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

If he heard a mobile phone ringing across the way, or if he suddenly saw the new neighbor search for something, he would stay on the line. If not, he would hang up and try again on Thursday.

He settled into the street-facing armchair in the oriel, dialed, and waited. He heard the ringing on his end, but not on hers. Steady, he told himself. The connection might take a few seconds. And then, suddenly, faintly, but surely: a custom ringtone that was devilishly familiar—Witchcraft.

The beauty grabbed her phone. “Allo?”

Fanis said in Turkish, “Selin, my princess, why didn’t you tell me we were going to be neighbors?”

“Who is this?”

“Look across the way.”

Selin stuck her red-kerchiefed head into the sunlight. “Fanis?”

The informal use of his name—without the respectful “Mr.”—thrilled him. “What would you say if I brought over a snack?” he said.

“It’s a mess here right now, so I’d rather—”

“Perfect. I’ll be over in an hour.”

While brushing his teeth, Fanis thought about his telephone conversation with Gavriela earlier that afternoon. In colorful Istanbul–Greek idiom, Gavriela had conjectured that, on their date the previous night, Kosmas and Daphne had finally eaten it. “Good digestion, then,” Fanis had replied, hardly able to conceal his jealousy. After hanging up, he had devoured an entire box of bitter almond cookies as a consolation. But now, as he rinsed his mouth with saltwater and anticipated spending time with Selin, he was significantly less bothered by the defeat.

Once outside, Fanis took a deep breath of Istanbul’s polluted air and skipped off to the meatball shop, where he ordered two portions of meatballs and potatoes, and a tomato salad with plenty of parsley and absolutely no onion. He took his time climbing Selin’s stairs, for he wanted to be neither out of breath nor sweating when he knocked on her door. Selin opened in a short, strappy yellow dress, without the kerchief, and with her hair doing its crazy dance in the air current.

Fanis had always enjoyed the range of expression allowed by a simple cheek kiss. There was the air kiss, which was nothing more than a chicken-like motion of the neck; there was the perfunctory cheek tap for people you semi-liked; the full cheek press for your good friends, beloved family members, and people you hadn’t seen in a long time; and finally the true kiss with lips planted firmly on both cheeks. When Selin performed the last—and when Fanis simultaneously understood that her seductive perfume of almond-tree blossom, vanilla, and jasmine had been recently applied—he suddenly felt so lightheaded that he had to lean against the doorjamb for support.

Selin welcomed him inside. “Excuse the mess.”

“Shall we eat while it’s warm?” said Fanis, pretending not to notice the pile of scattered CD cases at the foot of a red art-deco armchair.

“Absolutely. But I’ll have to move some stuff.”

She was about to pick up the large box on the dining table when he said, “Don’t, my soul. Let me get it.” He sucked in his abs, took a deep breath, and made a tremendous effort not to show any sign of strain while transferring the box to a coffee table made from a piece of polished driftwood. He made a show of protest when Selin followed with the second box, but inwardly he thanked her for sparing him another show of prowess.

“Let me clean up the table,” said Selin, bustling off to the bathroom. “I’m so sorry, but I can’t find any of my hand-embroidered tablecloths, and I have such a nice collection . . .”

She was in a flutter over his arrival. Just a few weeks ago, her demeanor might have made him feel smug about his ability to seduce women. But now that Daphne had shown a preference for Kosmas, Fanis was feeling insecure.

Selin returned with a wet cloth and began wiping down the table. As she did so, her dress rose over the backs of her tanned thighs. Fanis lost his appetite for food. He tried to distract himself by looking at the pile of spilled CDs, but there, on top of various violin albums, was Songs for Swingin’ Lovers! He picked up the CD case. “My dear,” he said, “I heard the ringtone, but I thought it was a fluke. Are you truly a fan of the great Voice?”

“Of course.” Selin switched on the player and put in the CD. Fanis recognized his moment. He pulled out Selin’s chair, wished her good digestion, and, standing in the center of the living room, gave her a dinnertime serenade. He clapped his hands to the opening notes of the first track, just like he’d seen Frankie do in a televised concert, and then, playfully bouncing his shoulders, he sang “You Make Me Feel So Young.”

A schoolgirl smile overcame Selin’s house-moving fatigue and puckered her cheeks with dimples. She was so amused that she snapped her fingers to the beat. At a break between stanzas, Fanis had to scold her, “Eat! Eat!”

“Your voice is incredible,” she said, when the song had finished. “It’s as if Frankie’s come to visit.”

“You’re kind.” Fanis bit into a fried potato. “But it’s not difficult to sing well when one has inspiration.”

Selin flushed red. “Thanks for bringing dinner. I haven’t properly cleaned the kitchen yet, and—”

“Do you have an apron?”

“What for?”

“I’m going to tackle that kitchen while you eat, dear. I’m as titiz as any old Rum housewife. I disinfect everything.”

“You can’t be serious.”

Fanis stood, took off his navy linen jacket and watch, and rolled up the sleeves of his favorite sky-blue shirt. “Perfectly serious.”

“I can’t let you do it.”

“You eat and have a little nap,” said Fanis. “I’ll do the kitchen, and then we’ll finish the rest of the house together.”

“You’re an angel,” she said.

The word was balm. He felt his cleaning wings sprouting already. He resisted the temptation to kiss her and slipped away. While she ate and rested, he scrubbed the little kitchen so thoroughly that even his obsessive-compulsive mother would have approved. By the time Selin woke from