A Recipe for Daphne

by Nektaria Anastasiadou

  “What color?” said Kosmas.

  “What color?”

  “Your underwear. If it’s black, then maybe . . .”

  “Beige.”

  Kosmas’s eyes widened. “We’d better not. The driver’s waiting for us. We’ll come again another time.”

  “Even the fat old lady over there is close to naked,” said Daphne.

  “Who cares about the fat old lady? But if you go swimming in beige underwear, believe me, there will be an audience.” In four large strides, Kosmas returned to the path.

  Daphne ran across the pebbles, sinking into them with each step. “Wait,” she shouted.

  Kosmas stopped beneath a cypress tree and wiped his brow with an old-fashioned cotton handkerchief. “I’m sorry,” he said, raising his voice above his usual, aristocratically polite museum tone. “I know I’m just a friend. But I’m not a tango dancer, and I’m not American, and I don’t like to share.”

  Kosmas continued up to the road, leaving Daphne to the metallic buzzing of the cicadas. Paul didn’t care if she danced with other men; Kosmas blushed at the thought of her being seen in wet underwear by probably no one. Paul didn’t care if she traveled across the world by herself, yet Kosmas had accompanied her to the lavatory on the ferry and waited outside the door until she was finished. Daphne remembered having felt flattered by Paul’s trust at the beginning of their relationship, but over the past year, she had begun to wonder if he was just indifferent. Kosmas’s protectiveness might eventually grow tiring—perhaps even stifling—but for now it felt like sitting in the sun after a bout of cold and dreary weather.

  The driver dropped them off just outside Aliki’s white clapboard cottage. Kosmas pressed the doorbell. It tweeted like a happy bird, but no one answered. “They probably can’t hear,” he said.

  He led Daphne around the cottage, through a jungle-like alleyway that hosted a fig tree, a bright purple bougainvillea bush, a deserted fishing bark covered with torn netting, and a few renegade New Guinea impatiens. Just before they reached the gate, Daphne overheard Aliki saying: “—on the beach maybe, or beneath the pine trees, or in the phaeton?”

  “Absolutely not,” said Rea. “He would have asked my permission first. And his grandparents’ rings are still in the safety-deposit box.”

  “Who needs rings?” said Julien. “I proposed to my wife the night I met her. It wasn’t even a date, just a Bastille Day party, and there was no diamond, although I bought her one later. I was drunk, but never mind that.”

  Daphne couldn’t believe her ears.

  Kosmas called out: “We’re back!”

  “We were just wondering when you’d be along,” said Julien, innocently.

  Embarrassed, Daphne followed Kosmas through a maze of lavender, geranium, marigold, and hydrangea pots—some flourishing and some dried out, all with prickly weeds growing in between—to a white plastic tea table beneath a grapevine trellis.

  “You must be starving,” said Aliki. She lifted mosquito tents from plates of sauced summer vegetables, fresh bread, feta cheese, cucumber salad, stuffed vine leaves, and celery root with lemon and dill.

  While Aliki served, Julien asked, “How was the ride?”

  “We did the whole tour,” said Daphne, “all the way to the end. We even went down to the beach and—”

  “You had a good time,” said Julien.

  “Yes, Professeur,” said Daphne. “A very good time.”

  “I’m surprised you like phaetons, Daphne dear,” said Fanis. “Just last week there was another newspaper article about a horse that collapsed from exhaustion. And everybody knows that the drivers leave the sick ones to die in the forests.”

  Daphne set down her fork. Her unwitting contribution to animal abuse had cut her appetite.

  Fanis continued: “Some drivers even drown their old horses in the s—”

  “Didn’t you say just an hour ago,” interrupted Julien, “how much you loved phaetons?”

  “I do,” said Fanis. “But I know which drivers are good to their horses, and the one that Kosmas chose certainly isn’t.” Fanis turned to Daphne. “Next weekend, dear, we’ll go to Prinkipos Island and take a phaeton with a very good and humane driver. Then we’ll eat grilled lamb at the monastery restaurant.”

  Aliki frowned. “She’s vegetarian. And, besides, you said you’d help me with the sale of my antiques next weekend.”

  Had Aliki put Fanis in the eye? Daphne looked to Kosmas, wondering if he was thinking the same thing. But Kosmas wasn’t paying any attention to Aliki and Fanis: he was staring at Daphne’s waist and hair as she leaned forward to eat. Daphne felt a tingling in her chest, as if she had overdosed on caffeine.

  “The antiques aren’t going anywhere,” said Fanis. “They’ve been in your family for over a century. Couldn’t they wait another few weeks?”

  Aliki clicked her tongue. No.

  Julien tugged on the open flaps of his fishing vest. “I’d be happy to help.”

  Aliki clicked a second time. “Thanks, Teacher, but the antiques aren’t musical instruments. I need Fanis’s expertise.”

  “Daphne, have you noticed the view?” Dimitris pointed a split yellow fingernail toward the corrugated polycarbonate roof panels upon which cats were taking their afternoon siesta. Just beyond them, Daphne could distinguish the green contours of another island, as well as the blond rocks at its base, disappearing into the sea. “The Halki Theological School is just there,” said Dimitris, “at the top of the hill. It’s mostly hidden by trees, but you can make out the roof.”

  “She probably doesn’t know what the Halki Seminary is,” said Rea. “Maybe you should explain, Dimitraki.”

  “Actually,” said Daphne, “I did a lesson on the Halki Seminary with my sixth-graders a couple of months ago. They wrote letters to the prime minister asking for its reopening.”

  “İnşallah that will happen soon,” said Gavriela.

  The word inşallah relayed around the table.

  “That’s where we’ll go next weekend,” said Fanis. “Now, how about some music?”

  He went inside the cottage. A few minutes later, the first piano chords of Louis Armstrong’s “Dancing Cheek To Cheek” sailed out. Fanis floated back down the stairs, stepping with the lightness of Fred Astaire and singing along. Daphne was surprised that, despite his not speaking English, Fanis knew all the words. In fact, his smooth bass was just as suited to American jazz as it was to Byzantine hymns. He stopped in front of Daphne. “Care to dance?”

  Daphne stood and took Fanis’s hand. He danced well, with good time, agility, clear direction, and consideration. He didn’t hold Daphne too tightly, as Metin had on Friday night. He didn’t get frustrated if she didn’t follow a step or perform high boleos, as Paul did. And he wasn’t distracted by her proximity, as Kosmas had been at the lesson. After the final piano flourish, Fanis kissed Daphne’s hand. She kissed his cheek and took in a last breath of his citrusy cologne. Everyone applauded.

  “Time for the children’s coffee,” Aliki said. She reached behind her for the blue camp burner sitting at the base of a dried-out date palm.

  With a sudden desire to show off her new coffee-making skills, Daphne said, “Madame Aliki, you went to so much trouble over the food. Please allow me.”

  “Don’t be silly,” said Aliki. “This is the first time you’ve been to my house.”

  “I insist,” said Daphne. She placed the camp burner and copper pot before her on the plastic table. Julien handed her the coffee and sugar jars. Kosmas passed the cups, saucers, and spoons. As Daphne took the water pitcher from him, their fingers brushed, just as they had when he had given her the chocolate box on Friday night. This time, however, instead of an urge to get away, she felt a dangerous flutter.

  “Medium for me,” said Kosmas.

  “I’ll take another,” said Rea.

  Daphne stirred the coffee and water gently, just until the sugar melted. She removed the pot from the burner as soon as the coffee started to swe
ll, filled the cups halfway, and then returned the pot to the flame in order to create a perfect foam. After the coffee had bubbled again, she let it rest a moment before topping up.

  Kosmas took a sip. “The best I’ve ever had. Health to your hands.”

  “Bravo, my doll,” said Rea, smiling at Daphne, “but a little too sweet. A medium should be—”

  “Time for my biscuit terrine!” Aliki interrupted.

  Daphne and Kosmas finished their coffees while Aliki cut and served slices of her semi-frozen cream and biscuit log. After the first bite, Rea said, “The perfect amount of sweetness!”

  Of course, thought Daphne. Because Aliki made it, not me.

  “I’d hire you any day,” said Kosmas.

  Aliki blushed.

  “Aliki’s an old-style City woman,” said Fanis, after he had scooped the last bit of melted chocolate cream from his plate. “She has golden hands.”

  Gavriela tossed a shredded napkin onto the table and grabbed Kosmas’s οverturned coffee cup, but it was glued fast by the sandy dregs. “You’ll get your wish,” she said. “Look how hard I’m pulling.”

  “Of course he will,” grumbled Julien.

  Gavriela twisted the cup loose and peered inside. “I see a circle and a house: marriage and family happiness.”

  “I do hope the lucky girl will take proper care of him.” Rea sighed.

  “Amateur,” said Fanis, taking the cup. “You’re selling fairytales, Gavriela. Your circle is an upside-down head, which means that he isn’t going to. . . . Oh, never mind. Have it your way.”

  Daphne looked at Kosmas. His face had turned the color of sour-cherry liqueur. A tiny dot of saliva had collected in the right corner of his lips. He was dying of embarrassment.

  Gavriela clicked her tongue at Fanis, set Kosmas’s cup aside, and lifted Daphne’s. “You’ll have a child sooner than you expect.”

  “Sorry, Auntie,” said Daphne, wondering if her face was now turning the same color as Kosmas’s. “No babies in my plans. At least, not for another five years.”

  “I do hope you’ll be strict with your children,” said Rea. “Today’s mothers are too lenient.”

  “My niece,” said Gavriela, “will be an ideal mother.”

  “Were there any pillows?” Julien tapped a teaspoon against the tabletop. “My first mistress used to say that pillows were the sign of a good sex life.”

  Aliki swung her chin from side to side like a pendulum. “Then we obviously will not be seeing any pillows in your grinds.”

  Rea reached for the cup. “I see a mask, just there! That means secrets and deception. Either someone is deceiving you, Daphne, or there is something you aren’t telling us.”

  “Mama, enough,” said Kosmas.

  It was the first time that Daphne had heard him use so stern a tone with his mother. Still, Daphne was capable of defending herself. “Look, Madame Rea, I don’t have anything to hide. Μy father—”

  The call to prayer sounded from the local mosque. “It’s getting late!” said Dimitris. He winked conspiratorially at Daphne, although she couldn’t understand why, and then continued: “Our lovely Ritsa needs plenty of time to get down to the quay.”

  Aliki leaned toward Fanis. “You look tired. You know, I have an extra room if you’d like to stay the night.”

  Julien dropped the teaspoon he’d been tapping. “You want him to stay the night?”

  “Tired,” said Fanis. “It’s like saying, ‘We will be visiting you in the cemetery soon.’”

  Aliki fluttered her blue-powdered eyelids. “I didn’t mean it that way. I just thought you might like to take a little break.”

  Julien looked importunately at Aliki. “I would love a rest.”

  “Another time, Professeur. I’ve only got one guest room.”

  “Come on, Prof,” said Kosmas, patting Julien’s shoulder. “The ride back will be boring without you. Besides, we have to remember what they say about the one who leaves, don’t we? And the other ten who come to take her place?”

  “You can’t sell Father’s gifts back to Father,” Julien grumbled.

  Kosmas shook his head, crossed to the other side of the table, and helped Julien to his feet. As he did so, Daphne took another look at his little posterior. It was almost cute.

  Taking advantage of the commotion, Dimitris whispered in Daphne’s ear: “All things in their time, my girl, all things in their time!”

  13

  Sweet Nymph and Old Hag

  After the others had gone, Fanis helped carry the tea and coffee things into the kitchen. An hour later, while he was enjoying his last tea on the patio and admiring the vinca vines, which were turning a glowing orange-green in the pre-sunset light, Aliki appeared in the doorway with her purse in hand.

  “Let’s go have some fun,” she said.

  “How?” asked Fanis.

  “We can take a phaeton to the promontory, have lamb ribs for dinner, and get drunk.”

  “I’m in,” said Fanis.

  They locked up the house and walked arm in arm to one of the streets where phaetons queued for customers. The first in line was a red carriage with turquoise seats. Fanis haggled for his usual senior discount, then said to Aliki, “When ascending stairs or entering carriages, in the interests of propriety, men should always precede women.”

  With that he climbed inside and offered both hands to Aliki. But even with his help, she couldn’t manage to take more than one foot off the ground. The driver tossed aside his whip and offered to help by giving a boost from behind. After some strategic planning and a coordinated effort, Aliki finally landed on the carriage seat with a jolt that startled the horses. Fanis straightened his sweater vest. The driver wiped his brow, threw away the cigarette that had been hanging from his mouth, hopped onto his bench, and snapped the reins.

  It wasn’t exactly the ride with Daphne that Fanis had planned while listening to the great Sinatra after his visit to the barbershop, but it was pleasant enough. At the open-air restaurant, Aliki chose a table beside the pine trees that had once sheltered impromptu dances, and in the course of the evening they ate more grilled lamb ribs and drank more house wine than their doctors would have approved. Just after the waiter had cleared the table, Aliki looked over the blackness of the sea, toward the glowing lights on the Thracian shore, and said, “I’m so glad you stayed. Sometimes I get a little lonely.”

  “I’m glad you invited me,” said Fanis, smiling as convincingly as he could. The truth, however, was that he couldn’t stop obsessing about how things had gone with Daphne. He had certainly scored points with the dance number, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that she preferred his rival. She had faced Kosmas squarely whenever he spoke, carelessly—and somewhat rudely—turning her back to others in the process. That wasn’t a good sign.

  Aliki took out her pink pill box, opened the Sunday Evening compartment, and swallowed its contents with a gulp of water. “You don’t take anything?” she said.

  Fanis recalled the embers of Dr. Aydemir’s prescriptions hovering above the sink, like fireflies. Thank God he had burned those nasty threats of living decomposition. He should never have accepted them in the first place. The box of blue pills dispensed by Pharmacist Sözbir, on the other hand, had been a pleasure from the moment Fanis’s fingers had touched the precious cardboard. He had placed it like a trophy on its own private shelf in the medicine cabinet, confident that, with its help, he would be able to beget a son to carry on the Paleologos name.

  “What would I need pills for?” said Fanis. He took a sip of the deep red wine and held it in his mouth for a moment, savoring the hints of dried fruit, fig, and oak. “Illness can’t get you if you refuse to acknowledge its existence. Just the other day I read something about a goiter sufferer who was doing just fine until they made him do a biopsy. He died three days after seeing the C-word on paper. They said his body had dealt with the cancer for years and years, but the mind couldn’t handle it for more than a few hours. So I say to Hel
l with doctors.”

  “But you wouldn’t ignore symptoms, would you? If you had them?”

  “Of course I would. Most of them are in our heads anyway.”

  Aliki met his gaze. Their table’s only lighting was a string of holiday bulbs woven into the vine trellis above their heads, but Fanis saw well enough to recognize the worry in her fading blue eyes. “Is there something you’re not telling us?” she said.

  “No,” said Fanis. It wasn’t a lie. It was a Greek Truth: something that had to be said to avoid problems.

  “That’s a relief,” said Aliki. “Anyway, you’re still a fabulous dancer. Do you remember the rumba we danced here?”

  Fanis fumbled: “Eh . . . sure.” He had danced so many cha-chas, waltzes, and rumbas with so many girls. It was, of course, probable that she had been one of them.

  “You were the best dancer back then. All the girls wanted a turn with you. How could you remember us all?”

  “Of course I remember,” said Fanis. He took a deep breath of the sea air. “You had on that dress . . .”

  Aliki grinned. “The pink organza! You do remember. God, could you wiggle those hips. That’s why we loved dancing with you so much.”

  “You were quite good yourself,” said Fanis. “Good timing, soft hands.”

  “Afterwards,” said Aliki, “you went straight back to your fiancée. I was jealous of Kalypso because she was such a good dancer. I was even a bit jealous of Daphne this afternoon. I wish I could still move about like I used to.”

  “Ka—” said Fanis, but he couldn’t complete the name. It choked him. Although they had been taking tea together for at least a decade, neither Aliki nor Rea had ever tried to dig up the past by mentioning Kalypso. He had always been grateful for their tact.

  Fanis remained silent for a while. Aliki praised Kalypso’s beautiful dancing, her singing, and her intricate embroidery, which Aliki had never been able to match, try as she might. She reminded him that his fiancée had once broken a heel after failing to follow one of Fanis’s fancy moves. As a result, both Fanis and Kalypso had fallen onto the pine needles.