Fanis reached his hand into the fountain’s trickling water and whispered, “It’s the god Hermes. He’s told her that she must send me on my way.”
“Who?”
“The nymph Kalypso. I saw it in a dream.”
“You’re lucky I’m more pagan than Muslim,” said Isa.
“And I’m discovering, as the years pass, that I’m just as pagan as I am Christian, but don’t tell anyone: I want to be buried properly, with all the blessings of the Orthodox Church.”
“Of course. But can I ask you a question? Why do you care if the violinist is Rum or not?”
“Because I want to feel home again.”
Isa took a sip of tea. “Listen. We’re lucky to feel anything at our age, so if the violinist does it for you, you ought to go for it. As far as I’m concerned, if a pullet with nice quinces gives me her phone number, I don’t care if she’s a Turk or a Martian.”
“Yes, you have a point. But women aren’t interchangeable, Isa. You have to decide which one you can really love, which one will really love you.”
Isa patted Fanis on the shoulder. “Good luck with that,” he said. “Now get going before your nemesis is ready for his tea, and get your ass back in here before I retire.”
Fanis dressed, gave Isa a handsome tip, and exited into the back alleys of Galatasaray. Having retraced his steps down Turnacıbaşı Street, he turned the corner into Ağa Hamamı Street and found Ali the barber, in his habitual white jacket, leaning against the doorjamb of his shop with a glass of tea in hand.
“No customers on a Saturday?” Fanis asked.
“Welcome, Uncle,” said Ali. “It’s lunchtime. Give ’em fifteen minutes and my shop’ll be full again. Where have you been?”
“I was trying to let my hair grow so that it would cover the bald spot better, but it’s not working. I’m a mess, and I need you to fix things.”
Ali made a half-bow and stood aside so that Fanis could take a seat in the red faux-leather chair.
“By the way,” said Fanis, staring at the photos of Atatürk on the wall above the mirror, “I sent a young friend of mine here for a haircut. Tall fellow, Rum. Has he been in?”
Ali swung the polyester cape over Fanis’s head. “Stopped by this morning to make an appointment. Was supposed to be in half an hour ago for his cut.”
Perfect, thought Fanis. I’ll have a chance to find out exactly what’s going on with Daphne.
Bits of hair flew this way and that. Fanis, feeling more and more bald, closed his eyes. When Ali had finished, he opened and beheld the bishop sitting in the waiting chair. He was reading a copy of GQ magazine. “Your Eminence,” said Fanis, as Ali spread cream on his cheeks with a fine badger brush. “I didn’t know that you, too, were a fan of Gentlemen’s Quarterly. By the way, I love your shirt.”
“Hüsnü Mirza made it for me this week. You know, the tailor recommended by Kosmas. You should try him.”
Fanis did not respond because his straight-razor shave had already begun, and the slightest move could have resulted in a severed jugular. Finally, after an anointment with perfumed lotion, Fanis said to the bishop, “I can’t tell you how glad I am to see one of my own.”
“Although we are few, we are infinite,” said the bishop.
At that moment Kosmas came through the door, out of breath and yet looking strangely triumphant. “Elder,” he said, nodding to the bishop. “Mr. Fanis. Mr. Ali. Good afternoon.”
Kosmas sat down beside the bishop and began fanning himself with a newspaper. “Sorry I’m late, Mr. Ali. I was out until three a.m., and then I was a little distracted at the pâtisserie. You know how it is.”
Had Kosmas been out with Daphne? That, Fanis supposed, was inevitable. The important thing, however, was not whether they had seen each other, but whether things had gone well.
“Out drinking raki with the boys?” said Fanis, while Ali massaged his shoulders.
“No,” said Kosmas, with an uncontrollable smile. “I had a date with Daphne. I’m a little concerned about how it went. She’s different, you know, one of us but not entirely like us.”
“Yes, I did notice a certain something,” said the bishop. “But she’s a nice young lady, and nice-looking, and a teacher, which is a calling rather than a profession.”
“She has a boyfriend in America,” said Kosmas.
“So?” said the bishop.
“You don’t see the boyfriend as a problem, Elder?” said Kosmas.
“Of course it’s a problem,” said Fanis, as soon as Ali had finished trimming his nostril hairs. “You should be respectful of the other man and desist.”
The bishop turned toward Fanis and raised his bushy eyebrows. “And you would know all about that, Fanis, wouldn’t you?”
Fanis shot the bishop a playful smirk, then returned his attention to Kosmas. “Did you kiss her?”
Kosmas switched places with Fanis. “No. You told me not to. But something did happen.” Kosmas leaned his head into the sink. “I had some chocolates boxed up for her at the Saryan, and when I gave her the package, our fingers got mixed up in the ribbon.”
“And then?” said Fanis, sitting bolt upright in the waiting chair.
“That’s it. But that finger mix-up was almost as sensual as a kiss, like our hands were making love. I’m pretty sure she felt it too.”
“It’s best not to jump to conclusions,” said Fanis, slouching back into his chair. He needed to disguise both his jealousy and his excitation with a relaxed stance. “Otherwise you get carried away and make hasty moves.”
“I’m glad we’re onto this subject,” said the bishop. “It’s something I’ve wanted to talk to you about for some time, Kosmas. Ever since I was ordained, my absolute favorite thing has been the first presentation of an infant when it is forty days old. I take the baby in my arms and carry it to the front of the church. Most of the time it keeps its eyes on me, except for the moment when I pass beneath the dome. Absolutely every baby I’ve ever presented shifts its gaze to Christ at that moment, as if it knows it is meeting its maker.”
“Thank you for sharing that, Elder,” said Kosmas. “But I don’t understand what it has to do with me.”
“You haven’t had children yet. You haven’t married. I’d like to present your children before I die.”
“I’m working on it,” said Kosmas.
“He’s not the only one who might have children,” Fanis muttered. He stood, put Ali’s money on the cashier counter, and made a move for the bishop’s hand.
The bishop slapped his wrist and said, “See you tomorrow?”
“Unfortunately not. I’m going on a little outing to Antigone. But I’ve arranged a substitute.”
“So you’re coming, too?” said Kosmas, while Ali trimmed his wet hair.
“Excuse me?” said Fanis.
“Daphne invited me last night. But she didn’t say anything about you.”
Just fabulous, thought Fanis. But perhaps it’s for the best. Let Daphne see how we compare.
“How nice,” he said. “Oh, and Kosmaki, one last bit of advice. It’s my ultra-secret weapon. I’ve never told anyone, but because I see you as a son, I’m going to share it. You know how I told you not to kiss a woman on the first date? That’s only part of it. You really shouldn’t kiss her for at least—and I mean at least—ten dates. That way, sometime after ten, she’ll be so hungry she’ll tear your clothes off. You won’t have to make the smallest effort to get her into bed.”
That is, Fanis said to himself, if she hasn’t yet grown bored of you, given up, or decided that you’re gay.
Fanis left the shop and walked home at a brisk pace. He was so absorbed by his analysis of the Daphne situation that he forgot all about his new neighbor. He cursed the moving truck blocking his street and stormed straight upstairs. Without even peering across the way to the garret, he put Sinatra’s Swing Easy! on his 1955 Magnavox Consolette, turned up the volume, and paced the living-room floor. It was always while listening to the Sulta
n of Swoon that he came up with his best plans and strategies.
12
The Island of Antigone
Seagulls swooped and dove alongside the ferry, riding the air currents as if they, too, were on their way to the islands. Daphne turned her face into the wind. The air didn’t smell like Biscayne Bay. It was less salty. Cleaner. Fishier. And the waves in the Sea of Marmara were more like lake ripples than Florida’s swells. Up ahead, a gray church dome rose above the ceramic-tile roofs and white clapboard mansions of Antigone. Speedboats anchored in the island’s harbor slid heavily over low waves and wakes. Wooden fishing barks tied to the quay bobbed merrily, pulling on their lines, like dogs straining on leashes.
A gust of wind caught Daphne’s straw fedora. Kosmas, sitting beside her, grabbed it just in time. “Hang on to that,” he said.
“Time to make our way downstairs,” said Gavriela. She put on her ultra-dark, post-cataract-operation sunglasses and held out her hand to Daphne. “Let’s go, little mama.”
The friends pushed their way through the crowd and down the stairs to the boarding deck. A few impatient daredevils, including a headscarved woman carrying a newborn baby, scorned the rickety gangway and leaped over the gap between ship and shore. Nobody seemed to have any sense of order or lines.
“It’s always a mess like this,” said Julien, as soon as they had made it across to the quay. “Kimin siki kimin götünde.”
“Professeur!” snapped Gavriela.
“What? You can’t tell whose dick is in whose ass is a perfectly good Turkish saying. Part of the culture.”
Gavriela clicked her tongue in disapproval. “Come along. Let’s not keep Aliki waiting.”
As they walked, Daphne took in the resin scent of the pine trees. She noticed cats sleeping on the steps of Italianate villas, behind metal dumpsters, and on café chairs. There wasn’t a car or bus in sight. Stray dogs lazed wherever they wished, even in the middle of the street, and moved only at the sound of oncoming hooves. Instead of automobile horns, one heard the harmonious ringing of phaeton bells. It was hard to believe that the island was, administratively at least, part of Istanbul. No longer afraid of pickpockets, Daphne lifted her bag from its tiresome crossbody position and let it dangle from her shoulder. She tore a jasmine tendril from a plant spilling over a picket fence, inhaled its sweet perfume, and asked, “Are we going to have a chance to see the rest of the island?”
Kosmas stopped walking. Suddenly decisive, like a ship’s captain announcing a change of course, he said to the oldsters, “Daphne and I will see you all later. We’re going on a phaeton ride.”
Fanis clapped his hands. “Just what I had in mind.”
“Perfect,” said Rea. “I love phaetons.”
“Don’t get too excited,” said Kosmas. “Daphne and I are going alone.”
Rea leaned heavily on her sparkly pink cane. “But I can’t walk to Aliki’s without you.”
Dimitris stepped between Kosmas and his mother. “Don’t worry, Ritsa. I’ll take care of you.”
Kosmas winked at Dimitris. “You see, Mama. True men have solutions for any problem. Mr. Dimitris, you’re a star.”
Kosmas flagged down a passing carriage. As it slowed to a stop, Daphne noticed the odd contrast that Kosmas’s small triangular rear made with his thicker middle. She couldn’t help comparing it to Paul’s ideal proportions. Kosmas had turned out to be a nice guy, but Daphne still didn’t feel an overwhelming physical attraction.
“How much for the big tour?” Kosmas asked the driver.
With one hand resting on the brake wheel and the other clutching the whip and reins, the shabbily dressed driver replied, “Forty lira.”
Kosmas nodded to Daphne. Impressed that Kosmas hadn’t even tried to bargain, she climbed beneath the phaeton’s tasseled roof. As soon as she had settled onto the soft cushion of the basket, however, she realized that the phaeton was more attractive from afar than from inside, especially in the summer heat: not that she expected the horses to be fragrant, but their stench was overwhelming, as if they hadn’t been bathed or cared for in years. Kosmas jumped in with her. The driver made a clucking sound to the horses, and they left the oldsters behind.
Daphne tried to forget the excrement smell by focusing her attention on the landscape, the houses, and their oriel windows. Her grandmother’s wooden house, as she had seen it in a photo, had boasted an oriel supported by corbels. As a little girl, Daphne would look at that picture and imagine herself sitting in its window, watching the street below or reading a book.
“Do you see that old lady up there?” she said, nodding toward a woman with an arm dangling over her oriel sill.
“Probably Rum,” said Kosmas. “She’d have to be Rum—or Jewish—to have an old house like that. That’s what I love about Antigone in the summer. You can even hear Greek and Ladino coming from open windows. It’s like smelling the rich aroma of tsoureki bread wafting out of bakeries at Easter time.”
Kosmas lowered his arm onto the back of the basket. Daphne felt the heat of his skin through the wicker. His fingers bumped against her bare shoulder. For a second, she almost wished he would put his arm around her instead of the basket. And then she heard three loud, squeaky vibrations.
“What was that?” she asked.
“An expression of the horses’ appreciation of their master,” said Kosmas. The warm gas reached their nostrils. Daphne covered her face. Kosmas gave her shoulder a quick squeeze. “If you couldn’t talk,” he said, “how else would you get back at a bastard sitting behind you?”
Daphne laughed as the carriage merged into the sea road. Kosmas pointed out a blue and white church surrounded by olive trees. “Saint George Karypi,” he said in a tour-guide tone. “It’s been through fires and earthquakes. Even served as an asylum for White Russians. According to Mr. Dimitris, a Russian princess lived there for a year, but I’ve never found that mentioned in any history books.”
Daphne transferred her attention from the church to Kosmas. “You read history?”
“All the time. Ancient, Byzantine, Ottoman. Everything I find about the City. My favorite is Edmondo de Amici’s 1877 travelogue Constantinople. After raving about the beauty of the City from afar, de Amici begins his second chapter by describing Constantinople—in which he had, by that time, spent five hours—as a monstrous confusion of civilization and barbarism. Which is exactly what Istanbul remains to this day.”
Daphne stared at Kosmas. He was obviously not just a casual reader.
“I read de Amici every night while I was studying in Vienna,” he said. “That’s how much I missed the City. Do you miss Miami?”
Daphne looked out over the blue Marmara toward the tall buildings of Istanbul’s Asian side. “Not yet. Eventually I suppose I’d miss my parents, my students, the public-library system, the salsa bands, the tango community. . . . No, strike that last item. Although I’d miss the dance itself, I would definitely not miss the tango tramps and showoffs.”
“Are you thinking of moving here?”
They slowed for a turn. A derelict cottage of dry boards caught Daphne’s eye. Through its glassless windows and tattered lace curtains, she glimpsed dusty, abandoned wicker furniture and a paper icon tacked to the wall. She wondered why the cottage’s owners had left without even collecting the furniture and curtains. Had they been deported in 1964? Had they been unable to endure the nationalistic pressures of the seventies?
“Maybe,” said Daphne. “But then I hear people talking about the pogrom and the deportations, and I’m not sure anymore.”
“Things are better now. It’s not like when our parents were young.”
“But you don’t know about tomorrow. My mother says Turkey is the land of surprises and contradictions.”
Kosmas leaned closer. “Perhaps Istanbul will surprise you in a good way.”
Daphne flinched when the driver swatted one of the horses with his whip. She said, “I’m not sure if I’ll fit in here.”
“Nobody d
oes. That’s partly why we like it.” Kosmas’s face was embroidered with the shifting lights and shadows passing through the artificial flowers sewn to the carriage roof. His eyes rested on her lips for a few seconds, then darted off. “But maybe your boyfriend won’t let you move here.”
The driver took a quick turn. The carriage jolted, and Kosmas’s arm slid—partly at least—onto Daphne’s shoulders. His hand remained on the basket rim, but she could feel his skin and bristly arm hair brushing her upper back. Daphne wanted to lean into his arm, rest her head against his shoulder. But she also didn’t want to lead him on. “My boyfriend wants to come for a visit,” she said.
Kosmas tapped the driver’s arm. “Can you drop us here and wait a few minutes?”
The driver made a blowing sound with loose lips. The horses slowed to a stop.
“I thought we’d have a quick walk down to the beach,” said Kosmas.
They descended the uneven, rocky path, which was flanked by bushes, scrub, and all sorts of beach garbage: half-liter water bottles, discarded wet wipes, melon rinds, seed husks, chocolate wrappers, and even a used condom. When they arrived at the pebble beach, Daphne took a deep breath of the seaweed- and sunscreen-scented air. She looked at the water flashing between the mossy rocks. The heads of a few swimmers bobbed in the open sea. A fat old woman and a shirtless man lounged on beach chairs, sipping Coca-Cola from glass bottles and reading newspapers that still had not tired of discussing the prime minister’s victory in the elections of the preceding Sunday.
Daphne’s long black skirt felt hot against her legs. Her hair was sweaty and sticking to her neck and shoulders. “I’d give half my kingdom for a dive in the sea,” she said.
“Impossible,” said Kosmas, squinting in the bright sun. “As much as I’d like half your kingdom. We don’t have bathing suits.”
“What if we took a dip in our underwear? Over there, behind those rocks. Nobody would see.”
Daphne could hear her mother already: Put it out of your head, missy. You’re in Istanbul. Everybody’s watching, all the time. But Daphne didn’t care. She wanted to get into that water, let it close around her, let it filter out the sunlight and the tango bullshit that had caused her so much upset during the past year.
A Recipe for Daphne Page 15
