A Recipe for Daphne by Nektaria Anastasiadou (reading well .txt) 📕

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.

They had spoken of movies and food, subjects that Fanis still heard dating couples discussing as they tried to determine whether their tastes were similar or opposed. Then, when Fanis praised her singing, she asked who his favorite was.

“The great Sinatra,” he said. “And yours?”

“Roza Eskenazi.”

Fanis felt a frisson of synchronicity at hearing the name of the Great Diva, the Queen of Underworld Rembetiko. “I adore Roza. But my mother won’t allow any of those popular albums in the house. She says they’re basse classe.”

“Neither will mine,” said Kalypso. “So I bring them home secretly and play them when Mother’s out.”

“Sing something,” he said.

Kalypso chose “My Sweet Canary,” one of Roza’s songs. But she skipped the innocent overture and dove straight into the most provocative verse, begging