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

her choice and sighed. He took her file from the stack on his counter, shuffled through, and said, “This is a mistake. Your father is Muslim. That makes you Muslim, too.”

“My mother and I are Christian.”

“But it’s the father who counts.”

“Forgive me, sir. I am the one who counts.”

“Why do you want to do this to yourself?”

“Do what?”

“Things will be better for you as a Muslim. Don’t you want to be really Turkish, not just a Turkish citizen?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then go to church if you want, but write Muslim.”

At that moment, Daphne realized that her choice wasn’t only for Kosmas. It was also for herself. She pulled out her gold baptismal cross from beneath her shirt and said, “I am really Turkish. And I’m Christian.”

The clerk sighed. “Have a seat.”

While waiting, Daphne recalled Kosmas’s mini-meltdown in Madame Kyveli’s restaurant. She imagined Rea staring at a return label with a tiny photo of a rescued dog and a name that brought back memories of hiding in woodsheds and fear of rape and pillage. Maybe Rea wasn’t so awful after all. Maybe she was just afraid. Daphne shifted her weight in the hard plastic seat. She thought of her own mother sitting in Versailles restaurant and saying that they were neither here nor there.

“Ms. Badem!” called the clerk. “Take this to Station Three, please, down that way.”

Daphne looked at the form still lying in the deal box. Right in the middle was the red approval stamp of the Turkish Republic: a moon and star underlined with the year “1923.” Officially, Daphne had become an Orthodox Christian thirty-one years before, when she was baptized at Saint Sophia’s Cathedral in Miami. But it was only now, after completing a Turkish bureaucratic procedure, that she felt she had truly earned the word Christian.

22

Discovery

On a wednesday morning in January, Fanis awoke to a city dressed in white. He went to the kitchen to make his coffee and omelet, but he was so excited by the flakes falling past his window that he forgot all about breakfast, called Selin, and said, “Look out the window. Faik Paşa is sprinkled with powdered sugar like a tray of mille-feuille.”

As they gazed at the winter wonderland from opposite windows, Fanis remembered he was to receive his retirement stipend from the Greek Consulate that day. He and Selin had planned to go together and then have a coffee in the Grand Avenue before she took a bus up to Lütfi Kırdar. Seeing the snow, however, Fanis had second thoughts about their plan. “The streets will be dangerously slippery,” he said to Selin. “I don’t think you ought to go to work. And I guess I can wait and collect a double stipend next month.”

“I have no choice,” she said. “Today’s the final rehearsal for the Tchaikovsky concerto.”

“Right.” Fanis pulled his plaid robe more tightly around his shoulders. “We’ll walk over to the consulate together and take a taxi up to the concert hall. I’ll stay until you’ve finished.”

“You’ll be bored.”

“Bored at the Borusan? Are you out of your mind? Besides, there’s no question of you coming home by yourself. The weather could get worse, and the doctor said you have to be careful of colds.”

Three-quarters of an hour later, they met in the street. A thick layer of snow had already settled over everything. “See?” said Fanis. “You couldn’t get a taxi to come to your door even if you phoned.”

They plodded up to the sky-blue, neoclassical consulate and entered the unusually short queue on the opposite side of the street. While waiting, Fanis noticed Selin shivering. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders.

A second later, wearing a homemade pompom beanie, Aliki came hobbling out of the consulate. “Fanis? Selin?”

Fanis tried to let his arm slide slowly and discreetly down Selin’s back, but it was too late. Aliki’s eyes darted back and forth between them. Her head twitched as if she had a tic. She licked her lips repeatedly. Had Fanis not known her better, he would have thought that she was suffering from mental illness.

“But,” Aliki stammered, “I thought it was only because of Julien . . . and since he never said anything, never made a move . . . and when you and I went for soup, I thought that maybe . . . ”

Fanis realized his mistake. Two weeks before he had helped Aliki sell the antiques that had lain in boxes since the summer. He had obtained such a good price that she had insisted on treating him to tripe soup and saffron pudding, and they had passed a pleasant afternoon reminiscing and telling jokes. Aliki had obviously mistaken his mirth—whose source was his friendship with Selin—as interest in her.

Aliki continued mumbling incoherently and glaring at Selin as if she had sprouted two heads: “Are you two really. . . . How long?”

Fanis spotted a taxi slowly approaching through the lane cleared by the plow. He raised his hand to the driver, took Aliki’s arm, and said, “How lucky you are, dear. Hardly any taxis out now. You’d better take it.” As soon as the vehicle had come to a stop, he helped Aliki inside. Just before shutting the door, he winked and said, “We’ll talk this afternoon, at Neighbor’s House.” Aliki continued staring through the foggy window as the taxi pulled off through the slush. Poor thing.

“Did she really think that . . . we . . . ?” said Selin.

Fanis threw his head back dismissively. “I’ll go straighten things out this afternoon.”

“She has a thing for you, doesn’t she?”

“Perhaps. But it’s not mutual. Come on. It’s our turn to go inside.”

After collecting his stipend, Fanis helped Selin up the steep byway to Sıraselviler Avenue, hailed a taxi, and delivered her to the concert hall. He then spent a delightful day listening to Tchaikovsky’s concerto. He was taken in by its gentle and unassuming beginning, its promise of a long journey to an unknown destination, and its dark and lyrical second movement. He