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

alive.” He wanted to kiss Rea there and then. Yet Kosmas was sitting opposite him, on the other side of Rea’s double bed.

Dimitris said, “You’ve been missing some important discussions.” He grabbed an orange-juice-spattered newspaper from the tray and read the headline: “‘The Prime Minister says Syria is headed for a war that could pose a threat to Turkey.’”

“Isn’t there any happy news?” said Kosmas “That sort of thing might upset—”

“Nonsense.” Rea took a sip of orange juice. “I want to know what’s going on in the world. It helps take my mind off my own problems.”

Dimitris read: “‘At a press conference yesterday in Ankara, the Prime Minister expressed fears that Syria’s multi-ethnic and multi-religious population of twenty-two million could disintegrate.’”

Rea clicked her tongue. “Such a shame.”

“Kosmaki, really, why don’t you go get some rest?” said Dimitris. “And . . . I know you said you weren’t going to Miami, but if you did want to go, I’d be happy to sleep on the couch and take care of your mother.”

Rea took a short breath.

Kosmas reached for her. “Are you all right, Mama?”

“Fine,” she said. “But Kosmas can’t go anywhere. It’s out of the question. Not that I wouldn’t be thrilled to have you, Dimitraki, but people would call me a loose woman if we slept in the same house without any formalities.”

“At our age?” said Dimitris.

Rea placed her soft, age-spotted hand on his. “Especially at our age,”

“Thanks for offering, Mr. Dimitris.” Kosmas looked back and forth between Dimitris and Rea. “But I’ve already cancelled my ticket. If you could come during the day so that I could go to work for a few hours, I’d really appreciate it.”

“Of course!” Dimitris picked up the newspaper to hide his enthusiasm. “Let’s see, for the Eurovision Song Contest representative, they’ve chosen—”

“I guess I’ll be going now,” said Kosmas, standing.

“Get some rest, son,” said Rea. “Or go to work if you need to. The orange juice did wonders for me.”

Kosmas paused in the doorway. “Remember when I changed the light bulbs last summer, Mr. Dimitris?” he said.

“Of course,” said Dimitris. He could never forget that day, one of the worst of his life.

“We don’t always understand the people closest to us, Mr. Dimitris. Especially their silence. In other words, cancel whatever shit I said back then.”

“Kosmas!” said Rea. “Watch your mouth.”

Dimitris felt a surge of hope. He nodded to Kosmas and said, “The problems created by silence can be solved with love.”

“What are you two talking about?” said Rea.

“Guy stuff,” said Kosmas. “I’ll leave you two alone now.”

The following day Dimitris bought a diamond ring, just like they did in American movies. It was nothing imaginative: a 4.1mm round solitaire with an 18-carat gold band, but he felt like a millionaire while picking it out. He decided to wait a few weeks to give it to Rea because he didn’t want to put any more strain on her overtaxed heart. And then, when the Holter monitor finally showed that Rea didn’t need a pacemaker, he decided it would be most romantic to wait until Lover’s Day.

On the morning of February 14, he ironed a lime-green shirt, buttoned it all the way to the top, tied a green and pink floral necktie beneath the collar, put on a pair of brown wool pants, and pulled a sweater vest over the shirt. He donned his winter galoshes, his flannel-lined gabardine, and a herringbone newsboy cap. Then he picked up his briefcase, which was empty except for his cell phone and the brown-paper envelope that served as his wallet, and set out on a mission: to say goodbye to his freedom.

He walked to his favorite candy shop in the Balık Pazarı, where he was greeted by his old friend Muharrem, who had been wearing a white lab coat and working in the minty vapors of his father’s candy shop ever since he had graduated from the prestigious Galatasaray Lycée fifty-three years before. Muharrem was not only the best-known candy-maker in Pera, but also the most thoughtful: he still phoned Rum neighbors who had immigrated to Athens whenever he read about earthquakes or floods in Greece, just to make sure that they were all right.

“Monsieur,” said Dimitris, using a French title because Muharrem spoke that language as if he had grown up in France, “I am saying goodbye to my freedom today.”

Muharrem adjusted the lid of a great copper urn, whose handwritten label read Rose Preserve. Then he clasped his hands behind his back and said, “Votre liberté?”

“I’m proposing to Rea Xenidou.”

“Excellent choice,” said Muharrem in Turkish. “I always admired her gait when she promenaded in the Grand Avenue with her mother. So graceful.”

“She has a cane now,” said Dimitris.

“But I’m sure she hasn’t lost her poise.”

“Certainly not. What sweets should I take her?”

“In winter and in love,” said Muharrem, like a doctor giving a prescription, “cinnamon lokum is the best choice.”

“A box of cinnamon lokum, then. Perhaps I should offer her some chocolates as well?”

Muharrem put his index finger to his chin. He scanned first the chocolate case and then the glass jars with satiny candies of every flavor—ginger, mint, sesame, cinnamon, quince, fig, sour cherry. “No,” he said. “Anything else will ruin the taste of the cinnamon lokum.”

Dimitris conceded: “You’re the expert.”

“When will the wedding be?” asked Muharrem, while filling a half-kilo box with powdery lokum cubes.

“Soon, inşallah.”

“Inşallah,” Muharrem repeated. “Will I be invited?”

“Of course. How could I get married and not invite you?”

With his package of cinnamon lokum smartly wrapped in cream paper with gold moons, Dimitris set out for Rea’s neighborhood. He bought a dozen red roses on the way and was soon sitting in Rea’s living room, beside the barred window that she despised. Through it, they could see the park and its trees dusted with snow, as well as children attempting to build miniature snowmen. With that view, over coffee and cinnamon lokum, Dimitris said, “Rea, I need to speak with you.”

“About what?”

Dimitris felt a sense of panic. He had