A Recipe for Daphne

by Nektaria Anastasiadou

  He arrived at Lütfi Kırdar just a few minutes before the start of the performance, collected his ticket, and made his way through the shiny granite entry hall.

  “Your seat number, sir?” said an usher.

  “I have no idea,” said Fanis. “It was a gift.”

  The young man took his ticket and winked. “Somebody loves you then, Uncle. Follow me.”

  The usher escorted Fanis to a center seat in the front row. What a treat, he thought, although he would probably come out with a stiff neck. He simpered at the middle-aged couple next to him and ignored their top-to-toe scan of his tuxedo. He had only a minute to glance at the program before the lights dimmed: the first piece was to be Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto in E minor. He strained to catch a glimpse of Selin as the string players filed in. Alas, in the front row, all that one could really hope to see was the conductor’s ass. Just when Fanis had given up hope, Selin entered, wearing a flowing white gown instead of the black worn by the other female musicians. She stood—rather than sat—to the left of the conductor.

  There was no orchestral introduction. There was only Selin, jumping straight into a virtuosic passage with a discreet accompaniment from her peers. Half of her black curls were pinned to the crown of her head; the rest bounced and snapped with every movement. During a brief orchestral section, she let her violin and bow float down to her sides while she stared up at the ceiling, as if making some sort of tortured supplication to the gods. Then the piece became more playful, more tentative, and Fanis wondered if she was trying to tease him. Fireworks seemed to spring from the violin, and for a second Selin raised her head like a warrior. Fanis lost himself in the relentless exchange between light-hearted passages and savage intensity, and he realized, as Selin performed the finale, that he had hardly known anything about her until that evening. Selin Kerido was not just any line violinist, but a highly talented soloist. Fanis felt a swell of pride before a strong undercurrent of self-doubt nearly drowned him: she had to have dozens of admirers, which meant that she was even less attainable than he had thought.

  After the concert, Fanis waited for her at the stage door with the bouquet of orange snapdragons. When she came to meet him, he said, “Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto in E minor has just become my favorite piece of Romantic period music. You were majestic.”

  She kissed him on the cheek, complimented his tuxedo and his original choice of flowers, and led him into the wings. There she introduced Fanis to a tall, fifty-something bassoonist with a full head of salt-and-pepper hair. “Fanis,” she said, “I’d like you to meet my dear friend Orhan.”

  Dear? Was this the guy who was giving her the hickeys?

  The bassoonist, who had obviously not heard Selin well, said, “Pleased to meet you, sir. I absolutely adore your daughter.”

  Selin cleared her voice. “He’s not my dad—”

  “Oh, Uncle, excuse me,” said Orhan. “My ears are still ringing from the concert!”

  Orhan patted Fanis on the back, held an imaginary phone to his ear—whatever that meant—sent Selin an air kiss, and rushed off. Other introductions followed. Like Orhan, the rest of Selin’s colleagues treated Fanis like a harmless old man, who could never aspire to possessing such a goddess. But he was proud just to be called a friend.

  “Come,” said Selin to Fanis, at a pause in the tide of musicians. “I want to show you something.”

  She led him onto the empty stage. The lights were still so bright and blinding that the seating areas of the theater disappeared into semi-darkness. Fanis had the impression, even though the place was probably still a quarter full, that he and Selin were alone.

  She took him to the left side of the stage. “That’s my regular chair,” she said. “Yours for now.”

  “Concertmaster?”

  Selin gave one short, downward nod. “A guest soloist usually does the concertos, but I got a lucky break when the scheduled soloist cancelled.”

  “I love a successful woman.” Fanis loosened his collar and dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief. Those damn lights were hot. Or was it the cerebral arteriosclerosis that was causing him to sweat?

  “Now tell me all about that piece you just played,” he said.

  “Only you would say that,” said Selin, her face illuminating from within. First she spoke of the piece’s cyclic form and the various plagiaries that ensued after its success. Then she lightly tapped his knee and said, “But I’m getting ahead of myself. Well before he began to compose, Mendelssohn wrote that a violin concerto was running through his head and that the beginning of it ‘gave him no peace.’”

  “Sounds like vascular dementia,” said Fanis.

  “Excuse me?”

  How could he have let that slip?

  “A bad joke,” he said. “A friend of mine has the disease. What I meant was that the concerto overwhelms, almost like an illness. I was completely absorbed while you were playing, but in an interior way, like I was traveling inside myself.”

  Fanis snuck a peek at the hickey on Selin’s neck. It was as prominent as ever, perhaps even a little redder. Surely the bassoonist was the perpetrator. Annoyed, he said, “You must be exhausted. Let’s get you home.”

  They took a taxi back to their neighborhood. When they finally pulled into Faik Paşa Street, Fanis stuffed a bill into the driver’s hand and trotted around to Selin’s side to open the door. Seeing the embarrassed expression on her face, he offered his hand in a brotherly manner and said—before she had a chance to tell him that she would invite him up if it weren’t for such-and-such—“Goodnight, dear girl. You were marvelous this evening.”

  He rushed inside his building without a backward glance, leaned breathless against the painting of the goddess Athena, and said to Hermes, “You see? I finally have an attractive female friend. Not that I’d say no to her becoming more but . . . friendship is a big step for me. I hope you’re proud.”

  18

  Recognitions and a Tower

  Just before dawn on wednesday morning, Kosmas delivered his beloved and her package of apple strudel to Gavriela’s door. After looking up and down the street to make sure that no one was watching, Kosmas backed Daphne against the building wall, grabbed her bottom, and lifted her to his height. He caressed her lips with his, nibbled her, and pulled her tongue into his mouth. It was almost as if they were making love again. But he knew he couldn’t keep her there for long. Indiscreet eyes were numerous, and even if they couldn’t cause a scandal in a secular neighborhood like Cihangir, gossip was never pleasant.

  “I’ve got to go,” said Daphne. “If my aunt’s neighbors see . . .”

  “Tomorrow night?”

  She nodded yes and pulled away.

  Kosmas returned to the Lily, where he found Uncle Mustafa sweeping white buttons and other debris from the kitchen floor. Not once in his life had Kosmas left the kitchen in disorder. He started to apologize, but Uncle Mustafa patted his shoulder and said, “All my life I dreamed of getting Madame Bahar onto this countertop. You know, the one who comes for strawberry tart on Saturdays. Now I’d break my back if I tried. I’m glad somebody finally put this kitchen to good use.”

  “I might be falling in love,” said Kosmas.

  “Are congratulations in order?”

  Kosmas hesitated. “Not yet.”

  “Let me guess.” Uncle Mustafa leaned the broom against the counter and poured their morning tea into tulip glasses. “Rea can’t stand Daphne.”

  “It’s more complicated than that. I’m ashamed to admit it . . .”

  “Take the fava bean out of your mouth, son.”

  “Her father’s Muslim. You know my mother’s not prejudiced, but if things got serious with Daphne, it would be a problem.”

  “Of course,” said Uncle Mustafa. “And if it weren’t that, it would be that Daphne’s feet were too big or too small, or her hair too blond or too black.”

  Kosmas stared at Uncle Mustafa: his expression was blank, as if he were discussing a supply or
der. But he had to be joking. Rea wasn’t that bad.

  “The problem isn’t Mom,” said Kosmas. “Daphne’s got a fiancé in America, and she’s leaving on Sunday. So this is probably a temporary summer thing.”

  Uncle Mustafa took a sip of tea. “Either that,” he said, “or you’d better get to work.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I mean that maybe you shouldn’t let this chance slip by.”

  “The thing is . . . I always thought I’d marry a Rum, to keep our community and traditions alive.”

  “That’s understandable, son. Anyway, it’s not always easy for a Muslim girl to marry a Christian boy. Just because it’s legally possible doesn’t mean that getting her family to accept you will be easy.”

  “She’s Christian. Or at least so she says.”

  “I see.” Uncle Mustafa switched into Greek, which he spoke reasonably well when he wanted to: “To vrikes, to thes kai ksyrismeno.” You’ve finally found a pussy and now you want it shaved.

  “Excuse me?”

  Uncle Mustafa reverted to Turkish: “Your father’s favorite saying. You got what you wanted, but now it’s not perfect enough.”

  Kosmas was speechless. Such hard talk wasn’t like subtle Uncle Mustafa. And Kosmas had certainly never heard his father say that.

  “Anyway”—Uncle Mustafa glanced at the apron still lying on the floor—“you’d better tie ribbons to the back door. In case I come to work early.”

  “Good idea,” said Kosmas.

  On Saturday morning, after yet another night of lovemaking at the Lily, Daphne snatched a few hours of sleep and awoke to the characteristic message alert of her Turkish cell phone. It had to be from Kosmas. Not yet ready to open her eyes, she pressed her face into the starched pillow and thought about the past three nights. On Wednesday, Kosmas had taken her on a Vespa ride to Rumelifeneri, a village on the shores of the Bosporus and the Black Sea; they had picnicked on fresh tomatoes, goat cheese, boiled eggs, and olives in the arch of a Byzantine castle while waves rushed against the rocks beneath them. On Thursday evening, they had gone for coffee at a chic café in Teşvikiye and lounged on couches while drinking latte macchiato, talking about their childhoods, and admiring the rose bushes surrounding the illuminated mosque. On Friday, they had gone to a rembetiko club, which led to Daphne’s second tsifteteli performance. The scene that had followed at the Lily was the reason she was having such a hard time getting out of bed now.

  She reached over to the nightstand, grabbed her phone, and rubbed the sleepies out of her eyes. The message, however, was not from Kosmas. It was from Lidia, an Argentine friend in Miami. “Mira tu email, nena.” Check your email, girl.

  Daphne pushed herself to a sitting position, slid her feet into her flip-flops, and stumbled into the kitchen, where her aunt was already busy peeling potatoes. “Coffee,” she said.

  “Not yet,” said Gavriela. “You’ve been out with him until four a.m. every night since Tuesday. I want to know: is he that good?”

  Daphne scrunched both eyes shut for a second and smiled.

  Gavriela paused mid-peel and grinned mischievously. “Who’d have guessed?”

  “I’m thinking about breaking up with Paul. I can’t keep cheating on him like this. I feel guilty.”

  “Paul’s been cheating on you for months, little mama, if not years.”

  “I don’t know if that’s true. He dances with other women, and he’s told a few lies, but I doubt he’s actually slept with any of them.”

  Gavriela raised her eyebrows and resumed her potato peeling. “You know best.”

  Daphne cut a piece from the tsoureki bread Kosmas had baked on Wednesday. “I’m going to break up with him as soon as I get back.”

  “Better late than never,” said Gavriela.

  Daphne kissed her aunt’s cheek. “I’d do it now, but telephone breakups are insensitive.”

  Back in her room, Daphne sat down at her little desk. While waiting for her laptop to start up, she took a bite of tsoureki: in its perfumy mastic and mahleb flavors hid memories of a midnight picnic—and endless kisses—at Rumelifeneri. Daphne had never expected that a mama’s-boy pâtissier would kiss so well.

  She found Lidia’s email with the title Lo siento mucho: “Nena, forgive me for being the bearer of bad news, but you always said you’d want to know. Paul was with Luciana at La Rosa Negra last night, snuggling in a corner. Cristina says they’re sleeping together. I’m so sorry. That tramp isn’t worth the heels of your shoes.”

  Daphne pulled up Luciana’s public Facebook page, which identified her as an actress-model-dancer-singer-songwriter. At the very top of the timeline were two photos of Luciana and Paul in a close embrace, as well as a video of them dancing together. She clicked through to Luciana’s website and skimmed the online CV. The first professional qualification was Luciana’s bust size: 42. The second was her waist: 25. The third her hips: 38. It seemed that she was the Dolly Parton of tango. Daphne then scrolled through the photos of Luciana’s modeling days, over ten years before: there were topless shots, bare rear shots, open-mouthed come-hither poses. What kind of woman put photos like that on the internet, published her cell-phone number to the world, and listed her measurements as if they were diplomas?

  The initial adrenaline rush and shock had blocked Daphne’s emotions, but now tears of wounded pride slithered down her cheeks. Her relationship with Paul was a lie. She was just a cover, the good girl he presented at work and to parents while escorts and prostitutes fulfilled his real desires. Aunt Gavriela had been right.

  “Here’s your coffee, little mama,” said Gavriela, startling Daphne. Her aunt had entered silently and now stood behind her, staring at the photos of Luciana. “Now there’s an artiste if I ever saw one.”

  “Paul’s new girlfriend.”

  Gavriela hissed like a snake. “I hope you told him to eat shit?”

  Daphne picked up her cell phone. “Right now.”

  “That’s my girl. Send him to the devil and then come out for more tsoureki. It’s absolutely divine.”

  As soon as Gavriela had left the room, Daphne called Paul. Despite his being a tango night owl, he hadn’t been answering late calls for the past week. So Daphne was surprised when he picked up after only three rings. Juan d’Arienzo’s “El rey del compás” was playing in the background.

  “Where are you?” said Daphne.

  “The Biltmore.”

  That was where they had met. At a tango lesson Lidia had dragged her to. Daphne remembered how courteous Paul had been in comparison with the other tango leches. She recalled the wainscoted walls, the portable dance floor that kept coming apart; Paul had carefully led her away from the gaps so that she wouldn’t trip.

  “Do you have something to tell me?” she asked, after the long pause.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Paul.

  “Luciana.”

  “That again? She’s just somebody to dance with.”

  “Is that what you were doing at La Rosa Negra?”

  “Nothing happened.”

  “Do you know she posted photos of you on Facebook?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know that she has her bust size on her site?”

  “Yeeees.”

  “And that she’s done soft porn?”

  “She’s a dance partner, for Christ’s sake!”

  “I’m not that stupid, Paul.”

  Silence.

  Daphne said, “If you want someone else, fine. But why the lies? Couldn’t you at least have had the respect to—”

  “We’ve become so different. And you’re not so into tango anymore.”

  “So you got yourself a whore?”

  “A dance partner.”

  “I’m not even going to ask if she was the first.”

  A woman shouted in the background: “Paulito! Is that you over there?”

  Daphne wanted to throw the phone out the window. “Go make your date for the evening before somebod
y else reserves her. I’ll send my dad for my stuff.” She hung up, closed her laptop, and went to find her aunt.

  Gavriela was sitting in a living-room armchair with her pudgy legs crossed. She took a sip of coffee from a gold-rimmed demitasse cup, turned her face into the bright light streaming through the sheer curtains, and said, “Did you shit on him well, little mama?”

  Daphne collapsed onto the footstool beside Gavriela. “Yes.”

  “Enjoyed it?”

  “Not at all, Auntie.” Daphne whimpered. “I knew it was over, but now it’s like it was all a lie from the very—”

  Gavriela set her coffee on the side table. “Stop it right now. You’ve been with Kosmas all week.”

  “I know, but that woman . . .”

  “Would you have preferred a man?”

  “If she’s what he really wanted—a porn star with fake boobs—then why was he ever with me? It’s my self-image.”

  “Ay, siktir,” Gabriella hissed. Like most Rums, she preferred the Turkish phrase for fuck to the Greek. “This is ridiculous. Your self-image comes from yourself, little mama, not from any Paul, nor any Kosmas. Who cares whom that monoglot American is doing? You gave him the road, now shut the door and move on. A man with such bad taste is not worth any woman’s tears. So stop that sniveling, make yourself pretty, and go see Kosmas. He’s the perfect cream for your sunburn.”

  That same afternoon, Kosmas took a short break while waiting for Mr. and Mrs. iPhone’s icing to set in the refrigerator. He made himself a double Turkish coffee, took the first volume of Recipes of Hamdi the Pastry Chef from the safe, and set it on the office desk to peruse while he sipped his coffee, but he soon found himself lost in a labyrinth of recipes without any sort of organization. Some of the titles and directions were blotted out by liquid and food marks, and what Kosmas could make out was so interesting that he couldn’t resist taking notes. Losing track of time, he studied the recipes of mysterious confections such as a thirteenth-century quince murabba preserve and a Crimean kaysefe made from fresh apple boiled in water and butter along with dried white mulberries, figs, raisins, and cinnamon. Kosmas was completely taken in by a recipe for memuniyye: fried dumplings made from shredded chicken, almonds, rosewater, rice flour, and honey. Mehmet the Conqueror had so enjoyed memuniyye that they had become a standard dish at Topkapı Palace and the crowning delight of a banquet given in honor of the Venetian ambassador, Andrea Badoero, in 1574.