . . . I thought we’d look at a menu.”

  “A menu? Those are for tourists.”

  “Never mind. This looks good.”

  Kosmas grabbed the ice tongs. “How many?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “How many ice cubes in your raki?” He picked up a cube with the tongs. “Or would you prefer wine?”

  “I don’t drink,” she said, with a polite smile.

  “You can dilute it. Most people do.”

  “I don’t drink,” she repeated, this time sounding like a schoolteacher trying to maintain her patience with an insistent first-grader. “Water’s fine.”

  The ice cube slipped and landed in the stuffed mussels. “I’m such an idiot,” said Kosmas. He scooped up the ice with his fork and dumped it onto his meze plate. Unsure what to say next, he dropped a fresh cube into his narrow glass, poured the raki over it, and added a few centimeters of water. What fun was a girl who didn’t drink? Not that he wanted to see her inebriated, but total abstention was a bore.

  “To our health.” He grasped the cloudy white glass by the base so that the toast would produce a clear ring. “But you have to clink twice with water, to get rid of the bad luck.”

  “Bad luck? Says who?”

  “My mother.” He double-tapped his glass against Daphne’s, took a sip of raki, and served her dollops of eggplant salad and cod roe spread, as well as one of the cinnamon-rice-stuffed mussel shells. “Mr. Spyros’s cook makes the best mussels. The salt bonito is also one of his specialties, but the flavor’s a little strong, so I’d recommend leaving it until last.”

  “Interesting,” said Daphne, with a quizzical nod that he couldn’t interpret. “Don’t they have music here?”

  “Never. Mr. Spyros says it ruins conversation. How are the mussels?”

  “Good.”

  That wasn’t what he wanted to hear. He was hoping for amazing, excellent, the best I’ve ever had. “If you don’t like them, we could—”

  “No, I do. You have great taste.” Finally her voice was warming a little. “Do you cook?”

  “Never,” he said. “Cooking and pastry-making are entirely different professions, like novelist and poet.”

  “Do you like poetry?”

  “A little Nazim Hikmet. Some Cavafy.”

  “I spent a semester on Cavafy at college.” Daphne added. “We read absolutely everything . . .” She continued speaking, but he lost her words. He heard only the tone of her voice, increasingly soft and feminine. He ate without tasting the food. What importance did it have when he was near her? Was this the moment? Should he tell her she looked beautiful in that dress, with her hair falling over her shoulders? No. Better to start with something small.

  “Pretty bracelet,” he said. “It suits you.”

  “It’s
a watch.” She turned the thick black band so that he could see the face. “My boyfriend gave it to me for my birthday.”

  Kosmas had a sudden urge to cough, but his mouth was full of fried picarel. He grabbed his raki glass and washed it down. “Have you been together long?”

  “Four years.”

  It was all lost. All his dreams, his hope for himself and his community, all swept away by that one word. Boyfriend.

  “But we’re on a little break right now.”

  “A break?”

  “We’re taking some time apart.”

  “Who could ever need time away from you?”

  “I’m a very difficult person,” said Daphne, resuming her officious, teacherly tone. “I’m critical, I don’t eat meat, I can be jealous, I hate shoes indoors, I wash my hands as soon as I come in the house, I have trouble sleeping when he’s snoring, I don’t give him enough space, et cetera, et cetera.”

  Lucky I brought her to a fish restaurant, thought Kosmas. “Apart from the meat thing,” he said, “it seems to me that you’re not difficult at all, just Rum. And titiza.”

  “What?”

  “All good Rum women are titizes. They’re meticulous. They hate dirt. They like things just so.”

  “Titiza,” Daphne repeated. She looked up at the miniature Turkish and Greek flags hanging from the ceiling, side by side, like old friends. “Maybe. But I can be aggravating.” Her voice was lower now, as if she didn’t want to be overheard.

  “Is it serious?” he asked.

  “After four years, I should hope so.”

  What would Fanis do now? The old philanderer would take whatever she had said and twist it around to his advantage. That’s what he’d do. “You know best. But in my opinion, being titiza is a good thing. You deserve a man who appreciates who you are.”

  A busboy collected their oily meze plates and replaced them with clean ones. “We haven’t finished,” said Daphne. “Why is he changing our plates?”

  “If he doesn’t, Mr. Spyros will be all over him. Nobody likes mixed flavors.”

  A hand reached between them with a plate of fried potatoes. Two plates of tiny fish—fried and salted like popcorn and resting on a bed of arugula—followed.