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

he’s Ottoman? Son, I’m a journalist. It’s my job never to forget a name or a face. I’ve known all along, and I can tell you that Ilyas Badem is a fine man.”

“You knew?” Kosmas couldn’t believe it. And yet . . . hadn’t Daphne said something about Dimitris and her father when they were at Madame Kyveli’s?

Dimitris winked. “I usually try to stay out of this stuff, but—if you’d like—I’ll put in a good word.”

“Yeia sto stoma sas, Mr. Dimitris.” Health to your mouth.

Kosmas followed him inside the apartment. In the kitchen, they found Rea already mixing coffee and water in a copper pot. A plate of chocolates sat in the middle of the two-seater linoleum table: she had obviously been expecting her fiancé. “Mama, I need to talk to you,” said Kosmas, nervously snatching a chocolate. “About Daphne.”

Rea turned to Kosmas while stirring the coffee briskly with a metal spoon. Kosmas could almost hear the damage to the pot’s tin lining.

“I thought we’d settled this,” she said.

Kosmas put the chocolate in his mouth and mumbled, “She’s coming for Easter.”

Rea tossed the spoon into the sink. Behind her, the already lit gas burner hissed. “I thought you didn’t eat sweets at home,” she said.

“Tatlı yiyelim, tatlı konuşalım,” said Kosmas, in an effort to lighten the mood. It was one of his mother’s favorite Turkish expressions: Let’s eat sweets and speak sweetly.

“Is that even possible?” said Rea, staring hard at Kosmas. “With this subject?”

Dimitris pushed past Kosmas, forcing him back to the doorway. There wasn’t enough room in that kitchen for three. Dimitris kissed Rea’s cheek with a loud smack, just as one did to make babies laugh. The kiss had a similar effect on Rea: she smiled despite her annoyance.

“Love of my life,” said Dimitris, “you know I don’t like squeezing into your relationship with Kosmas, but there’s something you should know. Have a seat.”

Rea set the coffee pot on the burner, pulled a creaky kitchen chair all the way to the door, and sat. Kosmas had to take a step into the hallway so that he wasn’t hovering directly above his mother.

Dimitris continued: “In 1963, when I was a young reporter and things were heating up in Cyprus, I used to go to the Hilton regularly for tea. Ilyas Badem always took care of us. One evening some nationalist bastard—who had obviously been drinking—walked into the tea room, grabbed me by the collar, and called me a filthy Rum instigator. I hadn’t even been covering Cyprus then. So you see how ridiculous the whole thing was.” Dimitris glanced at the coffee. “Anyway, Ilyas called two of his doormen and threw the guy out. He gave instructions never to let the man into the Hilton again, and later he apologized to me.”

Dimitris served Rea and Kosmas their coffee and began mixing a third for himself. “What I’m saying,” he said, “is that you should be proud your son is in love with the daughter of Ilyas Badem.”

Rea lifted her cup from the saucer and mopped up the coffee that had spilled on the way from the counter to the table.

“I know it’s hard,” said Dimitris, “but sometimes you’ve just got to let go. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to use the bathroom. Kosmaki, you’ll mind my coffee, won’t you?”

As soon as Dimitris had gone, Kosmas set his coffee on the table and sat in the empty chair opposite his mother. “Mama,” he said, “I congratulated you when you got engaged.”

Rea ran her fingers over the leaves of the new African violet that Kosmas had bought her as a get-well gift. It was almost as if she was seeking solace in their softness. She said, “It’s not the same thing.”

“Mama, please.”

Rea looked up at Kosmas. Her eyes were full of tears. Kosmas understood the battle going on inside her, the struggle between identity and humanity. Knowing that he was the cause of that turmoil broke his heart.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know.”

25

Bride Unwedded

For a few weeks after their falling-out, Fanis did not see or speak with Julien or Aliki, and his communication with Gavriela was confined to brief small talk at the supermarket or in the Panagia’s narthex. When Gavriela called one morning in early March and asked if she could accompany him to the Salutations to the All-Holy Mother—the first of the five Lenten services—Fanis decided it was time to forgive. After all, how would he take Holy Communion at the Easter Resurrection service if he were still angry with his friends?

The following Friday afternoon, as Gavriela and Fanis climbed Yeni Çarşı Street, it began to drizzle. “Good heavens,” said Fanis. “The weather report said nothing of rain.”

“And I just had my hair done,” said Gavriela. She pulled a plastic rain bonnet from her purse and tied it around her chin.

On the corner of Yeni Çarşı Street and the Grand Avenue, boys holding buckets of clear plastic umbrellas shouted, “Umbrella, umbrella! Ladies and gentlemen, come on over!”

Fanis bought one and held it over Gavriela. Then he remembered that he wanted to buy a box of cinnamon lokum. He’d been feeling dizzy lately, and sugar always seemed to help. He looked at his watch: four thirty-five. Since his trainee would be at the church, however, it wouldn’t matter if they were a few minutes late. “Let’s stop quickly at Muharrem’s,” he said. “On the way, you can catch me up on Kosmas and Daphne.”

“That crosspatch Rea is trying to break them up,” said Gavriela. “It’s not that I don’t understand her point of view. I wasn’t happy when my sister married an Ottoman. But this is different. It isn’t about religion at all. Rea just wants Kosmas all to herself.”

“I can’t say I haven’t suspected the same thing.”

“Daphne’s like a daughter to me, Fanis.” Gavriela made her characteristic hissing sound. “I had such high hopes that she might come home. But Rea’s going to ruin it for all of us.”

“Come, come,” said Fanis, as they